“He’s got a way with words and I do too” said Bob Dylan, referring to the poet, lyricist and his occasional collaborator Robert Hunter. “We both write a different type of song than what passes today for songwriting.” And Hunter felt the same about Bob.  “He’s the only guy I work with who I give the liberty to change things. After all, he is who he is.”
 
It has taken me some little time to get my (dead)head round the death of Robert Hunter, at the age of 78. Many Deadheads paid minimal or no attention to the lyrics of even the greatest songs in the canon. But I did. And the Dead did.
 
When the Dead was inducted into the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame, Hunter – who had never performed on-stage with them – was there, as a fully-fledged member of the band. And if there was occasionally a divergence in the visions of Hunter and Garcia – “For Christ’s sake, we’re a dance band. You might at least write something with a beat!” Garcia told him after perusing another bunch of lyrics – it is Hunter’s work, in for example Ripple, Dark Star, Saint Stephen, Terrapin which define the Dead, the latter being imho, a masterful version of Cavafy’s Ithaca.
 
When Jerry died in 1995, Hunter wrote what encyclopaedist Michael Gray called ‘a super-competent’ elegy:
 
Without your melody and taste
to lend an attitude of grace
a lyric is an orphan thing,
a hive with neither honey’s taste
nor power to truly sting.
 
But there is a case to be made for the true elegy being his collaboration with Bob on Together Through Life.
 
It’s a meditation on mortality and immortality, on the end of America. Beyond here lies nothing; life is hard; it’s all good.
 
How much is Bob’s and how much is Hunter’s? I don’t know, not for sure. But I do know that a stanza such as this must surely come individually and collectively from the relationship that both Bob and Hunter had with Jerry:
 
Ever since the day
The day you went away
I felt that emptiness so wide
I don't know what's wrong or right
I just know I need strength to fight
Strength to fight that world outside
 
Yeh, I know. They are not the best lines either of them wrote. But the sincerity and simplicity and authenticity is enough.
 
Both are clever wordsmiths. Both are masters of their craft. Both write a different kind of song.

But sometimes you don’t have to be a smart-arse for the sake of it.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Terrapin Station from March 1990.

It’s not dark yet … but it’s getting there. I’m a week into my eighth decade and on borrowed time. I’m not thinking (much) about the inevitable physical and mental decline which kicks in about now and some would say already has. I’m more concerned about the state of my nations, here in the UK and over in New England, the home of the Red Sox Nation.

I will be devoting a column to the fall from grace of the 2018 World Series Champions shortly when I’ve got my head round the sacking of Dombrowski and its timing as well as the underperformance of the team from the start to the probable finish of the season. But right now, with Parliament prorogued, the government in chaos, and the country divided, there can be no doubt about the theme for the week.
 
It is, of course, what Donald Tusk has called “a dog’s brexit”.
 
One of the tangential issues of the ‘debate’ has been the diminishing of language. I am conscious that I have been guilty of this as emotion and anger takes over from reason. But I use this word advisedly: it is a coup: a sudden, illegal, takeover of government.
 
As such, it must be fought by all means.
 
Parliament has made a start. A no deal brexit is illegal. The Court of Sessions has found that prorogation is also unlawful and it is to be hoped that the Supreme Court will, on Tuesday, find similarly. It is worth noting that the English court did not make a ruling about the legality or otherwise of the suspension; like Pilate, it washed its hands of the issue, stating that this was a ‘political’ matter that is the preserve of the ‘politicians’.
 
That is not a judgement. It is not even an error of judgement.
 
It is an avoidance of judgement. It is an evasion of judgement. It is a shirking of judgement.
 
So much for the rule of law.
 
In law, the referendum was advisory. It was not mandatory. The country cannot be held to a promise made by David Cameron a few days before he resigned and retired to his shepherd’s hut to write a book I shall never read but suspect will be exculpatory in the extreme. (And there is a great deal to exculpate, which probably explains the rumoured volume - sheer bulk - of the volume.)
 
In law, the prorogation is unlawful because of its motives and its duration.
 
In law, no-one is exempt from the law. Not even a prime minister.
 
I’m entering this eighth decade with a profound sense of foreboding. But I shall be consoled by the generosity of my family: my Dylan weekend chez Grey and Beattie, our night in the New Forest, my birthday lunch and my life in a cake.
 
Thank you. This decade is on loan from you.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: As the talk turned to Dylan covers – covers of Bob and Bob covers of others – Ms Beattie introduced us to a version of Absolutely Sweet Marie by Jason & The Scorchers. I have played it at least once a day every day since my return to the UK and suspect I will continue to do so throughout the next decade.
 
​

​For many months, 29-03-2019 (03-29-2019 for my American readers) had been keenly anticipated in this household, though with mixed emotions. That Friday was, of course, the date on which for two years we had been led to believe we would leave the European Union. It was also, by tricks of time zones and scheduling, the opening day of the baseball season as the Sox took on Seattle in the early hours. I had hoped, naïvely perhaps, that the misery of the first would be outweighed by the joy of the second. In fact, both went haywire.
 
The UK is still in the EU, the relationship hanging by a thread as confusion reigns inside and outside Parliament. And on the West Coast, the World Series champions are currently 1-5, after being thrashed by the Mariners and failing to score on successive nights in Oakland.
 
Until the last couple of days, the confusing performances of a team which is essentially unchanged from the 108 game winners last year has been attributed to the rotation, which has been widely touted as the best in baseball. At its best, it surely is. But it would appear that all five are still only half way through spring training right now.
 
The velocity isn’t there. Location isn’t there.  We’ve had one quality start in six, in last night’s single run loss.
 
I watched a great deal of spring training. Afternoon games in the Eastern time zone are a delight for European fans, who can tune in at 6pm and enjoy a glass whilst taking vicarious pleasure in the Florida weather and the ballgame itself. And while winning the Grapefruit League comes quite a ways down on my list of priorities, it is always a pleasure to see a W or two.
 
Last year, there were many. And it showed in the 17-2 start which set the tone for the season and the post-season.
 
This year, not so much. In fact, we sat rock bottom in the Grapefruit League, under .500.
 
How many times have I been told that it doesn’t matter? Hell, how many times have I told people it doesn’t matter?
 
But it does. It is no accident, as Marxists would say, that the excellent results last year translated into excellent results in the season. And it is no accident that the dismal results this year evolved into this dismal start.
 
I understand that the pitchers need to be stretched. I appreciate that the hitters need to regain last year’s fluency of swing. I recognize that the development of fitness and skills is a gradual process.
 
But I am confused as to why Cora thought that, for example, Sale could open the season after just two short appearances in Florida. I am confused as to why he would, after such an outstanding spring training last year, change tack completely and adopt a totally different approach.
 
But what do I know? Only that confusion reigns. In the Red Sox camp and the Commons alike.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults:  A gig which took place on the fateful day of 29-03-2019. I like Garcia Peoples, but I love Chris Forsyth. And the nyctaper recording of the show demonstrates why. A good, energetic set from the band. And then an hour of extraordinary stuff with Chris Forsyth: Techno Top > The Calvary Cross > The Other One. Mesmerizing. Literally.

"PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON'T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT PEOPLE LIKE ME AS A MEMBER".
 
Thus the telegram sent by Groucho Marx to a Los Angeles club.

Nobody likes a quitter. Unless you are the MSM or the BBC and the quitters in question are walking out on a party with a manifesto which has inspired thousands of members and millions of voters. Their increased majorities in the last election were not, as Len McCluskey observed, down to their “personal charisma”; it was down to a Labour manifesto, a Labour campaign, and Labour activists.
 
As for me, I’m not angry. I’m disappointed. Seven individuals, each elected as a Labour candidate on a Labour manifesto, have declared that they number themselves amongst the few, the very few.
 
The good news is that the many remain. And remain the best hope for those, like me, who favour Remain.
 
I have issues with the incremental approach adopted by the Labour leadership in Parliament. But I understand that the bizarre public school debating society conventions of Parliament require some less-than-transparent manoeuvring in order to arrive at a result.
 
Despite this need, Labour – the many, not the few – has been on the right side of every vote relating to Brexit. And none of the seven has indicated that they would have voted otherwise in any of them. Nor have they put forward any different policy proposals, apart from Angela Smith’s commitment to the continuing privatization of the water industry which she shares with 1% of the population.
 
However you look at it, that’s not a vote for the many. That’s pretty much the definition of the few, the very few. And it will not include, obviously, those voters of a “funny tinge”, a statement which is the first genuinely racist comment I have heard from the Labour ranks in many years. (Sorry, ex-Labour – which is presumably why the BBC failed to report it, despite their daily accusations of Labour racism.) Another quitter, Chris Leslie, subsequently dismissed this phrase as “a slip”. Freudian, presumably.
 
I cannot tell you unequivocally that there is no anti-semitism in the Labour party. I can tell you that I have never heard a single anti-semitic remark and nor do I know anyone who has. Not even Chuka Umunna claims to have done so: “Some have suggested that there is institutional anti-Semitism across the whole of the Labour party – this is not a view I share, not least because I have not seen one incident of anti-Semitism in almost 20 years of activism within my local Labour party”. And yet hundreds of thousands of Labour members are being characterized as anti-semitic, and are being accused of a creating a culture of “bigotry, bullying and intimidation”.
 
Honestly, I resent this. At best, it is disingenuous. At worst, it is the kind of smear they claim to be opposing.
 
I have written before, on the occasion of Frank Field’s resignation, that I respect and honour the tradition within the Labour party represented by Field and Umunna. It is part of the movement in which I have supported for half a century. And I reiterate now my concern at the time:
 
With their actions and slurs, the splitters are undermining their own tradition and their relevance to the many, not the few.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: My nephew, Gareth Brynmore John, has recently released a recording of Mahler’s Lieder Eines Fahrenden Gesellen with Trevor Pinnock. It is quite beautiful and I commend it to you.

Anyone who has penned a single word about sport will be in awe of Hugh McIlvanney, who died last week. We will miss his insights into and understanding of his subject; but most of all, we will miss his prose. Few writers have managed to articulate so beautifully the cathartic power of, in particular, football and boxing. Fewer still have been able to communicate the exhilaration and despair of those spots of time – memorable moments of triumph or despair which occur in almost every sporting contest.
 
The author Rick Gekoski, no mean sportswriter himself, once wrote that “Sport makes you write, and think, and feel, in exclamation marks”. Which is true for even the most seasoned of us. In 2004, the Boston Globe headlined the Sox World Series victory, their first since 1918, in this way: YES!!! Nothing nuanced: just one word, one syllable, in capitals, with no less than three exclamation marks (or screamers as they are known).
 
I doubt whether McIlvanney would have done this. However tight the deadline, his judgements were as measured as his prose. The emotional sub-text was implicit rather than overt.
 
It is because I lean towards Rick and the Globe in my response to great sporting events that I admired McIlvanney so much. Although he insisted on being known as a ‘reporter’, he was not. One did not turn to his piece to find a blow by blow account of a bout or a goal by goal record of a football match. We valued his writing because it concerned itself with what it meant: to the players, to the coaches, to those who were present as spectators. It is significant that he numbered amongst his closest friends those who were involved totally in the sports about which he wrote. They – Jock Stein, Bill Shankly, Alex Ferguson, Angelo Dundee – knew that he knew and understood as much about their game as they did.
 
In a few weeks, I will be taking part in a round table at the History Department of Warwick University which concerns itself with sportswriting. My fellow panellists – Dave Sternburg, Simon Hart – are stars in the firmament. I am not.
 
Although I am on record with my views about Coventry City Football Club and Warwickshire County Cricket Club, my prime focus is on my beloved Boston Red Sox and the life of a fan based in the baseball desert which is the United Kingdom. (Although judging by the demand for tickets for the Yankees games at the London Stadium this summer, there are more of us in this country than we imagine.)
 
I tend not to engage in a recitation of baseball stats – when I did I was mildly chastised for doing so. Rather, my subject is my very personal and particular experiences of being a fan of a team which plays 3,000 miles away from my home.
 
In many ways, and certainly in the great order of things, it is a trivial pursuit. But almost every night, as I tune in to mlb.tv, I know that I will almost certainly witness something that only sport can provide:
 
In the words of Hugh McIlvanney, “a magnificent triviality”.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: After the fine performance of the Shostakovich String Quartet #2 in A major (actually mostly in A minor) by the Carducci Quartet on Friday evening, I am working my way through their Shostakovich cycle, including an advance copy of their new recordings of #1, #2 and #7. Magnificent and not trivial.

​

Sorry about this, but it’s Brexit again. This post could have been about the failures of Universal Credit. It could have been about the decline of Britain’s high streets, with specific reference to the plans of Warwick District Council for the destruction of Leamington Spa. It could have been about the proposed redundancies at Jaguar LandRover, a move which is going to have a major impact on our town as well as the country. It could have been about Andrew Neil’s extraordinary attack on Owen Jones or the last two columns by Nick Cohen – the one in The Observer demonstrating a disturbing familiarity with spanking literature, and the second, in The Spectator, the magazine for which Andrew Neil bears no responsibility, concluding that Corbyn and Trump are identical. Or it could have been about my plans to set up a shipping company and bid for a government contract. I reckon I could do it for less than £13.8 million, especially if I don’t buy any ships.
 
All these subjects have exercised me during the last couple of weeks. But they all come down to Brexit in the end, right? And with a mere two days of debate in the Commons remaining before the ‘meaningful’ vote on Tuesday, the media is full of it – and, to add an unvoiced fricative, full of shit too.
 
So here’s my two penn’orth.

​I am a Remainer and a Labour voter. As such, I am against even a soft Brexit. ‘Remain and reform’ was and remains my preferred policy. While I respect the result of the referendum, which does not mean that I either agree with it or believe it should be implemented, I do not respect the referendum itself, which was a crass proposal in the first instance and won with a combination of lies, illegal funding and dubious digital media.
 
What did impress me during the referendum was the Leave slogan. “Take Back Control” was and is a good line, and watching Cumberbatch in The Uncivil War the other night, one was surprised at the length of time it took for Dominic Cummings to arrive at it. It’s a nonsense of course, but it means all things to all men and thus appealed, if not to all men and women, at least to 52% of them. It appealed to nostalgic Little Englander Tories in Surrey and austerity-hit working class voters in the north, who had been told by successive governments – from Thatcher onwards – that the EU was the problem.
 
The irony of course is that parliament is now taking back control over the executive, and this is, in no small measure, the result of a precedent-breaking decision by Speaker Bercow.
 
He’s growing on me, is John Bercow. Preening popinjay perhaps, but he is showing himself to be a man who respects parliamentary democracy both in principle and in practice. In the face of the growing power of government, there is not a huge amount he can do, but what he can, he does.
 
One of the revelations of the recent shenanigans in the Commons has been the fact that many parliamentary votes are meaningless, having no force in law. They are, at best, “advisory”, nothing more than a demonstration of feeling.
 
Which is of course exactly what the referendum was. True, promises were made during the course of the campaign. But primarily by those who promptly resigned from positions which might give them any power over such a decision. Where are you now, Dave? 
 
So what will happen on Tuesday and on the 29th of March?

My prediction is that we will find ourselves in, to coin a meme, an existential crisis.

The phrase is widely used, and almost always misused. But it means one thing:

We're fucked.

Today from the everysmith vaults: In these strange times, it's time to dig deep into the depths of the vaults. Today's esoterica is the Captain's Bat Chain Puller.
 

Christmas itself was pretty much Brexit-free. The children and especially the machatunim and I have an unspoken agreement that we do not discuss politics - even having drink taken. So Christmas dinner passed happily in a mist of fine claret and praise for our shared grandchildren, the contributions each of us had made to the festivities and the shocking grammar of the questions in Trivial Pursuits. It was all going so well.
 
Until Boxing Day.
 
Early in the afternoon, at a drinks party in the depths of south London, I was introduced to a Frenchman, resident in this country and married to an English woman. The initial small talk exhausted, we moved - inexorably you may think – to the situation in which an EU citizen finds himself, living and working in a country which is veering vers une catastrophe.
 
I ventured a mildly critical remark about Government policy and the shambles that is the Tory party. Common ground, surely.
 
“Non! It is that anti-semitic moron Corbyn who is to blame. He is a moron. A moron!”
 
I was taken aback by his vehemence and temporarily speechless. I remembered the promises I had made – to Jill and myself – about discussing politics with total strangers and resolved to remain calm, reasoned, civilized; to eschew ad hominem attacks; to demonstrate those qualities which I find attractive in Corbyn himself; to set an example to this angry young Frenchman.
 
I took a large gulp of the cru bourgeois Médoc which our host had provided for us, and inhaled deeply on my vaper. I was ready to respond and, I hoped, to maintain a form of entente cordiale.
 
“Au contraire” I said. “Monsieur Corbyn est un homme intelligent qui a horreur des attaques personnelles, préférant se concentrer sur les politiques. Certainement pas un crétin. Et certainement pas le politicien responsable du fiasco actuel."
 
"Phouf. Il est raciste, il est trotskiste, il est stupide."
 
What can one say? My Gallic shrug was not sufficient response, but it was all I had short of physical violence. So I shrugged as best I could and seized my empty glass.
 
"Vous avez tort" I told him, "mais maintenant j'ai un besoin urgent d'un autre verre." I walked towards the bar with as much dignity as I could muster, shaking my head with what I hoped he would interpret as more sorrow than anger.
 
In retrospect, I am sorry. Sorry that I was not minded to argue for longer with him, sorry that his view of Corbyn was moulded exclusively by the right wing press, sorry that someone who should be a natural ally was so clearly opposed to us.

Sorry too for the sorry state this country has come to.
 
He was still holding forth about Corbyn as we left to drive back to our pro-Remain, pro-Corbyn bubble in Leamington. I tapped him on the shoulder.
 
"Bonne année" I said. 

Today from the everysmith vaults: The Bob gurus have been telling me each Christmas that Christmas in the Heart is a fine album. I am not convinced, but it plays once a year in this household. And the time is now.

I’ve discovered a new podcast (and I commend it to you). It’s called American Scandal, and the opening episodes of Series 2 concerning long-term maladministration in Albany NY will resonate with anyone familiar with the shenanigans of the Tory cabal running the Warwick District Council here in England.
 
Albany NY has been called “the most dysfunctional state capital in the US”, and no-one argued. Governor Thomas Dewey initiated the process of Governor, Speaker and Majority Leader making all major decisions behind locked doors back in the 1940s, and it remained the convention until recently.
 
It would appear that, in Albany, key legislative decisions have been made by these “three men in a room” and their successors for three quarters of a century.
 
No consultation.

No transparency.

No accountability.
 
In Leamington, of course, it’s all very different. Our “three men in a room” are Councillors Mobbs, Rhead and Whiting and, like Brutus, they are all honourable men.

They are all Tories. They are all members of the WDC 'Executive'. They all serve on the Limited Liability Partnership set up by the Council with Cabot Square Capital.
 
And none of them live in Leamington or represent Leamington wards.
 
So that’s alright then.
 
I make no apologies for returning to this topic. Not least because the latest news is that, as part of a “Creative Quarter Draft Masterplan”, we have learned that Leamington’s Town Hall, opened in 1884, is mooted to become the location of a new restaurant and a private members club. (You’re right, it does sound a bit iffy.)
 
As you may infer, the “three men in a room” have been particularly creative this time, eschewing the boringly obvious solution of moving WDC offices to the under-utilised Town Hall in favour of constructing new headquarters and transforming an existing (and rather splendid Victorian) headquarters building into a restaurant and private club.
 
I mean, Leamington is crying out for more of these. I bet they could get hundreds on the streets, demonstrating in favour of this dynamic development.
 
But of course, our three men in a room seldom pay attention to the views of Leamington residents however they are expressed.
 
We’ve written letters and emails. We’ve called public meetings. We’ve signed petitions. We’ve rallied and we’ve marched.
 
It makes no difference. They do what they want. And in my humble opinion, it’s a (very English) scandal.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Speaking of the unspeakable, I’ve been listening to Bill Frisell a great deal recently and, serendipitously, arrived at Unspeakable, his 2004 album, as I typed this. By turns raucous and melodic, it’s a joy throughout. His jazz sensibility and love of Americana gel beautifully.

We were promised clarity. What we got was obfuscation and denial.
 
The latest skirmish in the battle against the proposed Warwick District Council developments at Riverside and on the site of the Covent Garden car park took place on Monday night at the Spa Centre, with a belated attempt at “engagement with the residents”. It hasn’t been done before and it was clear that the ‘panel’ had no experience in interacting with those they claim to represent.
 
WDC was represented by (from left to right) Councillor Peter Whiting, i/c Finance for WDC; Bill Hunt, Deputy Chief Executive (God help us!); leader of the Council Andrew Mobbs; Councillor Anne Grainger, who said very little throughout; and Robert Hoof, head of Neighbourhood Services, and thus responsible for ‘parking displacement strategy” which is corporate-speak for the massive reduction in parking spaces which will be a consequence of the plans.
 
Leamington residents were represented by more than 500 Leamington residents.
 
There are so many issues arising from these proposals, so little time, and so few microphones in the packed hall that there was little debate in the true sense of the word. Follow-up questions were rare, allowing the panel to make statements without challenge. A case in point is the question (from Professor Nick Spencer) regarding the destination of profits from the Riverside development. Whiting was ‘clear’: profits will stay within the UK. Yet the structure of Cabot Square Capital, the ultimate partner and an opaque private equity company, includes a plethora of off-shore companies established purely to avoid UK taxation.
 
In fact, Councillor Whiting appeared more than a little embarrassed throughout his fifteen minutes of fame. Defending the indefensible is not his forte.
 
No such problems, however, for Messrs Mobbs and Hunt, the latter playing for time right from the kick-off with answers which were as prolix as they were unrelated to the questions.
 
But then, there were no answers to the questions that will satisfy those who will be most affected by these developments. The Limited Liability Partnership, the lack of affordable housing, the destruction of trees, the loss of business for town centre retailers – these are all crucial issues, but they are symptoms of a deeper and more fundamental problem.
 
The way in which Leamington is being systematically destroyed by a Council leadership of which not one individual is a Leamington resident.
 
Beginning a few years back with the granting of planning permission for a ‘Gentleman’s Club’ in Leamington by a majority of non-Leamington residents, there has been a concerted attempt to transform Leamington into a depository for everything that is dangerous to our quality of life.
 
Independent shops are closing as the Council tempts the big brands. Independent restaurants are struggling as the chains are given special deals to open up in Livery Street or, as it is widely known locally, Hedge Fund Row.
 
It is Mobbs Rule. And it must be stopped. There’s a rally at the Town Hall tomorrow, Saturday, at 12.30pm. Leamington residents need to be there.


Today from the everysmith vaults: "I mean Negative Capability, that is when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason" said John Keats back in 1817. And now, it is a new album from the wondrous Marianne Faithfull. Beautiful and haunting. 

“New England can go back to bed” the Boston Globe told us on the morning after the Sox clinched the World Series, referring to the difference between the Eastern and Pacific time zones. Some of us in Old England would have appreciated a smidgeon of sympathy for the implications of the difference between Pacific Time and British Summer Time. But hey, it’s only eight hours – and we won!
 
I feel a lot better now, on Tuesday morning, after 18 innings worth of sleep last night, and the euphoria of my fourth World Series victory has eased. Don’t get me wrong: I’m still replaying highlights of the post-season in my head, but now the emotion is recollected in tranquility rather than embarrassing bouts of solo and solitary fist-pumping exhilaration.
 
The more I think about it – and I’m thinking about little else – the more I think we have witnessed something quite extraordinary in sports in general and baseball in particular.
 
Look at the stats. Spring training 17-2. Regular season 108-54. Post-season 11-3.
 
A friend described the 2018 Sox as a “juggernaut” which indicates a lack of finesse, the superiority of sheer power over nuanced skills. But it is true that the Sox were relentless throughout the season. Just look at the number of runs they scored with two outs. Just look at their ability to come back from the dead on so many occasions, notably in Game 4 of the Series itself.
 
Having finally succumbed in the bottom of the 18th to the Dodgers in the longest ever post-season game the night before, and then trailing 4-0 into the 7th in Game 4, the Sox came through 9-6.
 
What changed? Well, you can point to Steve Pearce’s four RBIs. But more important I think was the contribution from a man who was not playing at all. Chris Sale suddenly emerged as a version of Big Papi in Detroit, ranting, goading, exhorting, encouraging and insisting that his team-mates come through.
 
The TV did not pick up what he said. Cora later said that his English wasn’t good enough to understand, and Devers said that he couldn’t repeat it.
 
We can guess at the vocabulary. But we know for sure that it worked. The Sox scored nine runs from the seventh inning on to re-establish its dominance of the Dodgers.
 
The historic casting of the Sox as underdogs which some of us cling to is long gone. This was no David and Goliath scenario. The Dodgers had won 92 games in the regular season. The Yankees had 100 – they were beaten in their own house in the Divisional Series. And the Astros entered the Championship Series with 103 regular season wins. The Sox beat them in Houston.
 
In my naivety, I had predicted that each series would go to the wire. Oh ye of little faith!
 
In 2018, the Sox were simply the best. From beginning to end, from April to October. And my prediction is, it will get better.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: After the World Series, the Bootleg Series: A first listen to More Blood, More Tracks. If you thought having the New York version as well as Minnesota was enough, think again. The development of these songs, as evidenced by this series of complete recordings, is fascinating, illuminating and rewarding The pick for me, today, is an early take of Call Letter Blues.