Word: zimmerer
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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These are the people who leer through the history of the Red Sox. Like Bill Lee lighting a candle and leaving it on Don Zimmer's desk in memory of friend Bernie Carbo, on the day of Carbo's importation to Cleveland. Like Jimmy Piersall walking up to the pitcher's mound one afternoon during batting practice and firing a limp stream of water at homeplate with a squirt...
...Zimmer, on the other hand, would rather walk through Quincy Market. He'd like to start at Regina's and then grab maybe a couple of dozen chocolate chip cookies and some souvlaki, with a big finish at Durgin Park and maybe a half-gallon of beer. Zimmer's face looks like an aging Vegas stripper's silicone-sagging buttocks. He's already cost the club a fortune, what with bolstering the dugout bench and increased drag on the team bus, and he's not exactly defraying the expenses with World Series checks. And look what he's done...
...what looks like a sure double-play ball, but Allenson comes into the keystone like a cruise missile. Dwyer scores. Bang. An inning later Butch Hobson hits his 28th homer over the Green Monster with Fisk on base. It looks like the game is on ice, except that Don Zimmer has decided to unleash the awesome firepower of the Red Sox bullpen. Soon somebody named Rick Bosetti is trotting around the circuit and the scoreboard reads Toronto 5, Red Sox 3. The crowd, of course, blames Zimmer. The scoreboard flashes...
...grass grow in Fenway. And after a perfunctory series in Detroit, the Sox can relax, play golf, smoke dope and work out on the Nautilus, and manage their investments. And their fans can dream--about the pennant and the World Series and the horrible hatchet murder of Don Zimmer...
...also in third place in the American League East, 12 1/2 games behind Baltimore and eliminated from this year's pennant race. Admittedly, the pitching is weaker than some, due in part to the refusal of the owners to buy arms and in part to the exile, at Zimmer's insistence, of Bill Lee, who now stands out among the high-powered hurlers of Montreal. Frustration is not pleasant. Someone's head must roll, and Zimmer's, one might surmise, would roll quite nicely...