Whole Lotta Love
Knowing too much about the Sox owner.
Dear John Henry: First of all, thanks for owning the Red Sox. You and the rest of the crew have managed to bury forever not only the fanciful notion of curses, but also the fanciful folks who traffic in them. (Why do we hear no more about Athens and Sparta? Is it because the Sox finally won and the Yankees stink?) You've even de-romanticized the "lyric little bandbox" by turning it into an advertising bonanza. The Wall now looks like a stock car. As far as the park goes, garish is good. However, trotting out your extended courtship in Boston Magazine? Not so good. There was a time when this might have been welcome. I certainly wouldn't have minded updates from Tom Yawkey when he was canoodling with young Jean in her storefront modeling days. A brief missive from the shop, with Tom fending off the bounders and other sidewalk Johnnies? We might have gotten another really bad musical out of that one. But this, J.H.? "Because a brief encounter-and-a-half with you gave a cool spin to this little blue planet from my vantage point"? You needed to share this with thousands of strangers sitting around at the dentist's office? I'm happy for you and your S.O., but there are certain things I do not need to know about the owner of my baseball team. And that he has merged the courtship styles of Cyrano de Bergerac with those of Dora the Explorer is definitely on that list. Now, about shortstop . . .
Charles P. Pierce / email@example.com