Mumm's the Word

Boston is once again in the World Series — against the Colorado Rockies. It’s a beautiful thing, yes. But these clubhouse champagne celebrations have gotten out of hand. At what point did they become as de rigeur as the now-clichéd Gatorade dousings in the NFL? Major League Baseball seems to have hopped in bed with Mumm, because the bubbly is not just for World Series victors anymore.

Now you’ve got your “We Made the Playoffs!” celebration, your “We Won the Division Series!” celebration, and your “We Won the League Championship Series!” celebration as well — which begs the question: doesn’t that cheapen an actual World Series celebration? I sure think the champagne would taste much sweeter if I drank it only once (not that these guys even drink the stuff anymore — it sure looks more like swim-goggled public bathing than anything else).

Yes, I know, we Red Sox fans doth protest too much. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather the Sox have something to celebrate than just get dejectedly hammered down at the Cask ’n Flagon before leaving for an early off-season. But I’m a patient fan (I mean, the last championship took 86 years), and I have an attention span long enough to, say, actually watch the whole playoffs to see who ultimately wins. I don’t need a celebration a week to keep me, you know, interested. But — no doubt these televised bashes are highly sanctioned by Bud Selig and his MLB braintrust (if anything with so small a capacity for analytical thought could be called that) — that’s not the way our spoon-feeding culture tends to work.

These pre-Big Dance celebrations seem just the sort of thing that would get your ass handed to you in the National Hockey League — where the only thing that matters is getting your mitts and name on the greatest trophy in all of sport. Back in ’97, then-captain of the Flyers, Eric Lindros wouldn’t even deign to touch the Wales Conference trophy presented to him and the Flyers as semi-final winners on their way to their first Cup finals in 10 years. It was a fascinatingly stubborn gesture, but the message was clear enough: we’re not finished our mission.

Unfortunately, the Big E and his mates never did get to drink from Lord Stanley’s mighty chalice (A pox upon you, Darren McCarty!), falling to the Red Wings in a four game sweep. But I have to think the lingering stink of week-old champagne soaked into skate leather would have made the collapse even more difficult to stomach.

So the dearly departed Cubbies, Phillies, Angels, Yankees, Diamondbacks, and Indians will always have the Paris of their too-eager clubhouse Festivus (or would that be “Festivi”?). And maybe some of them are satisfied with that. Maybe it’s outdated and naïve of me to think otherwise. When you make $10 mil a year or whatever, can you really be considered professionally unfulfilled for never winning The Big One? Maybe, maybe not. But I don’t make that kind of cheddar. I get judged at work on whether I succeed or not. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I do know this: no matter how often your team has celebrated to this point, you don’t get one of these for second place.

Comments

[Bill]

Woo! Wings!

[keely]

uh,......yeah yeah, i get what you're saying Mister Professor Red Sox, but dahling, when is it NOT appropriate to imbibe the bubbly, hm? ;) glad! to see you on line man!