Red Sox Nation related to Remy
It felt different this time. The requests for prayers were a bit more urgent. The private concerns were a touch graver.
Jerry Remy was in his seventh battle with lung cancer, and it was ultimately his last. The local kid-turned-Red Sox institution died Oct. 30 at 68.
Tributes poured in throughout the next day from baseball names large and small. Remy had ascended long ago to that unique place in Boston lore. His personal connections spanned from the city’s kings to folks with a bit more dirt under their fingernails.
The last time we saw him was the night of the American League wild-card game at Fenway Park. Remy was driven through the open garage door in center field and carted to the center of the diamond. Former Red Sox teammate and NESN broadcast partner Dennis Eckersley was waiting to catch a ceremonial first pitch that floated to the plate.
It was a memorable scene regardless of circumstances. But the nasal cannula snaking over Remy’s ears to the front of his face suggested the obvious: He was struggling physically. The wave he offered to the roaring sellout crowd felt something akin to a goodbye. You hoped it wouldn’t be, of course, but the possibility seemed more likely than at any previous point.
The magic of television is that it beams personalities from a stadium or stage into our living rooms. It develops something of a familiar relationship between complete strangers. Remy was the quick-witted uncle, the anguished best friend or the knowledgeable former coach we all turned to regarding one of Boston’s beloved teams.
How could it seem otherwise? The nature of baseball forges a daily bond over eight months a year. Spring training leads to summer and turns to fall, the cold weather cycling back just in time for the World Series. The Red Sox have played
in four of them since 2004 and reached 12 other postseasons since 1988 – there has been more than enough time and exposure for regional celebrities like Remy to make an impression.
You could never imagine being David Ortiz – powerfully built, larger than life, a gaptoothed grin that suggests a wonderful air of mischief. Remy looked like us. He was an unremarkable 5-foot-9, hair thinning with time, mustache graying at the edges, creases around his eyes deepening as he aged. Playing days or what came after, he could have taken a bleacher seat on a Friday night and blended with the crowd.
You would struggle to sound like former partner Sean McDonough – the clean delivery, the nuance in his voice, the meticulous preparation behind his presentation. Remy was born in Fall River, Massachusetts, and raised in Somerset. He spoke like us. Nomah. Bogahts. Pedroier.
It was relatable diction at its finest, and those who tuned in nightly could have just as easily imagined Remy seated next to them on the couch.
You might not possess the bona fide professionalism of someone like Red Sox play-byplay man Dave O’Brien – the Syracuse education, the mastery of radio and television, the ability to take the lead on multiple sports. Remy, his partner, was unvarnished like us. His devilish laughter during and after a blooper in the booth isn’t something you’d find taught in journalism school, but it made him all the more relatable.
And perhaps it was that bit of everyman in his personality that led Remy toward a certain willingness to share his pain over time. His platform as a Boston broadcaster for more than three decades created more fame and fortune than he enjoyed during 10 years as a player with the Angels and Red Sox. It was almost as if Remy was willing
to let us in – the multiple courses of treatment, his therapy while battling depression – as a form of payback for our attention.
Remy’s story in totality isn’t an idyllic one. One of his three children is a convicted murderer, a heinous act of domestic violence that left Remy’s granddaughter without her mother.
The darker recesses of his personal life make for an uncomfortable juxtaposition with the beloved public figure. It is certainly a part of his legacy – how large or small is a matter of perception.
What the considerable majority of Boston fans are left with is certainly a feeling of loss. Arriving at how acute that might be likely coincides with the amount of time you devoted to Remy over both chapters of his career. What can’t be disputed – Red Sox Nation is now without its president.