REMY’S OPEN TALK ON DEPRESSION A HOME RUN
Sox broadcaster’s honesty helps others
This one’s for Jerry Remy who, in publicly discussing his battle with depression, will impact more people in a meaningful way than he has in 29 seasons as a Red Sox broadcaster, a position in which he’s excelled. Even addictions, long seen by too many as moral failings or character flaws, have broken through those barriers of taboo to be seen and understood as diseases every bit as devastating as leukemia or a faulty heart. But depression? It sounds weak. Snap out of it! That’s what the world wants to tell you, especially the macho world of sports where the myth of invincibility leads to suppression of feelings and fears.
Remy, 64, knows there are those who’d look at his lot in life and conclude he has little to complain about, even though enduring the parental heartbreak of having a son incarcerated for murder.
Surely there ought to be sufficient solace in fame and fortune.
Those who would leap to that conclusion don’t know that they just don’t know.
In this town there’s probably no better example of fame and fortune’s insufficiency than the day Dave Cowens, 28, walked into Red Auerbach’s office and announced he didn’t feel like playing anymore.
Five months earlier he had led the 1976 Celtics to their second title in three years, so you might assume he’d have found the fiery boss of the Shamrocks unsympathetic. If so, you’d be wrong.
Here’s how Red recalled that encounter.
“I could have ranted and raved: ‘What about your teammates? What about your fans? What about your obligations to all of these people?’ But I had too much respect for the guy. I could see he was emotionally wiped out.
“He could have been cute about it. He could have said, ‘My back hurts.’ No one would have criticized him and he could have gone on cashing his paychecks. Believe me, it’s been done before.
“But that’s not Cowens. This kid’s too principled for that. He said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with me; I don’t want to be paid. I just don’t feel like playing anymore.’
“How could I argue with that? So I said, ‘Keep in touch. And when you think you’re ready to come back we’ll go at ’em again, OK?’ ”
Cowens missed 30 games that coming season. He drove a cab. He sold Christmas trees. He was 6-foot-9, weighed 230 pounds, and still could have been one of the game’s great stars, but he just didn’t have that fire in his belly anymore.
Then one day its embers rekindled and No. 18 returned.
Remy’s candor brings Auerbach’s understanding to mind.
There was a side of Red that only those who knew him well ever got to see. He could be caring, even compassionate, but kept it concealed beneath a veneer of aggression.
“An athlete’s not a piece of meat,” he reasoned years
later, reflecting on Cowens. “He’s a person, and people can get fed up with things. There was only one gear to Dave’s game: Full speed ahead.
“In my mind he was injured. Injuries don’t have to be physical. You can be injured in spirit, too, and that’s what was wrong with him. So I wished him the best as he walked out the door.”
Injured in spirit! What a large understanding; indeed, what a perfect diagnosis.
Cowens, one of the alltime favorites here, would make a great recovery.
Here’s hoping Remy, another favorite, will experience one, too.