It’s extremely difficult to accept, but he must resign from the contracts because of his wife’s harsh comment against the Boston Red Sox head coach.
The news that Terry Francona may be retiring from the Cleveland Guardians is as current in Boston as it is along the Lake Erie shore. And everyone is aware of the reason: In any case, Francona stands out as one of the most remarkable managers in Boston Red Sox history. Call him what you want; he fulfills every description. Call him the greatest, the most intelligent, the most significant, the most well-liked, or the most quoteable.
The old tale of Francona and the Red Sox “mutually parting ways” at the close of the 2011 season won’t be brought up again. Even though Francona was presumably glad when the owner gestured to the door and everyone muttered, “Ahem,” that one has always been a doozy. “I think Nomar was Bostoned out,” Francona said at the 2004 trade deadline following the Red Sox’s trade of Nomar Garciaparra. A few years later, Francona experienced the same thing: He was Bostoned out.
What a legacy he left behind, though. Before he came, the Red Sox hadn’t won a World Series in 86 years, so during his inaugural news conference, I was one of the regular press box suspects asking the standard questions about what he was going to do after decades of losing. Put another way, we asked the same questions that had been asked of Grady Little, Kevin Kennedy, Jimy Williams, Joe Kerrigan, and all the others over the years.
The distinction is that Francona led the Red Sox to the winner’s circle thanks to an exciting and historic 2004 postseason. The Red Sox went on to win a World Series in 2007. Consider that. With Francona completing the lineup card, the Red Sox won two World Series in four seasons after being winless for the championship from 1919 to 2003.
Francona, 64, has a history of health problems that have been well-documented. That being said, if he were to call it quits after this season, no one could really blame him. David Ortiz used to like to remark, “The game is hard,” and he meant it for everyone on the team—from the manager and designated hitter to the trainer and dependable, long-time equipment guy Tommy McLaughlin.
After facing the Red Sox in a three-game series in late April, the Guardians have already finished their 2023 schedule at Fenway Park. It makes sense that the Red Sox would have done the proper thing and retired Francona’s uniform number with the player there for the ceremony if they had known he might be in his final season. That, however, did not occur. Not in April, any case. However, this is what needs to occur: The Red Sox must immediately declare their plans to retire Francona’s number if he does decide to do so at the end of the season.
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No waiting for him to be inducted into the Hall of Fame paperwork. Almost as soon as Big Papi removed his uniform shirt for the final time, his number was retired. This place is without rules. The Red Sox are free to act as they like. Even if Francona chooses not to retire, this needs to be started in the spirit of honoring his legacy in Boston sports history and the history of the franchise. How absurd is that?
By now, you’ve undoubtedly noticed that I haven’t even mentioned the number Francona wore when managing the Red Sox. I apologize for it. But allow me to tell you a story instead of just telling you.
The Red Sox were getting ready for their yearly team photo in the stands behind home plate at Fenway Park in the early afternoon of a late season. It was pointed out to Red Sox manager Terry Francona as he walked by, decked up in his clean white home uniform, that very few people ever saw him with No. 47 on his back.
“Avoid becoming accustomed to it,” Francona retorted, maintaining her good humor although being sardonic.
Yes, of course. Francona started this habit years ago while managing the Philadelphia Phillies. He is one of those contemporary skipper who prefers to wear a fleece pullover or sweatshirt from the team over his uniform shirt. Francona is so committed to the pullover that, in 2007, MLB chose to conduct an in-game inquiry at Yankee Stadium, of all places, to ensure that the Red Sox manager at the time was, in accordance with league policy, wearing his No. 47 underneath.
