When it was announced that Jools Tavarez was picked up by the Sox, I only really knew two things about him:
1) He gave up that mega-sweet home run to Mark Bellhorn in Game One of the 2004 World Series. The home-run that banged off Pesky’s Pole with a satisfying “claaaaang” and swung momentum to our side for good.
2) If he was angry, and you were a phone, watch the f@#k out.
But then he got here and he seemed remarkably non-psychotic. Hell, at times he was the poster boy for blissful contentment. Sporting shoes with Papi’s face on them. Being famously felt-up (or at least getting his noggin rubbed) by Manny during a NESN broadcast. Explaining that even though he loves the life of a big leaguer, sometimes, he just misses his kids.
Sure, we had a couple batshit moments: Bitchslapping Joey Gathright during grapefruit play, rolling the ball to the mound like he was freakin’ Roy Munson, and his not-so-secret desire to be a porn star. But nothing as outlandish as I’d imagined. No stabbings. No DUIs. No dead hookers found in his duffle bag. Just a guy who quietly filled whatever particular bullpen role we required of him; sometimes well, sometimes not so much.
And now he’s gone. Or at least DFA’d. So we’ve likely seen the last of Jools T in a Boston uni.
In tribute, we give you this:
And we’ll see you at 7:05pm.
