One morning, during a recent trip to Florida, I stepped out of my hotel and saw this bus in front of me. And without questioning anything, I got on it. Because when you see a bus labelled “Remy”, you don’t ask any questions. You just get on the goddam thing and presume that it’s taking you to the promised land, where Remy strolls around, fully pajama’ed like Hugh Hefner with a couple hot chicks on each arm, ready to quaff beer and talk baseball with all who pass his gates.
Alas, the bus didn’t take me to Stately Remy Manor. In fact, it had nothing to do with Jerry Remy at all. But my leap of faith reminded me of just how integral The Dawg is to my overall Red Sox Experience. Sure, there have been plenty of others before him; I grew up with the likes of Ned Martin and Bob Montgomery and Sean McDonough, each of whom put their own indelible stamp on the broadcasts. But no one’s made this gig his own quite like Remy. And there’s no better Robin to his Batman than Don Orsillo.
Honestly, there’s no real point to this post other than to say that I’m glad Remy’s back and feelin’ fine. After getting a taste of a World Without Remy this spring, I’ve realized it’s no place I wanna be. Here’s to another couple decades of stuff like this:
