The Futility Infielder

One of the comments in my previous piece discussing Grady Little's firing led me to do some thinking about the right man for the now-vacant Boston job. Of all the names mentioned, there's one -- as yet unmentioned by the mainstream media -- who scares the hell out of me as Red Sox manager.

He's a guy who fielded competitive team after competitive team while building a reputation as a player's manager. He was way ahead of the curve, stathead-wise, in part because he learned the game while playing for another proto-stathead. He was reading Baseball Abstract back before the Internet was even a twinkle in Al Gore's beady eyes.

He might have a hard time taking orders from a 29-year-old GM, but his philosophy wouldn't be too far out of line, and he'd probably do a better job of selling it to the players than anybody else. He's one tough bastard who wouldn't get pushed around by a diva superstar.

He's a guy that, if I were a Red Sox fan, I'd be sneaking into Fenway Park to spray-paint his name in 30-foot high letters on the Green Monster to send a message to Epstein/Henry/Douchino. Any guesses yet?

Boston fans might have a hard time accepting him because he managed a team that caused them possibly the greatest pain they've ever felt (no, not Don Zimmer). And he might not want to get back into managing in the first place. But if you got Bill James to go after him, as an admirer of his work, he'd probably be flattered enough to accept the position.

You should have the name by now, especially if you're a Boston fan. But if you're not, I'll give you one more hint: he's the last guy to beat a Joe Torre team for the AL East title, and his reward for winning AL Manager of the Year was a pink slip.

I'm tallking about Davey Johnson. The thought of him in a Red Sox uniform might keep me awake at night.