Musings: The Demise Of Dave Dombrowski

By Dick Flavin

Boston Red Sox Poet Laureate

and New York Times Best Selling Author

THE DEMISE OF DAVE DOMBROWSKI

When Dave Dombroski was brought on to head up baseball operations for the Boston

Red Sox, he was hired to win “now” – and he did. His problem was that “now” doesn’t

have a very long shelf-life; it soon becomes “then.”

The Sox had the most successful season in their history in 2018, winning a total of 119

games as they romped and stomped their way to a world championship. But 2018 isn’t

“now” any longer; it’s “then.” Now they are a team with the biggest payroll in baseball,

limping toward the finish line of the 2019 season, well back in the pack. They have made

history again, this time as most expensive also-rans in the annals baseball.

Last off-season, when he was still a genius – remember? – Dombrowski elected to stand

pat. He resigned at exorbitant rates some of those who had brought him to baseball’s holy

grail (Chris Sale, Nathan Eovaldi, Lamont Cranston – oops, I mean Steve Pearce) and

essentially went with the same roster this year as that which won for him in ‘18. With

that, he signed his own death warrant. The truth is that in baseball, as in other competitive

lines of business, when you think you’re standing pat you’re really losing ground because

everyone else is still swimming against the tide while you’re drifting backwards.

Ownership realizes as it looks toward the future it’s going to be saddled with huge

contracts that will continue to make the Red Sox one of, if not the, highest paid teams in

the game; plus they’ll have hard decisions to make regarding the contracts of Mookie

Betts and J.D. Martinez. That doesn’t even take into consideration the unsettling fact that

the farm system has been pretty much stripped of A-list prospects who have been used as

chips to acquire big-name players.

Is it any wonder, then, that the guys who pay the bills decided to say, “Just step this way,

if you will, Mr. Dombrowski, and rest your head comfortably on this chopping block.

This won’t take but a minute.”

And it didn’t. Before the sun came up the morning after still another dispiriting loss to the

dreaded Evil Empire of Gotham City the deed had been done; carried out with the cold

efficiency of a Whitey Bulger hit. The miracle worker of 2018, the same guy who had

morphed into the over-spending doofus of 2019, was gone.

Baseball is a great game. It’s also a cold, tough business.

An old pal and I were commiserating about that and other issues relating to the mortality

of man while having lunch on the day after the news broke of Dombrowski’s demise. He

– my pal, not Dombrowski – and I have known one another for about half a century,

dating back to when he was a young reporter assigned the the state house and I was a

wet-behind-the-ears press aid and speech writer. We were the same age, had common

interests, and just seemed to hit it off. As time went by he developed a long and

productive newspaper career as a writer and editor, while I gravitated toward the

electronic media. Our careers followed parallel paths, but he was busy with his, and with

his family, and I with mine, and we didn’t see one another for years. We were always

aware of what other other was up to – I was with him, anyhow, and he became a big deal

at the Boston Globe, but our paths never crossed.

A few years ago we reconnected (more to his credit than mine) and have since fallen into

a pattern of having lunch together every five or six weeks. We are still, alas, the same age

and neither one of us hears nearly as well as we used to, so on days when the restaurant

we go to (always the same one) is busy and the hum of many conversations fills the air,

we have trouble hearing what the other guy is saying. So we do what old guys do. We

fake it. We nod sagely in agreement when the other makes a point we haven’t quite

picked up on. As a result both us are convinced that the other is a pretty smart fellow

because he seems to agree with us on so many things. If we ever break down and get

hearing aids, we might discover that most of the time the other guy doesn’t know what

the devil he’s talking about.

That said, we have each been around long enough not to be shocked when someone in the

news – someone like Dave Dombrowski - falls from a position of lofty heights. After all

we remember when President George H. W. Bush had approval ratings of 90%, only to

lose the next election to Bill Clinton. Conversely we also remember when Tom Menino

was thought of as an accidental mayor, just inhabiting the office until a real one came

along. Menino, of course, wound up being the longest serving mayor in Boston history.

So you never know. None of us does.

Think of the odds you could have gotten if you had placed a bet last New Year’s Day that

Dombrowski would be out of a job before this season was over. But when you factor in

that David Price, Chris Sale, and Nathan Eovaldi have only fourteen wins between them

with less than twenty games left in the season, and that all are locked into contracts that

will cost the Red Sox 77 million big ones next year alone, his axing seems foreordained.

It was the suddenness of the execution that came as a surprise. Nobody saw it coming,

maybe not even John Henry and Tom Werner. But when there was still another beatdown

at the hands of Damn Yankees, it became too much to bear. In retrospect we should have

seen it coming.

Hindsight is always 20/20; foresight is always myopic.