Yesterday Vlad Guerrero was awarded the title of American League MVP. Sure, he deserved it. But aside from the few choice words I had immediately following his ALDS Game 3 grand slam, I have very few words to offer on the subject of Guerrero. No, I'm more concerned with our MVP. The guy for whom the national media predicted an attitude problem of epic proportions after the failed A-Rod trade. The guy who did what Nomar could not, and as a result, is a World Champion.

An open letter to Mr. Manny Ramirez:


Dear Manny,

The words "thank you" don't seem like enough for what you did this past season. And I'm not just talking about the homeruns, the RBI, the occasional gold glove caliber grab. No, this season you did much more for the Sox. You became a man. You became a Dirt Dog. You became a Bostonian.

You became a legend.

No one would have been surprised had you arrived at spring training with a chip as massive as Eck's mustache on your shoulder. Last season was a bit tumultuous, and the rift between you and the fans had widened after your comments about longing to play in pinstripes and your rumored night on the town with Enrique Wilson. The offseason saw you placed on waivers, available to anyone who was willing to pay the small fee of $20,000 and the five-year balance of your eight-year contract worth $160 million.

For Sale: Tremendous hitter with limited fielding abilities. Attitude and discipline problems included free of charge if you are interested.

But no one was.

Just when we thought things might return to normal, it became public that the Red Sox were trying to trade you to Texas for Alex Rodriquez and Nomar to Chicago in exchange for Magglio Ordonez. After weeks of speculation and trade talks, the deals fell through and A-Rod became a Yankee.

The national media was drooling at all of the story opportunities. The Boston clubhouse will implode next season, we were told. Manny will never forgive Boston management for this, they shouted excitedly, wiping the drool from their chins. He'll refuse to play, he'll demand a trade, he'll shut out his teammates and the fans. They couldn't print the stories fast enough.

But they were wrong.

You showed up in Fort Myers with a smile and a renewed love of the game. While the business of the game was too much for Nomar to handle, you took it in stride. He let it eat at him through the entire offseason, and by the time the season rolled around, management had a mess on their hands. But you were a different story. You realized after the near trade that you were happy to be staying in Boston, and that perhaps it was time to let the media and the fans see that.

It would be shortsighted not to mention your teammates roles in this makeover, specifically Kevin Millar and David Ortiz. The Spring Training interview in which Millar served as your personal moderator was the first sign to the fans that we were seeing a different Manny Ramirez. We later found out that, behind the scenes, Millar and Ortiz were encouraging you to open up to the public. And then, in a flurry of activity, you transformed yourself into one of the most lovable Red Sox of all time. You launched a website. You appeared in commercials. You formed a charity. You appeared in public with your wife and son.

The media was shocked. They raced to work and spent hours deleting their backlog of "The Downfall of Manny and the Red Sox" stories and, through clenched teeth, penned new articles about the "new" Manny Ramirez and your miraculous makeover.

The fans, on the other hand, were overjoyed. What normally would have been a big story in Boston became a huge story when your behavior was juxtaposed with that of a particular shortstop across the clubhouse. Nomar continued to sulk and nurse his bruised ego. You continued to come out of your shell and show off your sparkling personality, sharp wit, and surprisingly determined effort in the field. Most of the fans and media would have predicted it would be the other way around. They did, in fact, and even that didn't bother you. Ladies and Gentlemen of Boston, please welcome Manny Ramirez, Zen Master.

All season long, everywhere we turned, there you were: smiling, laughing, hugging, playing practical jokes, and rubbing heads with Pedro. In just a few months, you went from a distant millionaire athlete to a loveable teddybear that has an uncanny knack for absolutely crushing a baseball.

Looking back at the entire Championship season (yes, it is worthy of a capital C), this hits me as one of the biggest pieces to the gigantic puzzle management struggled to put together. Had you arrived in Fort Myers holding a grudge, there's no telling what kind of mess the 2004 season would have become. Instead, you realized that you wanted to change and you made it happen. And that was just as important as your 43 homeruns.

When I am 80 years old and I think back to 2004, the year the Red Sox achieved the unachievable, I will remember this: A World Series trophy. An eight game win streak in the playoffs. And a smiling Manny Ramirez.

Thank you.

Sass-a-thon.com