Looking rested, ever pale, and relaxed in blue jeans and a short sleeve shirt, John greets me in the kitchen and I give him a signed copy of a Red Sox book I wrote a long time ago. What else do you bring when you go to dinner at a billionaire's house? A bottle of Kendall-Jackson? Fruit salad?
We sit outside on one of the few great nights we've had in this summer of dreadful weather. Larry Lucchino lives nearby. Bob Kraft, too. I mention that the Red Sox front office has become more Patriot-like regarding media availability this year. John laughs and agrees. He also chuckles at the distant memory of hiring a PR firm when he first bought the Red Sox. Like that made any difference regarding anything. He says Kraft has told him a thing or two about dealing with us: Say nothing. We agree that the Patriots are a little jealous of the Red Sox. Nobody's fault. They just are.
Dinner is delicious. Some kind of dark bean soup with corn and lentils, then a sumptuous piece of chicken covered with all kinds of carrots and designer food. Dessert is an almond cake/pie with whipped cream. I am allergic to none of it, but I am a little worried about the two cats -- big as turkeys -- prowling around inside. John drinks milk. I settle for Diet Coke. Probably not the night for Jack.
The Sox are going to be on TV playing the Royals within the hour and John talks about the time he almost bought the Royals. Then he talks about the time he almost bought the Angels. Peggy had already found a house in Newport Beach. Then he talked about owning the Marlins and not getting the stadium built and how Jeb Bush sandbagged one of his efforts.
We talk about how trendy the Sox have become -- how hot tickets are. He thinks the whole thing started during the nuclear A-Rod winter.
``We've had some amazing offseasons in our five years," he says. ``The A-Rod winter . . . then the Theo winter."
