Far be it for anyone to question Beckett’s activity on one of his precious off-days. That is not the point. Nor is it about him playing golf. Nor is it even about his dreadful performance on the mound Thursday. What runs through every incident involving Josh Beckett is the utter lack of respect he has for the franchise that pays him $17 million a year, the teammates who rely on him and the fans who pay his salary. This is about common sense, decency and responsibility.
Beckett still winces privately about how the fact that Red Sox starters drank beer and ate fried chicken in the clubhouse overshadowed the teamwide meltdown of September. He whines that it’s a media creation, which, in some respects, it is. The media did report it. But the visceral reactions of the Red Sox fan base – the confirmation that, yeah, Beckett sure had gotten fat over the course of last season, and the perception problem caused when picturing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of arms bonding over KFC and Bud Light as the Titanic sank – made the story what it was. The Red Sox didn’t lose because of beer and chicken. Their losses just had a face, and it was Beckett’s, with extra crispy on his extra chin.