"Don't follow leaders/Watch your parking meters" -- Bob Dylan.
When Mo Vaughn left the Red Sox in most acrimonious style, former manager Dan Duquette thought he had the solution -- or at least half of it.
Duquette famously said that the new free agent he signed, Jose Offerman, would replace Vaughn's on-base percentage. All the Sox needed, Duquette added, was for someone to replicate Vaughn's power.
But there was another vital part of Vaughn's makeup that Duquette either dismissed entirely or discounted far too much -- the effect the first baseman had off the field and in the clubhouse.
As much as Vaughn relished the opportunity to be up at the plate with the game on the line, he also recognized the importance of leadership. When a teammate got out of line, Vaughn saw to it that the player corrected his path. When times got tough and the media sought answers, Vaughn was quick to provide them, always careful to assign himself more of the blame than he deserved.
Vaughn's willingness to serve as team spokesman and insistence on being clubhouse policeman was invaluable. His departure left a void that went un-filled for several seasons.
Before this season, the Sox had two marquee players neither of whom wanted nor seemed capable of assuming that responsibility. Left fielder Manny Ramirez is carefree, reticent with the media and on his own program. Shortstop Nomar Garciaparra, deeply private, is similarly uncomfortable in exerting his personality and would prefer that his play speak for itself -- both to his teammates, from whom he is detatched, and from the media, which he barely tolerates.
Into this vacuum came two unlikely figures: Kevin Millar and David Ortiz.
Each was cut loose from his previous teams for economic reasons; each was unsure of his role with the Red Sox.
But before long, each had made a significant impact -- and not just on the field.
Ortiz is the team's gentle, genial giant, playfully dancing to Latin music in the clubhouse while emerging as the team's spiritual center. When most of his teammates thought that Ramirez was too slow to return from an illness to the lineup in late August and early September, it was left to Ortiz to gently prod him back.
"They share a (heritage) and I think Manny respects David, and David can relate to Manny," observed a teammates. "David's had a huge influence."
Just ask the Twins, who took several months to put their finger on what was missing: Ortiz.
Numerous Minnesota players, along with manager Ron Gardenhire, cited the loss of Ortiz as a key reason behind the team's sluggish start. Many never fully appreciated his presence until after the fact.
"That's the thing about leadership," said a baseball executive. "Sometimes, when you have good guys, you don't even notice it because you never have big problems."
Millar, however, is tough to escape. The loudest and most brash of the Red Sox players, it might have been expected that Millar would keep a low profile.
He was humbled by his off-season odyssey, which saw him sign with a Japanese team, only to extricate himself in order to come back and play for Boston. For a player who spent six years in the minor leagues and never had hit more than 20 homers in the big leagues, some wondered what all the fuss was about.
As it turned out, Millar far exceeded his career highs for homers and RBI, but his true contributions can't be shown on the stat sheet. He's kept the Sox loose, and a mid-August diatribe against the media, in retrospect, may have been a rallying point for a team which had figuratively hit the wall.
"He's loud, he's in your face, and he can be a pain in the (rear)," said Todd Walker. "He jokes that everyone likes the act when he's hitting .290, but not when he's hitting .260."
In late August, the Sox began airing a videotape of Millar, as a college student, lip-synching to Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the U.S.A." It served as a late-inning exhortation to the fans and comic relief for all.
It was Millar who gave the Sox their motto and rallying cry ("Cowboy Up!") and within minutes of their playoff-clinching victory Thursday night at Fenway, he was shouting the phrase from the mound to the delight of the delirious and celebratory crowd.
"This is one of most stressful places to play," Trot Nixon said of Boston. "There's a lot of media interest, the stands are packed every night and every game feels like a big game. I like that atmosphere. But some guys don't and you need something to help with the tension. David and Kevin are both funny guys. You need humor to get through a long season, and they became the real personalities of the club."
Millar and Ortiz weren't the only ones exerting their influence. With each passing year, Varitek has blossomed into a gritty on-field leader, particularly when it comes to handling the pitching staff.
Nixon, the picture of intensity, is unafraid to speak his mind, but lacks the outgoing nature to command the room.
Ortiz and Millar don't lack for presence. You can't ignore them. As the Red Sox came together this season, more united than any Sox team in recent history, they found their ballast from newcomers who, almost inexplicably, weren't wanted elsewhere.
