Ramirez acted on bad advice

That's a great deal for 90 percent of us. Manny Ramirez, though, never has been linked to the majority. So when we're talking about 9 out of 10, he's most likely the one exception.

It's hard to say which move qualifies as the worst of Ramirez's professional life. It could have been his hiring of Jeff Moorad, an agent who obviously isn't concerned with what's best for his client. Or it could have been the advice Ramirez took from Moorad in December 2000.

Moorad had two offers for his rich and soon-to-be-richer free agent. One was from Cleveland for $135 million. The other was from Boston for $160 million. Anyone who has spent 30 minutes with Ramirez understands that it shouldn't have been a debate. He should have stayed in Cleveland and turned his back on Dan Duquette, who still may be somewhere bidding against himself.

When the Sox placed their left fielder/designated hitter on irrevocable waivers last Wednesday, another sad verse was added to a baseball blues song. He doesn't want to be here, and the Red Sox don't want him here. He's miserable and they're miserable. The only principal who's not miserable is the opportunistic matchmaker who created this mess.

Of course, there is someone at home right now scoffing at the term "misery." How can a man who is wealthy enough to buy a portion of Newbury Street be so unhappy? How can a man who can afford to forget $40,000 paychecks in his glove compartment (true story) be so depressed?

The answer is a simple one, and it should be forwarded to every on-the-fence free agent millionaire in baseball: After a while, the money doesn't matter. One way or the other, you're going to be rich, so the size of the pile should never be the tiebreaker.

I'll never forget the day Ramirez signed with the Sox. E-mail after e-mail came in from Cleveland, all with similar themes. The baseball fans there said that it was a huge mistake, that Ramirez and the Northeast Corridor was a disastrous mix. He may have grown up in New York, they said, but the only northeastern place he needed to be was northeastern Ohio.

Initially, I thought those were the voices of bitterness. But they were right. Certain quirky acts are nontransferable, and Ramirez is one of them. Tom Menino couldn't be mayor of Los Angeles, Rene Rancourt wouldn't be the same on hockey nights in Nashville, and J.P. Licks might be another ice cream joint in Miami.

Moorad didn't care about the right fit three years ago and he clearly doesn't care now. If he did, he wouldn't have made a bad situation worse by echoing Ramirez's foolish comments from September. The agent said his client would prefer to play for the Yankees. That's like telling your wife, "I want a divorce -- so I can marry your sister."

It never should have come to this. Instead of laughing when the sheltered Ramirez said he wanted to bring a clubhouse worker from Cleveland to Boston with him, Moorad should have let his conscience -- I'm sure he has one of those -- take over. At the plate, Ramirez has more common sense than most hitters in baseball. But now, in his 30s, his immaturity is not that cute or funny anymore. If you're his friend or his well-paid representative, you are charged to help and protect him.

If he's in Boston on Opening Day, he's not going to have many friends or much protection. He has one of the most inflexible contracts in the history of the game. The contract is the Sox' $95 million shadow, a brain-teaser that can't be solved, a hefty nuisance that can't be tossed overboard. If the contract remains, there will be unpopular decisions on Yawkey Way. Somebody fans and management love more than Ramirez will be shipped out of town.

You know it's going to get worse. Most people are angry at Ramirez now, and this is one season after he won the batting title and a few weeks after a season in which he hit .325, finishing second. In the old days, his hitting always outweighed his flaws. But then, in Cleveland, he had fewer flaws.

He never asked out so much then. He never laughed in the midst of his own defiance. Running out balls wasn't such a problem. Turning a 24-hour sickness into a Broadway production was not an issue. He didn't seem to lose his concentration as often.

There are times when he seems to be snapping out of it. Last year, stung by criticism of his defense, he pulled former hitting coach Dwight Evans aside. "You won Gold Gloves," he told Dewey. "Help me."

Evans tutored Ramirez, and his defense got a little better. His defense improved in 2003 as well. But it was as if there was a rule preventing him from doing a lot of good things at once.

Ramirez is now the cover boy for several groups. He best illustrates how intense the pressure can be in Boston; there is no question that fan pressure inspired Duquette to keep jacking up the price in 2000, after failing to get Mike Mussina.

He is proof that millions can't soothe deep disappointment. He is the 50-point answer in sports-management class, a solid example of one signing that can handcuff a franchise for years.

It might be wise for Ramirez to fall in love with his blue "B" hat and red socks. It looks as if he'll be staying for a while. If -- and most likely when -- he returns in '04, people will be studying him, seeing if there is any difference.

Is he smiling? Is he talking with the media? Are his teammates embracing him?

Those won't be the key clues. We'll know that Ramirez is on his way to a good place when he steps up, speaks for himself, and says it's best for him to part ways with the man who led him here.

Michael Holley is a Globe columnist. His e-mail address is holley@globe.com.