How can you not love Dustin Pedroia?

On the plane yesterday, I finally got into Francona: The Red Sox Years (despite a gentleman behind me playing solitaire on his tablet at full volume for the duration of the flight). I haven't reached the end, but I certainly teared up during certain sections describing the 2004 playoff run, and then couldn't stop grinning like an idiot when Dustin Pedroia finally entered the stage.

I fully anticipated feeling emotional over an insiders view of the Pedey/Tito relationship - everyone knows that Pedey is my favorite player, and it's abundantly clear that Tito felt similarly (though I doubt Francona wanted to propose).

But who could blame us? Pedroia isn't just a dedicated and talented player, but plays with the exuberance and abandon of a child: he's excited to come to the field every day, and pouts if he's given a day off. He's totally pumped for the new things about the team, and is hoping that it will lead them back to winning.

A losing season isn't something he's used to - he told Pete Abraham of the Globe that it hasn't happened to him ever, not even Little League. Here's hoping that last season was just a passing blip on his lifetime win-loss record.

Reader's reluctance and Tito's new book

I got my copy of Francona: The Red Sox Years, right on time on its release date from Amazon.  It is currently sitting, unopened, on my bedside table.  I'm sure it will be well-written, as everything Dan Shaughnessy has a hand in writing has a certain style, and I'm sure it will be interesting, because Terry Francona's arrival in Boston coincided with a very exciting time in Red Sox history.

So why haven't I opened it yet? It's not because I'm in the middle of another book (surely a lackadaisical winter reread of Harry Potter can be put aside for a new release like this one), nor is it because I don't have the time - indeed, I have a shameful amount of free time lately.

No, my reluctance to dive into what is sure to be a page-turner has more to do with a halfhearted attempt at preserving my illusions. I know that there were players who were difficult, even during the magical 2004 and 2007 seasons (the sections on Manny Ramirez alone must be pretty hefty). But I'm not ready to lose my mental pedestals for players whose indiscretions might have flown under the radar of the fans - if, for instance, there's a passage about anyone that at all resembles the Roger Clemens anecdotes from Joe Torre's The Yankee Years, I might just lost it.

I've heard good things about the book, and I'm sure that once I manage to start it, I'll be through it in a matter of days.  I'm equally certain that the book will have me feeling some serious nostalgia for the good old days of the Pedey/Tito bromance.  Have any of you guys read the book? Am I being nervous for nothing? Let me know here in the comments, on Twitter, or on the Facebook page!