Holy shit. Word is that Johnny Pesky, everybody’s grandpa and a fixture in the Red Sox organization for as long as I can remember, has passed away at 92.

As I’ve said many times, there are three ways to get me to cry: kick me square in the nuts, make me watch the final scene of “Field of Dreams” or show me any photos of Johnny Pesky from the night the Red Sox won the 2004 World Series. Experiencing the delirium of that evening through his eyes made it an even more wondrous experience.

We’ve lost one of the great ones today. And suddenly, a season that seemed lost has purpose: Win it for Johnny. Or at least try to.

He was 92 and he went too soon. Godspeed, Mr. Pesky.