We interrupt this broadcast...
At the risk of alienating my NYC readers, I must pause in my restaurant and film reviews to share the smallest of joys I recently experienced.
It all started in 1982 when my father sent me a care package while taking a sabbatical at Harvard University. He was earning a masters degree in biostatistics to make himself even more over-educated than he already was. Inside the care package was a pack of baseball cards. By the time I got to visit him in Boston later that year, I had become an enormous baseball fan. But I grew up in a non-baseball State, let alone City. So my loyalties were undecided.
Shortly after arriving in Boston, where I spent part of nearly every day scrounging through my father's apartment to find 35 cents to buy a fresh pack of baseball cards (they even came with a gum stick back then), my father took me to Fenway Park for my very first major league game. Hall of Famer Dennis Eckersley started that day against the Kansas City Royals. Hall of Famer Carl Yastrzemski was in his final season in a Red Sox uniform and Hall of Famer Wade Boggs was in his first. My favorite player immediately became Dwight Evans, the Red Sox right fielder with a cannon for an arm and a handlebar moustache. They won easily that day as well as the next time I went a few weeks later against the Toronto Blue Jays.
Little did I know then that it would be 20 years before I'd return to Fenway.
1986 brought the most heartache I've ever felt as a Red Sox fan. To be so close to winning the World Series and then lose in absolutely indescribable fashion - I maintain to this day that the ball between Buckner's legs took a mystery hop sideways. I cried myself to sleep after games 6 and 7 and have hated the New York Mets ever since. Only after every single member of that team had left the Mets could I even watch them play a game on television. They remain my least favorite team.
In that regard, I'm not a Yankee-hating Red Sox fan like you often find. Do I like the Yankees? No. But I don't hate them. I admire Joe Torre and Derek Jeter and I genuinely like Bernie Williams having met him once in a hospital hallway. After last season's extra-inning loss on Aaron Boone's home run, I decided that I was reaching the hate level for the Yankees, but I was also proud of the Red Sox for taking it to 7 games against a team with a much bigger payroll and a better pitching staff.
This season hopes were high when the Sox won most of the early season match-ups with the Yankees, but then the Red Sox just seemed to lose it. They fell far behind the Yankees in the standings and were even out of the Wild Card spot for quite some time. Only a late season surge brought them back tight with the Yankees and secured the Wild Card spot. This season I only made it to Fenway twice - for the home opener, which they lost to the Angels (who they swept in the AL Division Series) and for a game in September, which Orlando Cabrera won on an extra-inning home run - the second season in a row I'd seen the Sox win a late season home game in extra innings with a HR.
Sweeping the Angels and watching the Yankees pitching struggle late in the season made me overconfident about their chances in the AL Championship Series. When NY won the first two games at Yankee Stadium, I got really worried. When the Yankees won game 3 19-8 in Fenway Park, I lost faith. My only hope was that they'd somehow avoid a sweep. They pulled out game 4 in extra innings, but I still thought it was only a matter of time. At least it wouldn't be a sweep. When game 5 reached extra innings the smallest seed of faith was planted. I knew extra innings favored the home team and that we'd have Schilling pitching game 6. Sure enough, Sox won game 5 in the 14th inning and Schilling pitched a gem in game 6 to tie everything up.
My perennial pessimism assured me that the Sox had burnt all of their reserve energy in making the come back from a 3 games to 0 deficit in the series and that game 7 would be a laugher for the Yanks. I was proud of the Sox for forcing a game 7, something no team down 3-0 had ever done in the history of baseball (a best of 7 format has been in use since 1905).
When Ortiz homered in the first inning to give the Sox a 2-0 lead I began to hope for a miracle. Damon's grand slam convinced me that we had a shot. 6-0 to the Yanks in game 7 sounded too much like the 5-0 lead we'd had last year in game 7 and we all know how that turned out. When the score reached 8-1 and the Yankees remaining outs began dwindling, I began believing that it just might happen. Terry Francona's inexplicable decision to bring in Pedro Martinez dashed those hopes as the mighty Yankees scored two quick runs and the Yankee Stadium crowd erupted with energy. I was screaming at the television in anger and disgust. Derek Lowe had given up 1 hit and 1 run in 6 innings. Let him continue pitching until some else got a hit off of him. Even if it was a home run, it'd still be 8-2 and he'd have gotten some more valuable outs.
It turned out not to matter, but it made for a much more stressful end to the game than I needed. My heart rate was sky high throughout. I was on the edge of my seat. I couldn't relax for a minute. If I did something during an inning the Sox had success, I made sure to do the same thing during the next inning. I became a superstitious nut.
When the final out was made, a ground out by Ruben Sierra to Pokey Reese, I broke down sobbing. I cried with relief, with joy, with 18 years of pent up disappointment over the 1986 loss. It was several minutes before I composed myself. I realize they still have to win 4 of the next 7 games against whoever the NL throws at them, but if you'd have told me 18 years ago that it'd take this long to get back to the Series, I would have laughed at you.
Now I feel confident about the World Series. The Red Sox have shown that they are a very special team - coming back down 3-0 to a team with a payroll more than $50 million more than the Sox shows the kind of character that you can't quantify with salaries or statistics. They may lose another tear-jerker to the Cardinals or the Astros, but this Sox fan finally believes in miracles. And if this year doesn't work out, there's always 2022.
And Dewey is still my favorite baseball player of all time.
It all started in 1982 when my father sent me a care package while taking a sabbatical at Harvard University. He was earning a masters degree in biostatistics to make himself even more over-educated than he already was. Inside the care package was a pack of baseball cards. By the time I got to visit him in Boston later that year, I had become an enormous baseball fan. But I grew up in a non-baseball State, let alone City. So my loyalties were undecided.
Shortly after arriving in Boston, where I spent part of nearly every day scrounging through my father's apartment to find 35 cents to buy a fresh pack of baseball cards (they even came with a gum stick back then), my father took me to Fenway Park for my very first major league game. Hall of Famer Dennis Eckersley started that day against the Kansas City Royals. Hall of Famer Carl Yastrzemski was in his final season in a Red Sox uniform and Hall of Famer Wade Boggs was in his first. My favorite player immediately became Dwight Evans, the Red Sox right fielder with a cannon for an arm and a handlebar moustache. They won easily that day as well as the next time I went a few weeks later against the Toronto Blue Jays.
Little did I know then that it would be 20 years before I'd return to Fenway.
1986 brought the most heartache I've ever felt as a Red Sox fan. To be so close to winning the World Series and then lose in absolutely indescribable fashion - I maintain to this day that the ball between Buckner's legs took a mystery hop sideways. I cried myself to sleep after games 6 and 7 and have hated the New York Mets ever since. Only after every single member of that team had left the Mets could I even watch them play a game on television. They remain my least favorite team.
In that regard, I'm not a Yankee-hating Red Sox fan like you often find. Do I like the Yankees? No. But I don't hate them. I admire Joe Torre and Derek Jeter and I genuinely like Bernie Williams having met him once in a hospital hallway. After last season's extra-inning loss on Aaron Boone's home run, I decided that I was reaching the hate level for the Yankees, but I was also proud of the Red Sox for taking it to 7 games against a team with a much bigger payroll and a better pitching staff.
This season hopes were high when the Sox won most of the early season match-ups with the Yankees, but then the Red Sox just seemed to lose it. They fell far behind the Yankees in the standings and were even out of the Wild Card spot for quite some time. Only a late season surge brought them back tight with the Yankees and secured the Wild Card spot. This season I only made it to Fenway twice - for the home opener, which they lost to the Angels (who they swept in the AL Division Series) and for a game in September, which Orlando Cabrera won on an extra-inning home run - the second season in a row I'd seen the Sox win a late season home game in extra innings with a HR.
Sweeping the Angels and watching the Yankees pitching struggle late in the season made me overconfident about their chances in the AL Championship Series. When NY won the first two games at Yankee Stadium, I got really worried. When the Yankees won game 3 19-8 in Fenway Park, I lost faith. My only hope was that they'd somehow avoid a sweep. They pulled out game 4 in extra innings, but I still thought it was only a matter of time. At least it wouldn't be a sweep. When game 5 reached extra innings the smallest seed of faith was planted. I knew extra innings favored the home team and that we'd have Schilling pitching game 6. Sure enough, Sox won game 5 in the 14th inning and Schilling pitched a gem in game 6 to tie everything up.
My perennial pessimism assured me that the Sox had burnt all of their reserve energy in making the come back from a 3 games to 0 deficit in the series and that game 7 would be a laugher for the Yanks. I was proud of the Sox for forcing a game 7, something no team down 3-0 had ever done in the history of baseball (a best of 7 format has been in use since 1905).
When Ortiz homered in the first inning to give the Sox a 2-0 lead I began to hope for a miracle. Damon's grand slam convinced me that we had a shot. 6-0 to the Yanks in game 7 sounded too much like the 5-0 lead we'd had last year in game 7 and we all know how that turned out. When the score reached 8-1 and the Yankees remaining outs began dwindling, I began believing that it just might happen. Terry Francona's inexplicable decision to bring in Pedro Martinez dashed those hopes as the mighty Yankees scored two quick runs and the Yankee Stadium crowd erupted with energy. I was screaming at the television in anger and disgust. Derek Lowe had given up 1 hit and 1 run in 6 innings. Let him continue pitching until some else got a hit off of him. Even if it was a home run, it'd still be 8-2 and he'd have gotten some more valuable outs.
It turned out not to matter, but it made for a much more stressful end to the game than I needed. My heart rate was sky high throughout. I was on the edge of my seat. I couldn't relax for a minute. If I did something during an inning the Sox had success, I made sure to do the same thing during the next inning. I became a superstitious nut.
When the final out was made, a ground out by Ruben Sierra to Pokey Reese, I broke down sobbing. I cried with relief, with joy, with 18 years of pent up disappointment over the 1986 loss. It was several minutes before I composed myself. I realize they still have to win 4 of the next 7 games against whoever the NL throws at them, but if you'd have told me 18 years ago that it'd take this long to get back to the Series, I would have laughed at you.
Now I feel confident about the World Series. The Red Sox have shown that they are a very special team - coming back down 3-0 to a team with a payroll more than $50 million more than the Sox shows the kind of character that you can't quantify with salaries or statistics. They may lose another tear-jerker to the Cardinals or the Astros, but this Sox fan finally believes in miracles. And if this year doesn't work out, there's always 2022.
And Dewey is still my favorite baseball player of all time.
posted by Hairy Lime at 2:47 PM
3 Comments:
cry baby
I love this story and never get tired of hearing it. :)
"Cry baby" says the guy who emails me minutes after Game 7 to ask me not to rib him about the greatest comeback in sports history.
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