There's Never a Wish Better than This

Does life get better than this?

Does life get better than watching your favorite team win the championship for the first time in 86 years, then celebrating with all of your friends and the entire city? How about that they did it by completing the greatest comeback in sports history? How about that the comeback was against the Yankees? Does it make the whole thing even sweeter that you've followed the team faithfully season after season?

Baseball season. Is there anything as great? The season begins in Florida, early in February, while snow still falls in Boston. Pitchers and catchers report first, and fans get their first glimpse of the season that will follow. From then until October, every pitch counts. Every game creates a new story. The team becomes a part of every fan's family. From the first game in April to the final out - September, or, if you're very lucky, late October - we're all hooked.

"The Red Sox mean nothing in my life," I've often said, "but they also mean everything."

I miss them already.

I already miss the daily baseball games. I miss the daily trek to Fenway Park, to see all the great folks I work with, to watch the lights go on as the sun goes down, to hear the crowd's applause as the starting lineups are introduced, to see the magic of it all happen every night, night after night. I already miss hearing "Sweet Caroline" in the middle of the 8th inning, and I already miss watching 35,000 fans sing along. I want to hear "Dirty Water" at the park one more time, before it all shuts down for the winter. Just one more game. Just one more time, I want to ask. I want to watch all the players warm up in the dusk, a hazy blue sky above the glowing field; I could sit and watch Fenway Park forever.

There are good things about the season ending: I've been worn-out by all the crazy work schedules, I've spent too many hours saving tables at crowded bars, my work hasn't been done in three weeks, and I just hung up clothes for the first time since the postseason started. It's funny though. Just when even I was starting to get tired of wearing Sox shirts day after day, just when I was sick of going to work and dealing with crowds and smelling like Fenway Park, it's all done. And now, I want nothing more than to have just one more game so I can continue to wear my t-shirts and get to Fenway. Part of me wants to make it all last - just a little bit longer.

It's like what I wrote a little earlier. The ride down the hill? Slid all the way down - had an amazing ride - but now it's done. That great book? Finished. Movie? Credits rolled. It's exactly how they say it happens: all good things come to an end. Who knows if the next trip down the hill, the next book, the next movie - the next season - will be as good as this one was. I don't think there will ever be a sweeter victory than the one of 2004, when the Red Sox came all the way back to win it all and take the championship for the first time in 86 years. I don't think life as a Red Sox fan will ever get better than it's been during October 2004.

Baseball season officially ended at 11:41 PM on Wednesday, October 27, when the Boston Red Sox beat the St. Louis Cardinals at Busch Stadium to win the World Series in four games. The victory parade in Boston ended a few hours ago. Life in Boston will eventually go back to normal, but it's nice to think that it will take a while for the glow to wear off. I like to think that Red Sox fans will be able to spend this winter still celebrating, still gloriously in love with their team and its historic win. I like to think that in a few months, when I'm looking back at all of this, when I'm flipping through all of the newspaper articles and commemorative memorabilia and magazines, that I'll still be wondering whether life gets any better.

Right now, it's hard to imagine that it does.

At last, World Series Champions.

The facts have been said over and over again, but they never get old:

On October 27, 2004, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series for the first time in 86 years.

Hold on a second.

The Boston Red Sox. Won. The World Series.

I would like to make one thing very clear though: there was never a curse. I don't care what people throw at you - statistics, stories, ghosts - in the end, the Boston Red Sox fanbase was never tortured. Heartbroken - yes. Tortured? Absolutely not.

I read some stories from a thread on the Sons of Sam Horn website before Game 4, before the Sox won it all. The thread was titled "Win it For..." and it gave an opportunity for all the posters to list who they wanted the Sox to win the Series for. Sure, players were named and organization members, but what struck me - and obviously everyone reading the posts - were all the mentions of grandparents who had died without seeing their Sox win it, parents who had raised their children to believe in the Sox, children who would learn to love them as their team. Every story was different, but just as important to the poster, just as touching to read. It's amazing, I thought as I read, how much the Red Sox can mean to someone.

I used to say that if I could tell myself that the Sox games were just ballgames, I would. I don't think that anymore. It's not just baseball. The Red Sox mean so much more than that. They mean loyalty and friendship and family and love. And I'm not even just saying that because they just won the World Series (THEY JUST WON THE WORLD SERIES!!!) - okay, maybe a little - but I'm saying it because of what I saw before tonight. For years, I've watched the Red Sox every summer with my dad, and they've been some of my favorite memories. I've loved going to Fenway Park every year. I've loved reading newspaper articles, listening to fan radio, just getting entirely wrapped up in the team. I've loved it all.

I've experienced the heartbreak. I couldn't bring myself to watch Aaron Boone's homerun. I was way too young to remember Game 6 in 1986, but a part of me could imagine what my dad - and all of the other Sox fans who had to witness it - must have been feeling. Basically, my point is that I'm not claiming that every second has been great or easy. But I will say this: every second has been absolutely worth it. No question.

Don't tell me that the Sox have been cursed for 86 years. No way. For 86 years, they've been a team that's been beloved by millions. They've defined summers for countless fans. They've been the foundation of relationships between fathers and sons, grandparents and grandchildren, husbands and wives. Lifelong friendships have been forged because of a common love of the Red Sox. Don't tell me that all of this is a curse. It can't be.

I think of it differently. I think that the Sox have given people a reason to just be happy and believe in something good for the past 103 years they've been around. I don't care about anyone telling me about Babe Ruth. I don't care about 26 championships (and one big choke!). Who cares? And I don't mean that rhetorically. I mean, who really cares?

Did Yankees fans experience the same elation that Sox fans did a few hours ago? Maybe (and that's being generous.) But maybe more importantly - did Yankees fans call up their parents as they watched in the bottom of the ninth? Did they call their grandfathers when their team finally won it? Did they have to sit for a moment, hold back some tears, and try to soak it all in? I don't know. I doubt it.

But I do know that looking around Boston tonight, I saw people on their cellphones, calling their families. I talked to people who told me about their grandfather who just wanted to see the Sox win it in his lifetime. I heard about vintage champagne that was finally going to be drunk. It had finally happened; the Sox had won it - for everyone. In a moment when fans could finally take it all in and enjoy it for themselves, few actually did that. Instead, they talked about how many others deserved to see it, more than them. The Sox winning the Series was more about connecting to their family and friends - some still here, some gone before they got to witness the glory - than it was about winning a baseball game. And that's just it. The Red Sox aren't just a baseball team; they represent all that is good in the world, from family and friendship to determination, triumph, and faith.

In the end, I don't know how the 86 years between championships will be remembered. There have been great years and bad years, talk of ghosts and curses, and there have been moments of elation and disappointment. But, most importantly, there was never - never - a loss of faith. Ultimately, throughout the decades of heartbreak and triumph, there has always been an unwavering sense of hope among all true Red Sox fans, because when it really comes down to it, the truth is, we always believed.

Just one more thing...

I feel compelled to post this. In my character and ethics in education class, this guy and I had to write a version of an Aesop's fable. This is what we wrote:

The Lion and the Bear

In the jungle, all of the animals lived by the rule that whoever held the golden crown would be king of the jungle. In this jungle, a lion owned the crown, and so he was called the king. The lion would go around to all of the other animals, boasting of his power and prestige and displaying the golden crown for all to see. Other animals warned the lion of the dangers of losing the crown. "Ha!" the lion would reply, "I am not worried about that!" And so, he did not heed the animals' warnings and continued to believe that his power would go unchecked. But, one afternoon in late October, as the lion slept with the crown left next to him, a bear approached the lion and in one swift motion, swooped in and grabbed the crown. When the lion awoke, he found his crown - and power - gone.

Moral of the story: Overconfidence can be your greatest vulnerability - and so can a 3-0 lead in the ALCS.

:)

Quick joke (no credit here): What do you call a party of 25 who gather to watch the World Series?

The Yankees.

Hahahah. This will never, ever get old.

Welcome to Paradise

Never again.

Never again will I have to listen to a complacent Yankees fan tell me that the Red Sox aren't a threat.

Never again will I have to stand Yankees fans asking, "What rivalry?"

Never again will I have to listen to chants about 1918 without having a good response.

Never again will the Yankees be assumed to be the better team.

Never again will I have to hear sports announcers say that the Red Sox always let their fans down.

Never again will Sox fans have to hear that the Yankees always come through in the end.

It's all done now. It's all over. The Yankees, the team that couldn't be beat, the team that was built to win championship after championship, that team, they lost. Wait, wait, let me say that again: they didn't just lose, they choked.

Let Captain Derek Jeter, Alex "Cheaters Never Prosper" Rodriguez, Gary "Gosh My Foot Feels Big in my Mouth" Sheffield, Joe "We're always gonna win" Torre, and lest we forget George "All that Stands for Evil and Greed" Steinbrenner swallow this one. Take a big bite, fellas.

26 rings and one big choke.

God, that feels so good to say.

I never thought I was this bitter. I never thought I'd love this revenge as much as I do, but I gotta say, it's been absolutely euphoric.

Last night, they showed pictures of Yankee Stadium as the Sox completed their 10-3 bashing. Sox fans, smiling in anticipation of the biggest celebration in recent memory. Yankees fans? I hardly recognized them - their sad faces slumped against the dugout, shock ruining the normal complacent grin plastered on their dumb New York mugs. Cashman? Trying to find the fastest escape route out of the Stadium. Pretty boys Jeter and A-Rod? Looking to each other for late night comfort cuddles. Who's the fraud now, Sheffield?

Some people have suggested that Sox fans should empathize with Yankees fans. I mean, haven't we all had our hearts broken? Haven't we all been there before?

Here's my answer: I hate Yankees fans.

I hate the way they told me for years that there was no rivalry. I hate the way they always assumed the Yankees would be fine, no matter what. I hate how they go out and get players just to take them away from other teams, even when they have tons of billion dollar position players sitting on the bench just so that they're not out on some other team's field. I hate how they assumed that the pennant was theirs. I hate how on the afternoon of Game 7, I couldn't find one Yankees fan who admitted to being just a little nervous about the Sox. I hate how they think they own the American league.

Guess what? They don't.

It's their turn now. It's their turn to wonder about "what ifs" and replay the games, over and over again, hoping that it's just an awful nightmare and that in reality, the Yankees came out victorious and are really in the Series. Let them wake up day after day and wonder where it all went wrong. It's their turn to be angry and bitter and upset. It's their turn to cry. The heartbreak? All theirs.

And the thing is, it's not just that the Yankees lost; it's that the Red Sox won. Let me say that again, just so it's understood: the Yankees did not just give up to the Red Sox; the Boston Red Sox beat them. They were down by one run, three outs away from going home and watching the Yankees celebrate in the middle of their hallowed Fenway Park. (As a side note, how good was it to watch the Sox celebrate on their field, while the PA system blasted "New York New York" for the last time this season as their fans streamed out of the stadium? And later, how satisfying was it to see the Sox raise the ALCS trophy on Steinbrenner's lawn? Reallllly good touch. Realllly good.) The Sox though? They wouldn't allow that kind of celebration. Not in their house.

Game 5, they were down two runs in the bottom of the eighth, again facing Mariano Rivera. And again, they didn't stop.

I can't even talk about Game 6 without getting emotional. I mean, here's a guy who was brought to Boston to win a championship, by his own admission. A guy whose heart is arguably bigger than the game. A guy who gets right into the heart of his fandom, calling into radio stations and posting on fan websites. He pitches injured all year, taking shots to numb the pain. He wins 21 games, the most in the major leagues. And then, when it matters the most, he has his skin stitched together so that he can pitch for his team. Through unbelievable pain and gushing blood, the guy goes seven innings, gives up one run, puts his team in a position to win the ALCS, and inspires anybody with passion and heart. He makes even non-believers believe. I mean, whatever happened in Game 7 - and whatever happens from here on out - Curt Schilling's Game 6 performance, I believe, should go down as the gutsiest performance by a Red Sox player. Ever.

And now to Derek Lowe. Here's a guy who was told (rightfully so), "You're just not good enough to start during the postseason." I mean, the guy could have legitimately been contacting Jose Offerman for employment advice. He steps up and pitches on Sunday. He doesn't even whine (that much) about it. And then two days later, he goes out there again, in the biggest game in Yankees-Red Sox history. Miraculously, Rainman doesn't make an appearance. There's no meltdown. Sixty-nine pitches. One hit. One run. Derek Lowe. Who knew?

That's the thing that gets me. When the Sox traveled back to New York, David Ortiz made an important comment. He said, "It can't just be me." He knew it. David Ortiz alone can't beat the Yankees (though I might debate that). And so, everyone stepped up. Walks, singles, sacrifices. Defensive moves. Tight bullpen. And it all worked. As the Yankees unraveled, the Sox came together. They won it. The Yankees choked, sure, and I'll be glad to repeat that for the rest of my life, but make no mistake: the Red Sox played like a championship team games four through seven, and they ultimately beat the Yankees and owned every single one of them - and their greedy bastard of an owner, too.

I don't know how to get over it. I don't know if I want to. I'll be sitting around, anywhere, and suddenly, it will occur to me: the Red Sox beat the Yankees. The Yankees choked. The Red Sox came back from a 3-0 deficit and won this thing. The Red Sox. They beat the Yankees.

I told my friend I was going to wear my "Posada is a Little Bitch" shirt tomorrow. I really love it. I got it a while ago, but I haven't worn it because I really wasn't into the whole "Yankees Suck" thing (ahh, the old days) and I didn't really get into the mean shirts. Now, I had a whole new dilemma:

"Would it be more damaging to Yankees fans to wear the championship shirt, or the Posada shirt?"

She suggested the Posada shirt, saying that its effect was "at its peak" and that Thursday or Friday would be the most appropriate day to wear the shirt.

I don't know. I think forever is the day that's appropriate for any Yankees Suck shirts. Let's face it.

They did.

I'm tempted to leave it at that, but I don't think that's the point of all of this.

For all of the true Red Sox fans out there (maybe about ten at BU last night and maybe oh, 50 in Kenmore Square), it's been an amazing four days. Since Sunday, the Sox have given their fans so much to be consumed by and to be proud of and to cheer for. I've had the absolute best time reading all of the articles online, going to the bars early, wearing my Red Sox shirts, talking about the Sox, rehearsing good luck handshakes, toasting to good plays, and watching it all with good friends. This is what life's all about, if you ask me. Finding something you absolutely love and enjoying it with people you absolutely love to be around.

I don't know how often this will happen. In this life, I don't know how many good wins we get, how many good seasons, how many good teams, how many good friends to share all of this with. But I do know that when all of this comes along, and when it all comes together like this, you just have to smile, take it in as best you can, and love every single second of it.

Ready or Not

Sunday night, I watched some of the game with this ticket-taker guy from the Sox. Bob is 65 years old, with one of those old men stomachs, and is easily one of the nicest guys I've met. He's such an old-school, just nice guy who does his job, does it well, and is very, very sweet about it. Anyhow, we're watching the game. I've talked to the guy all season, just intermittently. He knows I go to BU, he knows I'm a senior, he knows I love Brian Daubach. Just the basics.

Two innings later, Bob and I are best friends.

As we watched Derek Lowe pitch and the Red Sox bat, I kept saying, "I'm freakin out, Bob!" just over and over and over again. Every few minutes, I'd say it. Same tone, same everything. He found this to be pretty funny. He'd tell me it would be okay, not to worry, the Sox would win. He kept reassuring me, but I mean, he looked just as nervous as I did. And then, he did the nicest thing I've seen someone do in a long time for me: when it came time for Bob to leave, he turned and patted me on the shoulder and said, "Alright, Elana, I'll see you tomorrow." And he said it with total conviction. Total assurance. Even if he didn't believe it - and I really doubt that he did at the moment - he said it to me, just to make me feel better. That was one of the best moments of the whole series for me.

Long after Bob left, the Sox won. I saw Bob the next day and gave him a huge hug. And I'm not even a hugger. That's what the Sox do to you. They totally change you. They really do.

The Sox have made me an entirely irrational person. Take this example: Monday night, Game 5, the Sox have Manny Ramirez up to bat and it's the bottom of the 14th, with Johnny Damon on base. I'm watching with Karen and Demaina from the back of the grandstand, behind homeplate. As Ramirez bats, I see this guy next to me, sitting on the back of his chair, lose his balance. He falls back, hits the ground hard with his shoulder. When he gets up, his shoulder is kind of dangling a little bit. I have my radio on me. And I swear - for a split second, I wondered whether I could watch one more pitch and see the end of the Ramirez at-bat before I called the medical staff. That's what the Sox do to you. You just can't help it.

I said this to a friend today: there are two types of people in my world right now. Those who get it, and those who don't. Either people understand the Sox and what's happening, or they don't. There's no gray area. You either get that the Sox are doing something amazing, breathtaking, and freakin totally-anxiety inducing, or you think it's just a baseball game. Listen, the truth is, I wish I could understand that. I really wish I could tell myself that in the grand scheme of my life, this doesn't matter, that the Sox can win or lose and I'll still be the same the next morning. It doesn't change my life. But there's the catch: I can't do it. I can't make myself believe it. I love them too much. I just love them too damn much. It's not even me being dramatic; it's just honest. I do. And sometimes, sometimes I wish I could be one of those fans that puts on the shirt, goes to the bar, and just cheers and goes home happy whatever the outcome. Trust me when I say that I wish I could breathe during the month of October. Nausea? Not that much fun. And still, I can't imagine it any other way.

Last night, it sealed it. The most memorable game I've seen. Say what you want about the Yankees. Fact is, they were cheaters last night. Joe Torre should be ashamed of himself for arguing that call; Alex Rodriguez is a fraud. A championship-caliber player disrespected himself, his team, and the game by trying to get to first base by punching the ball away, and then did further damage by trying to argue that he wasn't in the wrong. It's amazing that Yankees fans could feel cheated by that call. They should really only feel cheated by that play. I've lost any respect I ever had for Rodriguez.

In contrast, Curt Schilling showed what it is to be a baseball player. Everyone knows it by now, and everyone's said it - how he went out there, injured, his ankle gushing blood from sutures holding his tendon in place, hobbling to first base to record an out, grimmacing in the dugout between innings, trudging back to the mound, getting the job done. One run, seven innings pitched. With his ankle falling apart. In unbelievable pain. Nobody has more heart than Curt Schilling. Don't talk to me about the Yankees and their professionalism. Don't tell me about the lack of decorum in the Red Sox clubhouse. Don't lecture about motivation and determination and clutch Yankee performances. It's all over now.

And now, Game 7. I can only think - and only hope - that Schilling didn't do that for nothing. His baseball heroics won't be wasted. If he could go out there and get the job done, then the Sox have to follow through for him. There's just no other way.

Oh god, I so hope. I so so so so hope. I wonder how many people get to be this lucky, to be so caught up in something totally unrelated to them, so into something that it just consumes them entirely. I can't wait for 8:19. I can't wait for the first pitch, and I also dread the possibility of the 2004 season ending. I can't wait to hope for the best. I want to celebrate so badly. I want them to do it. I want them to take it all.

They were down, 3-0. People said it was hopeless. The faithful lost their faith. Not anymore. It's time. It's time to finish the job. It's time to win this thing.

The Freak Out

That's as much out of me as you'll get.

I have to be coherent today and write a ten-page paper. You think it's gonna happen? Me neither. I'm a mess. I'm just a mess. I'm a walking disaster.

Speaking of walking disasters, look at this:

"They're a walking disaster. They act like they're tough, how they care so much about winning, but it's all a front. They're just a bunch of characters." - BALCO Gary "on six teams for a reason" Sheffield

(I can't take credit for the BALCO/"on six teams for a reason" stab - credit Boston Dirt Dogs)

I hate Gary Sheffield.

And his dealer.

I can say this - I never thought it was over. At the same time, I never allowed myself to think it would happen. You can't do that to yourself; it's like masochism.

It's been two days, two games, and about fifty million heart attacks. I'm on about four hours of sleep in the past 48 hours. I haven't breathed normally for a month. I'm in a constant state of anxiety, panic, and excitement, all rolled into one. I get up in the morning only to make it to the first pitch. I go to bed that night thinking about the next game. Each pitch could end the season. Each pitch could make it all last. Every Yankees at-bat makes me brace for the end; every Red Sox at-bat makes me hope for the best. I feel completely worn out and drained, and yet I've never been better.

This is what it's all about.

Multiculturalism

Yesterday, my day was made by this Spanish musician at the Park Street T-stop. He was playing one of my favorite songs, La Bamba. I really love that song. Richie Valens, who sang it, had a pretty tragic death though. There's a whole movie, called La Bamba - The Richie Valens Story - that my aunt showed me when I was younger. I think that's when the love of La Bamba began; I can't really be sure. Remember when people had cassette tapes? Well, I had a single of La Bamba and the whole Richie Valens album. Anyhow, the movie is pretty good in that really bad way. It's got all the makings of a classic Lifetime Made-for-TV movie.

In case you don't know the story, I'll just ruin it for you because I doubt you could even rent such a classic. It's too bad. Anyhow, Richie has some fight with his brother who doesn't think he'll make it out of their poor Spanish town and become a singer. Well he does make it, and everyone's listening to the radio and thinking, "Wow, Richie made it!" And then like a day later, he dies. Yeah, seriously. He had this real fear of planes, but he gets on this little one with this guy called the Big Bopper and some other guy nobody ever remembers. And they all die, and that's what the song American Pie comes from. So they show the family hearing the news on the radio while they hang up laundry and it's very sad. Then they play La Bamba.

You know what is really pathetic? That little summary could be completely off. I really only remember a few scenes in the movie. Like this one in Richie Valens's kitchen, and the laundry scene with his brother going nuts. I really have no idea if there was any issue between the siblings. Or if the town listened to Richie on the radio. I do know the American Pie thing is true though. Hold on, let me check out IMDB to see if they have a summary.

Ok, some good news: there was some rivalry with the brother. Bad news: I am a politicially incorrect moron, because the whole thing takes place in California and it just so happens that La Bamba is a Spanish song and RiTchie (add that one next to Rodgers, from RoDgers and Hammerstein) Valens has a Spanish background. Apparently the movie also focuses on a relationship with his gf, Donna, who I think dumps him because he's poor and Donna's rich. I believe there's some scene at an arcade, but honestly, I might be mixing that up with the Karate Kid. For some reason, I can never remember if Daniel-Son also had a gf named Donna.

Also, the other guy who died in the plane crash was Buddy Holly, and people do remember him, apparently just not me.

I'm not doing movie reviews ever again unless I do my research. It's too embarrassing to myself.

Okay, so I forget how I got on this whole La Bamba track. Now I'm listening to the song though, and it's pretty sad that Ritchie was only 18 when he died. Man.

So yeah in the T station, this guy was playing La Bamba. I loved it. I was singing it and sort of dancing around, only not too much, because nobody else was. It was like noonish on a Thursday afternoon, and my buddy Joe and I were on our way to North Quincy. So we were dressed nicely and just the two of us were getting into this guy's music. It was great, too, only he kept playing it over and over and over again, for about ten minutes. It got old, I must admit, even though it was La Bamba.

Then he played the Pearl Jam cover, "Last Kiss," only he played it in Spanish. I sung along in English. It's actually a lot harder to sing along to a Spanish song in English than I thought it would be. The timing is really hard and I kept getting sidetracked listening to the Spanish. By the end, I had it okay though.

So anyhow, we go to North Quincy and come back like at least an hour later. So we're getting off the T at Park Street, and I ask Joe if he thinks our buddy will be there. As we step off, we hear him: he's playing La Bamba! That just about made my day, because I thought it was great that there's some musician who only learned La Bamba.

That's also probably why he's playing in the Park Street T Station on a Thursday afternoon, but hey, if you have to pick one song, I thought La Bamba was a pretty good choice. It's pretty upbeat and catchy.

You know this whole La Bamba thing has made me remember back to sophomore year. This guy Diego was on my floor and we had to interview international students for this education project I was doing. So I'd go to him and ask him tons of questions about his home country. You know where he was from? Puerto Rico. That's not even, like, a foreign country. He wasn't considered an international student. I could never get that right. Every time I saw him, I'd be like, "How's the weather in the Dominican Republic?" "Are you going to Cuba for vacation?" "Is Panama nice?" "How's Siberia compare to Boston?" Before I met Diego, I asked his roommate if Diego spoke English. I remember his answer to me, right from the start, a wiseass: "Why, cause his name is Diego?" Umm... yes?

Something else happened to me this week. Monday night I went to Late Nite in Warren to get some forks for my room. I go there about three times a week and get forks and spoons and knives and plates, and now I have a pretty good supply. Anyhow, that's not important to this point. They were all out of forks, so they sent me to the sushi guy to ask him to get some. So I go over to him, and guess what... he's Asian!! And I look around, and no other Asian people work at Late Nite except for this Sushi chef. Now here's the thing: did they put him there just because he's Asian? Am I supposed to think that I'm getting authentic mahi-mahi because there's some Asian dude from New Jersey behind the counter? It kills me! Seriously. The sushi is the same pre-made stuff whether they have Lee Kwon or Mike put it on a plastic plate. Similarly, I've noticed that in the daytime, they have Asian ladies making the Asian soup-stirfry concoction (What, oh what, are they doing there? It's like this weird thing where it's a mix between stirfry and soup. They can't make up their minds, so they just put out whatever looks sort of Chinese-like. For instance, who puts Spinach leaves in their soup? Who would stirfry that though? Troubling.) I don't understand the point of these things, but I was laughing when I saw the Asian guy at the sushi stand. And he asked me what I was laughing at. How am I supposed to answer that? "Oh, sorry, I was laughing because you're working the sushi stand and you're Asian."

You can't explain these things to people.

Welcome to the Freakin Forest

What's it like to be a Red Sox fan? Let me tell you what it's like to be a Red Sox fan. Let me TELL you.

It's like this. You finally think your team has a chance to win it all this year. You finally believe that they can beat the Yankees. You finally think George Steinbrenner will be the one crying after Game 7. You feel it. You get a little confident. Even that confidence scares you, because you know - they're the Yankees, for Chrissake. They don't lose. They're the Yankees.

But you can't help it. You're too excited to stop. You're too into it. We have Schilling. We have Pedro. We have Ortiz and Manny. We have Gold Glove-caliber infielders. I mean, where does this team go wrong? It's too good to be true, right?

Well, as it turns out, RIGHT!

Here's what happens to a Red Sox fan: you die. You really die. There's no other word for it. You just fall apart. I mean, I wish I was exaggerating, but I'm not. Talk to a Sox fan today. They're dead inside. It's like somebody told you that Christmas was cancelled this year because Santa Claus broke his arm or something. Seriously. No Christmas folks. Maybe next year. Wait until next year.

Two days ago, I was excited. I was ON. Remember that airport scene in Jerry Maguire, where Jerry tells Rod that two days ago, he was hot, and then he lost the number one draft pick the night before the draft? And now he's cloked in failure? Remember that? Well, welcome to the Red Sox. Two days ago, they were ready. They were going. Sox in Six. Sox in Six. SOX IN SIX! Now what? They return to Fenway, down two games. Their ace? They lost him, the night before the ALCS.

Let's talk about Curt Schilling. Let's TALK about Curt Schilling. I'm saying everything twice because at first I say it at normal volume and then I basically scream it. That's how it is, when I'm talking about the Sox today. That's how it IS, okay?!

So Curt Schilling has the worst bullpen session of his career, and what does Franfreakincona do? Does he say, "Pedro, you're going today, Arroyo tomorrow, we'll rest Schilling and see what happens"? No. Nah. Why do that? I mean, why potentially save your staff ace? Why save him? Why not just throw him out there, and hey, knowing he's battling the issue, why not just leave the guy floundering out there for three innings and six runs? I mean, really, Ter, why actually manage a team? Why do it?

Can you sense the anger? Seriously, CAN you?!

How about the fact that there was ONE good at-bat last night? Johnny Damon's 15-pitch at-bat was the only highlight of the game. Really. I mean, he was the only one who actually made Leiber pitch. While Martinez had thrown, oh I don't know, a good 1000 pitches, Leiber's throwing maybe 17. 15 of those went to Damon.

How about Bellhorn? How about BELLHORN?! APPLY THE TAG. Pokey Reese, sit on the bench. Sit on the bench, Poke. We don't need your Gold Glove. We need the Strikeout King. Todd Walker wasn't good enough, Theo? TODD WALKER WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH?!

Someone could legitimately send me to anger management class right this second, and I would have no good case against it.

The Sox. The goddamn Red Sox. They kill me. They really do. I want so much to believe that they'll battle back in Games 3, 4, and 5 at Fenway, but do you realize that the Yankees only have to win a game at Fenway in order to be in ridiculous shape? A single game. The Sox? They ahve to sweep. Riiiiight. RIIIIIGHT.

Oh, and what's that? Schilling's not available for Game 5? REALLY! There's a shocker. Only the Red Sox. Only the Red Sox would have their ace blow out his tendon during the playoffs, during the most important time of the season. Does anybody get the gravity of this situation: the Red Sox went out and got Curt Schilling SO THAT HE COULD PITCH IN THE POSTSEASON. Wait, let me say that again: THE RED SOX GOT CURT SCHILLING SO THAT HE COULD PITCH IN THE POSTSEASON.

We're so dead.

I'm hoping that I'm wrong. I'm hoping that I'm so dead wrong that I'm embarrassed, but I don't know. All I do know is that suddenly, that stupid hill metaphor is kicking me in the ass and there are trees everywhere I freaking look.

Sore Spot

Right now, the most important thing in my life is Curt Schilling's right ankle.

Okay, so that might be a little bit of an exaggeration, but it's definitely the thing that I've been pretty preoccupied about. It's like this: when I was younger, if I got a failing grade in school or I thought I was getting strep throat, I'd go along with my day as best possible. And sometimes, right when I was forgetting about my bad grade or my sore throat, it would hit me and I'd remember it all over again and feel really nauseous. That's what my day has been like with Curt Schilling's ankle.

I feel like it's inevitable, that the ankle is going to make Schilling unavailable. Just like I hoped that my parents wouldn't care that I failed a test. Or that my strep throat was going to just go away on its own before the afternoon ended. Nope. Not gonna happen. And so, like every crazed Sox fan, I feel like Schilling has the Ankle of Doom. That's not even exaggerating anything.

Why did I feel so confident two days ago? Because of Curt Schilling. I thought, who can beat a one-two of Curt Schilling and Pedro Martinez? Nobody! I even thought, "Wow, I can't believe we expected to have the Sox win last year when Pedro was their only solid ace on staff. This is why this year is different, because we have two with Schilling."

Yeah. Those thoughts. Went through. My head.

Now I'm just stuck.

I really hope the ankle comes back, that those stupid shots work, that it's a mild thing that needs a day or two. That's the optimist in me. The realist knows that this has been a nagging injury all season, and that with this timing, it's just catastrophic. CATASTROPHIC.

Then again, Schilling's a gamer. Life will be okay if he can pull himself together. And I also think, what the hell, the Sox can win it without Schilling.

... Right?

So that's the serious part of all of this. Last night sucked. I'm not even going to go into the specifics of the game. Let me just say this: I am never going back to the Cask n Flagon to watch a game. Ever.

During the ALDS, the place was great. Not that packed, not that crazy, just a bunch of true Sox fans watching the game. Not anymore. Once it becomes cool to watch baseball, all these phony losers come out of the woodwork. Here are some prime examples:

- Two girls, wearing pink Red Sox hats, drinking WINE at the Cask n Flagon. When I saw the glass, I almost questioned whether they had to bring a bottle themselves to the establishment. One girl fell on the floor, dramatically, when Bernie Williams got some insurance for the Yankees. She waited until some guy took pity on her and picked her up, telling her, "Don't worry, there are six more games." She said this, I swear: "Pedro always kills us!"

Riiiight.

- Apparently, one group of Red Sox girls was unaware that it is the YANKEES fans who chant each player's name until they respond back. Whoops.

- Ironically, the Yankees Suck even when their starting pitcher goes six full innings without having a baserunner and when their lineup scores eight unanswered runs. Yes, the Yankees Suck.

This is what gives Sox fans a bad name.

- Some stupid, stupid, STUPID person comes in and goes, "Well, I mean, I like the Sox, but I'd be okay with a Yankee sweep."

No. No no no no no. It is impossible - IMPOSSIBLE - to "like" the Red Sox while simultaenously saying that you are "okay" with the fact that they might be swept by the Yankees, thus ending their season.

Also, I wasn't happy with the Cask n Flagon because it was always $5.00 pitchers of Miller Lite. So we order a pitcher, drink it, and then when we're moving to a new room, we get the check. $12.00!!! So we call over our waitress who tells us, "Oh yeah, we're not doing that promotion this week. Your waitress should have told you that." Me: "Well, she didn't." Her: "Oh." OH! Oh.

Let me tell you what the answer "oh" gets you: barely 15% tip. Go talk to the waitress who didn't tell us that the pitchers were $12.00. There's your $7.00 tip.

Had the Sox won, this all would have been a happy entry. And it kills me, because did I really expect them to go through the postseason undefeated? I mean, did I expect the Yankees to roll over? No. And th good news is, the Sox didn't just fold. They were down, 8-0. They could have ended it, shut-out. They could have just done the three runs. But they battled for seven runs. It showed something about the Sox. Even when Schilling struggled - giving up six runs - the Sox answered back with seven.

Ughhh. Just when I thought I was set, the ankle pops up again. That's exactly how it was with the grade and strep. I'd finally convince myself life was okay and then BAM! You suck. God. This is tough. I really don't even know. I just have to hope for the best. (Will you LISTEN to the ANGST in that? I mean, this is basebalL! And yet, it's like, the most important thing ever right now.)

Which brings me to my final point: I have to do my work and stop obsessing. I can't get to bars two hours in advance of games, to sit there and wait and wait until gametime, to sit through a game, lose my voice, become completely drained and return home after midnight to begin my work. Not going to happen. In the end, whether the Sox win or lose, I have papers due and reading assignments. So I have to be mature, starting tonight. I just have no choice anymore.

I have to start bringing my homework to the bar.

The Quest for the ALCS... begins Noooowwww

In less than six hours, Johnny Damon will lead off the Red Sox lineup and begin the 2004 ALCS in Yankee Stadium.

Honestly, part of me wonders whether I'll be around to see the game. I feel like I could spontaneously combust at any moment.

They said that this year's ALDS was a disappointment in the baseball drama department. I wonder whether these people think having ten near-heart attacks within the span of five days, all under the age of 25, is an enjoyable enough experience that you'd want to repeat it.

I mean, I had a great time watching the Sox cowboy back and take the series against the A's last October, but I swear my heartbeat stopped at lesat ten times throughout the weekend. People around me weren't sure whether to call 911 or hug me. I wish I were kidding. At least half a dozen people told me that I was going to kill myself. Sadly, I really had no argument against that. There was a legitimate chance that the Red Sox would cause me to go into cardiac arrest in October. No lie.

So this year, when I could watch the Cask and only experience a quickened heart beat, I didn't think that was so bad. Game 1 blowout? I'll take it. Game 2, Pedro stays with it, complete with a 95 mph fastball to end the seventh? Saweeet. David Ortiz eating Jarrod Washburn for dinner Friday night? Call it a day. I'll take it all.

The truth is, I needed to save up some energy for this ALCS. Already before the game has begun, before the Sox have taken the field, before that stupid Jeannie Zelasko (I definitely butchered her name) is in make-up, I'm freaking out. My heartbeat? Irregular. My knee? Banged up already from being unable to stop shaking. My hands? I can't even type this without a zillion typos because they're shaking so badly. I am a walking disaster.

I've got my Sox gear on. We've planned our strategy to get our lucky table at Cask. We've got our money to get the $5 pitchers and chips. We're set. The Sox, they're set. Everything's in place. It's time to just get the job done.

I just hope I make it.

No Maples in Sight

Last night, in the span of twenty minutes, I switched seats twice, drank a beer in desperation, almost choked to death, felt like puking, banged my knee up, and had to restrain myself against doing a cartwheel in the middle of a crowded bar. In twenty minutes, all of that happened to me.

That's what it's like watching the Red Sox during the playoffs. It's the definition of an emotional rollercoaster.

Let me begin before the game. This playoff story starts back at BU, in the Law Auditorium, where I first wanted to kill myself.

That's not even a funny joke because we were talking about depression and suicide prevention, but the truth was, I was threatening the life of anybody who prolonged the session by asking any question, no matter how valid or important. Someone could have said, "Hi, I'm asking for help because I'm depressed," and sadly, at that moment, I would have shot them for them. That is how sick it was.

I'm not even proud of that. Not even proud of that joke, which originally read that I would have handed them a rope. It's not even funny. And yet, I can't help it, I really felt like if it came to it, I could punch someone square in the face just to leave the room.

Let me say one thing: thank god for california time. Seriously. If the game had been at seven p.m., I would probably be a mound of dust somewhere. I would have exploded. I would not have been able to sit through several lectures while Pedro Martinez went against Bartolo Colon for a chance to clinch the ALDS on Friday. Could not. Would not. I might have cried. I really might have.

Anyhow, the meeting finally ends, I sprint out of there - and I mean SPRINT - with Cataldo and Katie Long in tow. We actually decide to cab it to Cask n Flagon. From the GSU. To Cask. That's like, a ten minute walk. And yet, at 9:50, after we heard that our lucky table had been taken, we realized, we had no choice. Desperate measures were taken. I think we even scared the cab driver, because I shouted at him "CASK N FLAGON!" as I jumped in the car and kind of invaded his personal space in front of the plastic divider thingy just to make sure he understood that my "Cask n Flagon" request was equivalent to someone asking for the hospital. I seriously would have taken a pregnant woman's cab at that point.

Maybe not.

But the fact that I'm not entirely sure on the situation shows you the level of desperation. In fact, in that previous paragraph, I almost joked that I had pushed through the plastic divider thingy and put my index finger up to his neck to add pressure to the situation, but I backed off because I thought it was too insane. But really, anything I could do - including getting out of the cab and pushing it myself - I would do, just to get us to that bar faster.

We finally get to the bar, get inside, see our table's taken, have a legit mini-breakdown, settle on a shitty table, order our same old chips and weird salsa routine (never touch the salsa though) and Miller Lite pitcher ($5, that's why). Game time, going well, 1-0, then 1-1, then a rally with bases loaded and Ortiz up. Saweet.

Then it happens.

Inexplicably, the group in front of us, they get up and leave their prime table. All five of us look at each other simulatenously. "Take it," one of us says. I don't remember who said it. I might have. I didn't question it though. It had a clear view of the big screen. So in the middle of this major rally, this major play, we all gather our drinks and chips and bags and hats and jerseys (and you think I'm exaggerating, but no, we literally had changes of Sox clothes with us). And we move.

And I can't even come up with a good reason why I did this, and I feel like apologizing to the guys I did it to, but I asked some guys now in back of us, "Hey is it okay if we sit here? Can you see still?" The guys are like looking at me as though I'm from outerspace, just making hand motions like "yeah it's fine whatever I don't care please stop talking shut up watch game now big thing oh man yes fine great." So I shrug and turn around and as I turn around, I hear the entire bar groan. Like the entire bar. And then I see what has happened: Bellhorn got picked off second. Rally over.

I had been talking to some guys while David Ortiz was up, in a 1-1 game, bases loaded situation. I can't believe I did that. I really felt like apologizing, but I didn't have time, because the rest of the table began freaking out that we had jinxed the entire game because we had moved. Then I got caught up in that and we went back and forth on whether we should abandon our new place, even though we could actually see the entire game from here. Finally, we settled on staying because we still had our rally trucker hats which could be used in case of emergency and those would bring us good karma should we need it.

This is an actual conversation that went on. For at least ten minutes. Taken completely seriously by everyone at the table. We could have been debating the Middle East peace accords and we'd have the same gravity in the conversation.

It was in those twenty minutes that I freaked out; when I almost had to puke, die, cry, and cartwheel at once. It's an insane jumble of emotions that only a true lunatic can experience. What can I say.

And then, something miraculous happened. Jason Varitek hit a homerun to tie it up at 3-3. Just like that, the entire game shifted in my mind. Varitek's homer had come with two outs. He'd already struck out. Cesar Crespo was having better at bats than Varitek, and really, that pains me to write. But it's true. And then he did it. Crushed the ball and, I believe, the Angels' hopes of winning the game. With one pitch, he'd sent the message - just like he had on July 24th: don't mess with these Red Sox.

The rest of the team followed Varitek. Sacrifice fly gets 4-3 score. Pedro goes out there and gets a 95 mph pitch to get the final out in the seventh inning. Miraculously, Francona doesn't send Pedro back out for the eighth, and, as though some real California angels were watching out for the Sox, the bullpen got the Angels out - one, two, three - in the eighth. Cabrera cleared the bases in the ninth, and suddenly, the close game was done. Sox won it, 8-3, with Foulke ending the whole thing the best way possible, with a strikeout.

It was that ending - it was after the Varitek homer, with everything that followed - that I really started to stop knocking on wood every two seconds. This team, THIS TEAM, has something. I really think so. I might want to shoot myself for writing it, but whatever. I'm saying it: this team can win it all.

Back in 1999, when the UConn men won the national championship, I remember having this insane confidence. I really thought, "No. Nobody can beat them. Rip Hamilton won't let them be beaten. Kevin Freeman won't let them get that basket." And sure enough, nobody could beat them.

I'm gonna say it: last night, I got the exact same feeling with the Sox as I had in 1999 with the Huskies. The Sox aren't going to let anybody beat them. I feel like if Schilling is out there, he will lay down and die and make the other team step over his body before he lets them beat him. Pedro showed last night that he'd do the same, only maybe he'd crust himself in gold first or something insanely divaish first. But his seventh inning showed it: when he's out there, his team will win. And the offense showed their resolve. I believe that Pokey Reese will pull down the Good Year blimp if that's what it takes to get a ball. Millar will do a backbend kickover to stop one from heading to the outfield. And we even have a better first baseman than Millar in Mientkiewicz. Opponents have a better shot at spelling the guy's name correctly than they do getting a ball past him. Cabrera is a human hoover. This team has it.

I might sound too optimstic. Part of me, I admit, wants to go back and erase it all and write "Well maybe I mean they might be okay I don't know I mean I really can't say anything for sure might die okay kind of I sort of believe that they're good I mean they might lose" but you know what, forget it. I'm not going to buy into any of it. I want the Sox to have the confidence to believe they can win it all, so I have to have the same.

I'm still going to wear my Sox gear every day though. I'll still wear my Nixon shirt for clincher luck. I'll still fight an invalid for a cab to make it to the Cask in time to watch the game with our same pitcher of Miller lite. Don't worry. I haven't become totally sane. But I have had a change of heart. I'm not going to prepare myself for the worst. You can't. When you're sledding down that hill, full speed ahead, you can't be worried about the tree that's fifty feet off to the right. You're on course for a great ride. You gotta believe you're gonna make it all the way through the ride in order to enjoy it completely.

You just gotta believe.

I'm so glad I do.

Playoffffffffs

In the very early hours of October 17, 2003, after I had turned my back on the Aaron Boone homer, after I had gone home angry and bitter and depressed, after I had finally reconciled it that I would have to still remain a Red Sox fan - after all of that - I came to a very sad realization: it would be another tweleve months until another October came around.

I remember thinking that exact sentence and being really sad about it, being annoyed that I would have to wait through another off-season and another six months of the regular season before we would get back to the fever atmosphere that was created last October. It's the same feeling I had as a kid when I'd go sledding down a huge hill: you'd climb up the hill, all the way up that monster - dragging your sled, your hats and mittens, maybe if you're nice, your little sister - all to get to the top, slide down, and then, if you want to enjoy that ride again, you have to go all the way back up. And that's how it was last year, only discount the entire part about having fun sledding down the hill. The 2003 Playoff season was like climbing up to the top of the hill, starting to sled down, just getting to enjoying the ride, when you reach that flow state of "holy cow this is so much fun," and then boom! veering into a huge maple. Yeah, like that.

I wasn't really around in 1986 when they were a strike away from winning the Series. I mean, I'd watched the 1999 series when the Yankees once again beat the Red Sox, and I've been around for the whole Yankees-Red Sox rivalry and I get the idea that the Sox need to win it. All that said, it wasn't until last year, until I saw Pedro Martinez trot back out to the pitchers mound in the 8th inning, while a fully capable and rested bullpen with a postseason ERA of 0.00 (ZERO POINT ZERO ZERO) watched, that I really experienced a Red Sox heartbreak.

I knew the game was done when it was tied. You can ask my friend Amanda. As soon as Posada hit that bloop single, I knew it. The Sox were done. The momentum had shifted. They had been five outs away from the World Series. Now they were twelve months from another postseason.

People wrote a lot of things about the Red Sox. They wrote how there was no curse, there was only bad management. Yankees fans said that it had happened - the Sox had finally beaten the Yankees... sort of. They wrote about disappointment and how this was yet another example of the Sox motto "Nobody loses like the Red Sox." But my favorite line came from Dan Shaughnessy: "The 2003 Red Sox were an admirable bunch. Keep them in your heart for a while."

And maybe that line made me the most depressed out of anything. Say what you will about the Yankees and their 26 championships and their dictator boss. Say what you will about 1918 and no decorum for the Sox clubhouse. When it comes down to it, the Yankees to me seem like a business baseball team. The Sox though - the Red Sox feel like a family. And that's why I wanted them to win so badly, and that's why when they finally lost, I had to wonder whether they had just lost a game or whether they would ever be able to regain the spirit and camraderie and excitement that the Sox had generated. For two weeks last October, Boston took its role as the official Red Sox Nation headquarters to heart. Sox shirts were everywhere. "Go Sox" became the Boston greeting and goodbye. They lit up the Prudential Center. You couldn't go a block without seeing some sort of Sox devotion. I swear, I was in heaven.

This year, it didn't seem the same. Maybe it was because of the potential free agent situation. Maybe it was just the bitter taste of the A-Rod trade gone sour. Maybe it was no confidence in Terry Francona. I don't know. Nobody really knows, but they've been throwing theories out there about Varitek's mask-to-the-face punch and Nomar's better-late-than-never send off as the turning points in the Sox season. Whatever it is, I'll take it. I'll take the 21 August wins. I'll take Cabrera and his million and one handshake routines. I'll take Doug Mientkiewicz and his impossible last name. I'll take the wildcard finish. Screw it, I'll even take the Millar KFC commercial. I'll take it all.

Yesterday officially ended my one year wait. I'm nervous and excited and just loving every day being able to wear a Sox shirt without getting the "ANOTHER Sox shirt?" look from my friends who accuse me of having just too much Sox devotion in the wardrobe department. I love planning my days around gametimes. I like that tonight I have a meeting and a legitimate question is, "What time are we getting out because I have to be back to watch the game?" Even the non-basball fans are understanding that no, I can't do that paper because the Sox ae on TV. It's like this amazing two-week window where you can basically say the word "Sox" and suddenly, you're excused from everything.

It's also though, like getting to the end of a great book. You're about a hundred pages off, but you've loved the book so much, and you want to finish it and be rewarded by knowing what happens in the end, but you also know that when you finish the book, it's gonna take time to find another book just as good. It might be impossible to find one you like as much. And the thrill of reading a book so good that you just can't put it down, well, that's hard to find.
You can apply this to the movies too. You're watching a great movie, and an hour and ten minutes into it, you realize you're nearing the end. And part of you - just this small part - wants to just put everything into slow motion so you can make sure you tell yourself, "Enjoy this. This is great. This, THIS, is what you LIVE for." And you want to really be able to experience that feeling of pure enjoyment.

But, whether in fifteen minutes or fifteen days, you're gonna finish the book. In twenty minutes, the movie is going to end. You can't stop it. Just like that, the postseason ends. Although I'm hoping that the ending isn't the book being stolen from me before I get the satisfaction of reading the ending, and I hope the movie projector doesn't just die right as the happy ending is about to take place, but it might. And the thing is, in those cases, I guess you just have to accept that until the book was stolen and the projector crashed, life was good. It was a good book. It was a good movie.

These analogies sometimes scare me because I get way too into them, but it's really the only tangible way to describe it. That's how I am with the Red Sox: completely incoherent and whacked. There's just no sensible way of describing the hype and anticiption of the postseason for me. I can't sleep the night before. I go to the souvenir store bleary-eyed, in search of a good luck charm. I'm insane.

This brings me to my next issue. I'm no longer confident that I can wear the Daubach shirt during the postseason. As much as I have loved and been devoted to the Dauber, he's not part of the team. It makes me feel a little stupid to be walking around with a Daubach shirt. I almost wore it today but then switched to Damon. My Derek Lowe shirt, bought after his miraculous ALDS Game 5 appearance, seems... not great, to say the least. And my Trot Nixon shirt is my clutch shirt. I only wear it when we REALLY need it. Like, possible clinch or elimination games only. ONLY. So, I'm back to my old 2003 routine. I'm freaking out. My knuckles hurt from knocking on wood every two seconds. I've saved up my lucky socks. I've read every headline I can about the Sox. I've stopped saying "Yankees Suck," for fear of bad karma. I've set my homepage to mlb.com to monitor the rest of the playoffs. I am sick. I carry around "The Catcher in the Rye" because that's the book I was reading last year while the Sox had their success. I refuse to wear any clothes that I've had bad luck while wearing. I eat the same food if they won the day before. It took me a good ten minutes to decide which beer to have at Cask N Flagon because I knew that if they won, I'd have to drink that each and every game following. I'm addicted. I love it.

I'll say it once more: I live for this. It's the most wonderful time of the year. And I just can't help it - I really wish it would last forever.