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.
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.
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