And So It Goes
Yesterday, the Red Sox season ended in fifteen minutes when what seemed to a sure win suddenly turned into the end of summer. And even though nobody - myself included - really expected this team to make a true run at the World Series, it seemed like we weren't quite ready to shut it down for winter, either.
A lot of people have been asking me what I think about the Sox loss. I tell them about the mood at Fenway - how everyone was excited that they were going to win the game, but nobody really thought this meant they were going all the way - a key difference from the wins in 2004 and even the ALCS win in 2007 - and then sudden mood shift as the eighth inning happened and then the pure anger at Papelbon when he was booed out of the game in the ninth after giving up the winning run. The range of emotions that the fans went through - relief to tension to anger to just dejectedness - seems to be what people are after, but it's not really what I think about the Sox loss.
I think about what happened to me yesterday. See, I had this plan about yesterday. I was sort of worried that it would be the last game of the season, and so I had a mental list of things I wanted to do and people I wanted to make sure I saw. I wanted to make sure I walked up on the Green Monster and right field roof. I wanted to take tickets. I had to see a few of my favorite guys around the park. I also wanted to hear them sing Sweet Caroline, since that used to be my favorite part of the game, pre-Neil Diamond concert when he played it literally four times in a row and made me want to forget that the song ever existed. I thought about wanting to hear the anthem, but that didn't top the list. I wanted to watch some of the game. Basically, I wanted to do what I often forget: I wanted to enjoy being there.
The thing about working a job is that it becomes monotonous, no matter what it is or where it is. You get all wrapped up in the day to day responsibilities and bullshit, and it's easy to forget to remember the big picture. That happened to me. When I was younger, if you had told me where I would work and what I would do and what I would get to see, I would have thought I would be the luckiest person alive. And yet, I don't remember feeling that much at all this season.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't enjoy a lot of my job, it's just that the focus changes. When people first asked me about it a few months into my first season, I told them that I really liked my job and it had nothing to do with where I worked. "If I did the same thing for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, I would still love it," I said. And that was the secret to it: if you like what you're doing and who you're doing it with, then the background doesn't matter so much. The opposite is true, of course too. IF you don't like what you're doing and who you're doing it with, the background fades as well. And, as with most jobs, the more you're there and the more you invest, what you do and who you're with becomes so important in your life that sometimes, you forget about the background altogether.
So that had happened to me. This season more than any other, I hadn't seen much of any games. I hadn't seen many ceremonies or special moments. I don't even know that I watched a complete game while the team was away. And as with all things, I realized that I had missed the season - not just like "whoops, I missed that," but more in the sadness of missing something sense - when it was almost over.
This Sunday, since I knew it could be the last game, I wanted to try to get back some of what I was missing. I began my day trying to do as much of my list as possible. I took some tickets, but not nearly as many as I would have liked, and I watched an inning and talked to some of the guys. And then the team went ahead, 5-1.
I didn't make it to the Green Monster, or the Right Field Roof. I didn't think it mattered though. When they pulled ahead and took that lead into the seventh, I started to think about making plans for tomorrow. Tomorrow, I thought, I'll make it to the Monster. Tomorrow, I'll come early and watch batting practice. Tomorrow I'll take some of the pictures I had been planning to. Tomorrow I'll take it in more.
Well, as we all know, there was no tomorrow for baseball. As I watched Papelbon implode in the ninth inning, I realized that there wasn't going to be a tomorrow for me, either. I thought about how it was just like many things in life: it doesn't matter if you're ready or not. It just happens.
Today I woke up and thought I should be, and wished I could be, going to work tonight for just one more time. And when I drove my brother home tonight, as we passed over the bridge, I couldn't help but take one more look at the park. Fenway's lights were dark.
A lot of people have been asking me what I think about the Sox loss. I tell them about the mood at Fenway - how everyone was excited that they were going to win the game, but nobody really thought this meant they were going all the way - a key difference from the wins in 2004 and even the ALCS win in 2007 - and then sudden mood shift as the eighth inning happened and then the pure anger at Papelbon when he was booed out of the game in the ninth after giving up the winning run. The range of emotions that the fans went through - relief to tension to anger to just dejectedness - seems to be what people are after, but it's not really what I think about the Sox loss.
I think about what happened to me yesterday. See, I had this plan about yesterday. I was sort of worried that it would be the last game of the season, and so I had a mental list of things I wanted to do and people I wanted to make sure I saw. I wanted to make sure I walked up on the Green Monster and right field roof. I wanted to take tickets. I had to see a few of my favorite guys around the park. I also wanted to hear them sing Sweet Caroline, since that used to be my favorite part of the game, pre-Neil Diamond concert when he played it literally four times in a row and made me want to forget that the song ever existed. I thought about wanting to hear the anthem, but that didn't top the list. I wanted to watch some of the game. Basically, I wanted to do what I often forget: I wanted to enjoy being there.
The thing about working a job is that it becomes monotonous, no matter what it is or where it is. You get all wrapped up in the day to day responsibilities and bullshit, and it's easy to forget to remember the big picture. That happened to me. When I was younger, if you had told me where I would work and what I would do and what I would get to see, I would have thought I would be the luckiest person alive. And yet, I don't remember feeling that much at all this season.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't enjoy a lot of my job, it's just that the focus changes. When people first asked me about it a few months into my first season, I told them that I really liked my job and it had nothing to do with where I worked. "If I did the same thing for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, I would still love it," I said. And that was the secret to it: if you like what you're doing and who you're doing it with, then the background doesn't matter so much. The opposite is true, of course too. IF you don't like what you're doing and who you're doing it with, the background fades as well. And, as with most jobs, the more you're there and the more you invest, what you do and who you're with becomes so important in your life that sometimes, you forget about the background altogether.
So that had happened to me. This season more than any other, I hadn't seen much of any games. I hadn't seen many ceremonies or special moments. I don't even know that I watched a complete game while the team was away. And as with all things, I realized that I had missed the season - not just like "whoops, I missed that," but more in the sadness of missing something sense - when it was almost over.
This Sunday, since I knew it could be the last game, I wanted to try to get back some of what I was missing. I began my day trying to do as much of my list as possible. I took some tickets, but not nearly as many as I would have liked, and I watched an inning and talked to some of the guys. And then the team went ahead, 5-1.
I didn't make it to the Green Monster, or the Right Field Roof. I didn't think it mattered though. When they pulled ahead and took that lead into the seventh, I started to think about making plans for tomorrow. Tomorrow, I thought, I'll make it to the Monster. Tomorrow, I'll come early and watch batting practice. Tomorrow I'll take some of the pictures I had been planning to. Tomorrow I'll take it in more.
Well, as we all know, there was no tomorrow for baseball. As I watched Papelbon implode in the ninth inning, I realized that there wasn't going to be a tomorrow for me, either. I thought about how it was just like many things in life: it doesn't matter if you're ready or not. It just happens.
Today I woke up and thought I should be, and wished I could be, going to work tonight for just one more time. And when I drove my brother home tonight, as we passed over the bridge, I couldn't help but take one more look at the park. Fenway's lights were dark.
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