Hey,
This is a column I wrote for sportblognow.blogspot.com I though you guys might enjoy it...
Around the same time that Dave Henderson was hitting the biggest home run in Redsox history since 1975, my mom was going into labor with me. I was nearly a month late, probably refusing to enter this world until it looked like the Redsox were going to win the ALCS. Well, at least that's what I'd like to think, my mom would just tell you I was stubborn.
I obviously don't remember that game, but it was the beginning of a life-long relationship with the loveable losers, the team that always fell short, the team that pulled off one incredible miracle... the Boston Redsox.
My earliest memory of the Redsox was in 1993, when I was 7. My older cousin was diagnosed with Leukimia, and the Jimmy Fund saved his life. I remember going into his room and seeing the Redsox autographs, hearing him talk about meeting the players, and hearing my uncle brag about speaking Spanish with Tony Pena. I remember that my cousin always wore a Redsox hat to cover up his bald head. I remember that the Redsox helped save his life.
I also remember my Grandmothers. My parents were never big baseball fans, but my Grandmothers were. When my Maternal Grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer's and couldn't remember that she put the TV remote in the fridge, she still remembered "that handsome left fielder at Fenway Park." She was, of course, talking about Ted Williams, who she used to go see with my Grandpa when they lived in Boston.
My Paternal Grandma is one of the biggest and most stereotypical Redsox fans you'll ever meet. She has been following the Sox since elementary school, which I'm pretty sure was in the 17th century. She has listened to or seen almost every Redsox game since the 1940's. Grandma always had a group of players she liked, and hated everyone else. If you were a middle reliever for the Sox between 1945 and 2006, there's a good chance my Grandma would like to beat you over the head with a wooden bat. She also hates every Sox manager. "Jimy Williams mother is illiterate; everyone knows that 'Jimy' has 2 M's." "All Francona (she pronounces it Franconia) does is nod his head up and down and spit tobacco."
Here's the thing: Grandma was given 6 months to a year in 2001. When the Sox didn't win the World Series that year, it was one of the saddest days of my life. Fortunately, she beat the odds and saw them win it all in 2004. I was talking to her when it happened. Furthermore, she's excited about Dice-K, but insists that Franconia won't know when to pull him.
I remember Jose Canseco. Jose was my favorite player in the world until a guy named Nomar came along. I must have had 50 Jose Canseco baseball cards. He was jacked (now we know why...), and could hit the ball 600 feet, seemingly. When the Sox traded him in 1996, I cried. I vowed never to be a Sox fan again, and may have followed through with that if two things didn't happen:
1. I had written a letter to Jimy Williams and Dan Duqette asking them to offer Mo Vaughn for Jeff Bagwell. Needless to say, it didn't happen, but Jimy Williams sent me a letter back along with an autographed picture. I thought it was so cool that the Redsox manager actually read my letter. It made me feel like I was part of the team or something.
2. Two words: Nomar Garciaparra. Nomar swept over New England like a February noreaster. He was Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Johnny Pesky all rolled into one. The most important thing he did was give people hope. As long as we had Nomar, we had a chance, and a chance is all you need in baseball.
I remember Pedro. Pedro did the same thing as Nomar, but better. He gave us more than a chance, he gave us a chance to see something amazing every time he pitched. 20 strikeouts? Sure. No-hitter? I'd believe it. Getting duct-taped to a pole in the dugout? Absolutely. I won't be shy about it: I think Pedro was the best pitcher of all time over a 5 year span. Considering the era of small parks, juiced balls, steroids, and HGH he was pitching in, there is no comparison for what he did. The 1999 All-Star game at Fenway is a perfect example. He struck out 5 of 6 batters, including McGwire and Sosa, in 2 innings of work.
Sadly, I don't think Pedro was ever fully appreciated until he was gone. Sometimes, you have to take in the moment, or else it passes you by and you're expecting a Japanese guy named Matsuzaka to bring you back to it.
I remember pessimism. I remember thinking that they'd always find a way to lose. The Sox will never win, the Yankees will always come out on top. "Who are these new owners?" "Are they going to tear down Fenway?" "A 28 year-old GM? Huh?"
I remember improvement. New bathrooms, new seats, new Monster seats, new concession areas, new grass, new scoreboards; new everything, same park.
New players... smart players... funny players... likeable players. Kevin Millar, Billy Mueller, Mark Bellhorn, Keith Foulke, David Ortiz, Johnny Damon. Guys who blended in perfectly with the Trot Nixon's, Manny Ramirez's, and Nomar Garciaparra's of the world. Guys who would literally fight and bleed for this team. Guys who knew we were sick of losing. No more "25 guys, 25 cabs" in Boston. This was a team in every sense of the word.
Then I remember heart-break. We were so close to ending the seemingly endless disappointment of a nation constantly falling into an abyss of let-downs. One pitch away... but that's how it always was.
Until 2004.
I don't need to go into that, though. If you've read this far, you probably know how that felt.
Euphoria.
And now? That level of euphoria will never be captured again. There is no encore that can top that, no drama more exciting, and no comparable feeling of exuberance, but with every new season since 2004 there has been the hope that a fraction of that euphoria can be re-captured, re-lived, and in some small way replicated.
Is 2007 that season? Only time will tell, but I couldn't be more anxious to find out, and that's why I love the Redsox.
Thanks for reading.
-Scott
sportblognow.blogspot.com
