measi's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pennant thoughts For the past couple of days, I�ve been trying to mentally compose an essay on baseball. The words �poetry in motion� have fueled me, but I�ve found myself at a bit of a loss for words. I don�t doubt that it�s because I�ve been fearful to actually put it in my journal until the end of last night�s game. And if you have been living under a rock since about 12:08 eastern time this morning� The Red Sox are going to the World Series. The ice is spreading across hell as we speak (and if you don�t get the reference, I�ll explain it by Halloween). Red Sox fans are now jumping for joy all over New England, and all over the nation where the smaller groups huddle quietly devoted, wearing Beantown caps that stand out amongst the other hometown team colors. The blame game has begun in New York, fingers pointing everywhere. Red Sox Nation can only gleefully watch this reverse event, letting New York get a brief glimpse of what has happened year in, year out only a couple hundred miles to the north. That sickening victory on Saturday night? The doomed Game 3 where the Yankees shellacked the Red Sox 19-8? That was the end of the curse. Little did we realize that the one had fallen on its side, signifying that 1918 was beginning to crumble. And this ad sums it up beautifully. They showed it at the very first commercial break after the game. It brought me to tears. It�s so true. Major league baseball tradition is something that has to be experienced. The old-time teams have such incredibly religious followings, whether they still are in existence or not. Talk to a devoted Cubs fan. Talk to a White Sox fan. Hell, talk to a Brooklyn Dodgers fan. Baseball creates a fabric that reflects life. It�s part of America�s tapestry. Despite the fact that it�s been replaced by football in modern times as �America�s sport�, it holds a precious jewel of a spot in Americana that it will never leave. I grew up as the daughter of a Phillies fan. My dad, born and raised in the outskirts of Philadelphia, was devoted to his Phillies in the summer and his Eagles in the autumn. He was convinced that somehow an act of God would carry his booming voice that shouted at the TV over 2,000 miles from Billings to Philly to get the team off their lazy asses and back into the game. I watched the Phillies games to see what antics the Philly Phanatic would be up to THIS time. And because my dad rooted for them, so did I. I heard the stories growing up of my dad living two blocks from Connie Mack in college, listening to the games as he studied for med school. He would come back from games at the Vet, bringing me the foam fingers and new baseball caps, and I would sit listening in awe. My mom told me her story of her only in-person baseball game�a trip at age 10 to Yankee Stadium, where she remembered Mickey Mantle hitting a home run that day. She took my brother and I to our only two childhood major league games�Giants vs. Phillies (both times) at Candlestick Park. We attended bug-infested Billings Mustangs games in August, brushing the dry dust from our faces that flew up into the bleachers. Dad would whisper about this player or that player, drafted by the Cincinnati Reds and put down into our farm team. My brother and I collected baseball cards, riding our bikes weekly to the convenience mart on the county highway to get that week�s pack. Somewhere, among all of my junk at home, is a complete set of 1986, 1987, and 1988 Donruss cards. I dropped all of my allowance on those things. I watched Field of Dreams and the Natural. I relished the poetic glory that was Old Tyme Baseball. But I was removed from it in the Rockies, unable to really comprehend the meaning of devoted team sports. And then college came. And I came to Boston. My first experience walking the streets of Boston with my father was going around Kenmore Square to check out the neighborhood, and then over to Fenway Park�immediately after dropping our bags at the HoJos that would be my transient home for two days. I�d never been in the city before. Didn�t come to tour BU, didn�t come for summer orientation. I had no idea what the place looked like. And here Dad and I were, plunked down in Kenmore Square. It was a grimy place with tons of panhandlers, overgreased pizza smells, a scary-ass dance club, Narcissus, and a scarier-ass bar, the Rathskeller, across the way. I was scared shitless of this place, yet also immediately was excited to explore. �There�s the Citgo Sign� my dad sighed, pointing up as we walked out of the HoJos. (my initial reaction��it�s a fucking half-dead neon sign on a building, Dad� what the fuck?) We walked down Brookline Avenue, along the filthy sidewalks and sticker-slapped bridge over the Pike to Yawkey Way. Not much has changed down there since that late August night in 1993�same shops, same look. �THAT�s Fenway Park? It looks like a warehouse, Dad.� I was confused. It was so� small. I�d seen two Phillies games at Candlestick Park in San Francisco. THIS was a baseball stadium? (no� it�s a football stadium, but remember� this is me then). It was a seemingly small, ratty, boring brick building in a ratty neighborhood surrounded by an unimposing but omnipresent reek of old beer. �So did Connie Mack.� My dad shut me up with that. I didn�t mess with Connie Mack. Apparently, Fenway was also not to be messed with. We went into one of the clothing stores. I bought myself a new Phillies cap, having forgotten mine in Montana. My dad bought me a Red Sox cap. And the turning began� I attended my first Fenway game the next week through an orientation event. I remember walking into the bleacher seats and marveling how the tiny rat-hole of a building from the outside became this expanse of green lawn on the inside, complete with a grandstand of baseball days past. And I understood why Fenway Was Not To Be Slighted. There were about sixty of us taking over a block of seats out in the bleachers. One of my floor-mates, Sean, was a lifelong fan who was coming from Stoughton. On that night he explained just how deep the hatred of the Yankees went in Boston sports. He told me the legends of Red Sox mythology. He identified the important markers of Fenway Park. A few weeks later, I rooted for Curt Schilling in the World Series. He and my blessed Phillies went in to battle Toronto. Every night in Warren Towers, two guys on my floor- both from South Philly � and I watched the game with shitty non-cable reception on floor 11C, taking over the student lounge and screaming at anyone who wanted to come in and interrupt us. We watched, hearts sunk, as Wild Thing came up to pitch. And fucked it up. Oh, it was a sick day. It also was the last day that I could accurately call myself a Phillies fan. That first winter break, my Phillies cap made its way into the hall closet cubbies, right next to my dad�s. It�s stayed there since. Over the next four years, I attended a bunch of Red Sox games�in the early to mid �90�s, tickets weren�t that hard to come by for bleacher seats. You could get them on the day of the game at the ticket window for seven bucks. We were rowdy. We batted around beach balls, and booed at the cops when they took them away. We laughed at the guys who were dumb enough to smoke pot in the seats, the smell wafting blatantly over the rows of Sox fans. Ivanna got a job for a summer working for the Sox as a babysitter for the kids. She told her stories of encounters. And my love of the Red Sox continued to grow. But I continued to feel that since I was transplanted to Boston, I would never really be a true Red Sox fan. After all, I didn�t grow up with the heartache. I couldn�t actually know what it was all about. Well, perhaps not. But having now lived over a third of my life�and all of my adult life�in and around Boston, I think it�s fair to say that I have become a part of Red Sox nation. An adopted New Englander, but I�m good at being adopted. I understand the jokes about hell freezing over. I understand that there are a number of baseball players who have had �Fucking� become their middle name, thanks to Red Sox games. I look forward to the strong smells of Italian sausage taking over Landsdowne Street every April. And I�ve believed the curse, believed the stories. And watched it get broken last night. Twice my boyfriend thumped the wall behind our couch�in hopeful, but not serious chanting. �Two Run Homer� for Ortiz. And then he fucking hit it. Next inning. �Four Run Homer.� And then Damon hit it. I shit you not. We called people out of shock. We have a fucking magic wall in our apartment. Erich�s decided to start chanting �House at Foxwoods� to see if we�ll win the bonus plays at Let it Ride for our down payment. It just might work. To watch it last night�to watch the cocky Yankees fans chanting Nineteen eighteen and �Who�s Your Daddy� over and over, and then to shut them the fuck up� it was glorious. Now all I need to see is the lights at Fenway explode into a shower of sparks and The Natural theme playing as the lights fade over Big Papi running his bases in the Big Game next week. Fucking A�the Curse is Broken. 2:50 p.m. - 21 October 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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