I Believe (David)

When I want to write about the Red Sox I go and read Bill Simmons latest article and I realize it’s futile. He lets me know what I am thinking and feeling. He’s it. His latest article, “Why Not Us?” (And I would do that cool thing where you just have to touch those words “Why Not Us?” and you’d go right to it, since Sheila has told me how on several occasions, but I just can’t for the life of me remember) is preparing me for the eventual end of this magical season. There’s still a ways to go and of course there’s absolutely no telling how it’s going to turn out, but it is winding down isn’t it?

I remember watching the home games last year, when they wore those fabulous red jackets, and thinking to myself, “I’d absolutely die for one of those babies!” They were rather expensive and I couldn’t justify spending money on them, but man did I want one. I promised myself if they made the World Series I would buy one. Well, we know how last year ended, and needless to say I didn’t get my jacket.

Another luxury I didn’t afford myself was buying the extra innings package through my cable company so I could watch all the games here in Yankee Country. Instead I’d listen to them on the radio through my computer and try to convince my wife (the only person unfortunate to be nearby) that this team was amazing. They had heart and character beyond belief. They never quit; they came from behind more than any other team. She finally got hooked during the playoffs last year and I watched her fly into elation when they came back from 0-2 against Oakland only to plummet into despair because of Aaron bleeping Boone. She was seriously upset with me for coaxing her into the Red Sox Nation and she vowed not to let it happen again. I understood and felt bad for bringing her down that road. I remember feeling that baseball shouldn’t hurt this much. Driving my delivery truck around NYC the next day was a torture I’ll never forget. I was glad I didn’t have my red jacket.

Then began this magical 2004 season. My wife stayed in the wings while I listened to my games on the computer and watched the occasional ESPN game and, of course, all the YES Yankee/Red Sox games. On one particular July afternoon I was watching the struggling Sox square off against the Yanks. They had been previously swept by them and things were beyond frustrating. I had had it with this rivalry. We were on the losing side again and things weren’t looking up. Then Varitek shoved his mitt in A-Rod’s face. Later in the game, in extra innings, Trot Nixon came up against Mariano Rivera and hit a shot that seemed destined to leave the park. I leapt off the couch daring to believe again and then the wind caught it and so did Sheffield. I let loose a vitriolic outburst. I described it in a post I wrote that very same evening right here on Sheila’s Blog called Pathetic or Prophetic (again, I’d do that fancy “touch the words” thing but I can’t, OK? I’ll just Ctrl C, Ctrl V the damn thing) here’s a piece of it:

I must admit that I was down and out. It has been a harrowing season already and I had reached my annual limit early of eating Yankee dust and swallowing Yankee crow. When Trot Nixon’s seemingly game tying homer in the bottom of the ninth was knocked down by the wind and caught by Sheffield, I let go some pretty choice and inappropriate expressions in front of my children. I’m not proud of this mind you, but I’m not ashamed either. I had felt all the defeats of the season and all the seasons past in that moment. “Why can’t things go right for the Red Sox,” I wailed pathetically. “Why can’t we catch one God damn, mother bleeping break!?” But when Bill Mueller hit that home run, I began to believe again. Seeing Varitek and Francona run out of the clubhouse to congratulate their team sent a surge of hope right through me.

It was then I started to believe. And it was then I got my wife involved again, this time by explaining to her what Jason Varitek did to lead his team. This was the hook and it has since become a full fledged love affair on her part. I’m often required to wear a catcher’s mask to bed now while she calls me “Tekky”. I really don’t mind.

I broke down and ordered extra innings and have watched every game since while listening to Bob Orsillo and the Rem Dawg on NESN, something New Englanders take for granted. It was heaven. But I still couldn’t break down and buy the coat. Not yet. “Maybe if they make it to the World Series this year,” I promised myself.

On my Birthday, later last summer, my wife handed me some presents she had gotten at Macy’s. “Odd”, I thought, “She never buys me clothes.” We don’t do that for each other, we still rarely hit each other’s tastes after being together over 16 years. I grinned and braced for the disappointments. I got a pair of shorts (since returned for a nice wallet) and some boxers (I only wear during emergency boxer depletion times). The biggest present was coming and I couldn’t hide my anxiety. Now I’m sure you’ve already guessed what was in it, but I didn’t. I filled up. I wore it in the 90-degree heat. It was the best present I had gotten since I was a boy! I couldn’t wait until Fall to wear my authentic, down to the stitching, Major League Red Sox home jacket.

We also bought a big Red Sox Banner that flies on our flagpole outside our front door. Our neighbors hate us! We’ve had that all summer too. When we went down 3-0 to the Yankees I felt devastated that I’d be wearing my coat in shame all winter, if at all, and I knew I’d take the flag down the second we lost.

We all know the story up to now and needless to say the flag is waving proud (next year I’m installing a spotlight for it) and the coat has not come off. It’s that bright, bright red and I’ve gotten some pretty nasty looks for it.

It’s been a magical year to be a Red Sox fan, but it ain’t over. I won’t lie, if we lose this World Series, it’ll be devastating. I was kidding myself that the victory over the Yankees could carry me through it, but it won’t. At least my wife didn’t wait to buy the coat and I think that’s a good sign. The baseball Gods like that sort of thing.