First Fandom
I can't remember the first Red Sox game I ever watched.
I'm not gonna lie to you and tell you that, on a magical spring afternoon, I entered the secular church on Yawkey Way and, my young eyes blazing with wonder, fell in love with the Sox. That might have been the way it happened, but it's equally likely that I fell into a rhythm of watching games on sleepy Sunday afternoons to put off doing my homework. There's too much haze surrounding the first seven manic years of your life to remember a single event, unless it was especially traumatic.
I remember breaking my leg, for instance. Not much else. It sticks out in my mind because, frankly, it hurt like nothing has ever hurt before. I had a spiral break of my right leg that left my doctors thinking I might not walk again. I came through it alright, though I've never been accused of being speedy.
Anyhow, you remember the really bad stuff. I think I'm lucky, then, that I can't remember that game.
You know which one I'm talking about.
I was two at the time, and asleep. My dad wasn't. He saw the whole blasted thing, start to finish, with a dedication born of hope and the lack of a remote control. When it happened, his reaction, from what he told me more than fifteen years afterwards, was sadness. He couldn't sleep that night.
That should be obvious enough, right? Your team blows the best chance it has had in years, perhaps the only chance in your lifetime it'll ever have, and to make matters worse, does it in the worst bloody way possible. What are you supposed to do?
I always thought that, had I seen that game, my reaction would be anger. I am a furious fan. Watching a game with me is the equivalent of debating evolution with Carl Everett; completely illogical, and I might swear at you. I can't enjoy any part of a loss. When they're losing (I also fall victim to this bad habit: We are winning, but they have lost), I hate everyone and everything involved with the production, conduct, and concept of baseball. I despise the umpires--lousy mooks are in Steinbrenner's back pocket. I despise the cameramen, for tricking me into thinking a long fly ball is a homerun rather than an out. I reserve my worst loathing for the announcers--I'm looking at you, Tim McCarver. Honestly, I don't think it's healthy.
So when my own personal heartbreak came, alone in a dorm room, watching Aaron Boone's home run ball sail into the night, I turned off my television not with anger, but with sadness. I think I had just given up.
So, after having a drink with the resident true Cubs fan in my hall, I called my dad. Having come late to the Fandom, I had never heard what Lou Gorman had to say, way back when my dad was my age, maybe as hot-blooded and fanatical about this bloody team as I am now.
"Joe," he said, sounding surprisingly lucid considering the ordeal and the late hour, "The sun will rise, the sun will set, and I'll have lunch."
True that, Dad, but you also told me what someone else said about this team.
"Baseball in Boston isn't a matter of life or death. It's bigger than that."
Which is it?
Tonight, the Red Sox will start the second half of their 2004 season. Winning this series might set the tone of the rest of the year, and may decide whether they get into the playoffs or not. Then again, it might mean nothing.
Could be, maybe, it's both. I still haven't had lunch yet.
I'm not gonna lie to you and tell you that, on a magical spring afternoon, I entered the secular church on Yawkey Way and, my young eyes blazing with wonder, fell in love with the Sox. That might have been the way it happened, but it's equally likely that I fell into a rhythm of watching games on sleepy Sunday afternoons to put off doing my homework. There's too much haze surrounding the first seven manic years of your life to remember a single event, unless it was especially traumatic.
I remember breaking my leg, for instance. Not much else. It sticks out in my mind because, frankly, it hurt like nothing has ever hurt before. I had a spiral break of my right leg that left my doctors thinking I might not walk again. I came through it alright, though I've never been accused of being speedy.
Anyhow, you remember the really bad stuff. I think I'm lucky, then, that I can't remember that game.
You know which one I'm talking about.
I was two at the time, and asleep. My dad wasn't. He saw the whole blasted thing, start to finish, with a dedication born of hope and the lack of a remote control. When it happened, his reaction, from what he told me more than fifteen years afterwards, was sadness. He couldn't sleep that night.
That should be obvious enough, right? Your team blows the best chance it has had in years, perhaps the only chance in your lifetime it'll ever have, and to make matters worse, does it in the worst bloody way possible. What are you supposed to do?
I always thought that, had I seen that game, my reaction would be anger. I am a furious fan. Watching a game with me is the equivalent of debating evolution with Carl Everett; completely illogical, and I might swear at you. I can't enjoy any part of a loss. When they're losing (I also fall victim to this bad habit: We are winning, but they have lost), I hate everyone and everything involved with the production, conduct, and concept of baseball. I despise the umpires--lousy mooks are in Steinbrenner's back pocket. I despise the cameramen, for tricking me into thinking a long fly ball is a homerun rather than an out. I reserve my worst loathing for the announcers--I'm looking at you, Tim McCarver. Honestly, I don't think it's healthy.
So when my own personal heartbreak came, alone in a dorm room, watching Aaron Boone's home run ball sail into the night, I turned off my television not with anger, but with sadness. I think I had just given up.
So, after having a drink with the resident true Cubs fan in my hall, I called my dad. Having come late to the Fandom, I had never heard what Lou Gorman had to say, way back when my dad was my age, maybe as hot-blooded and fanatical about this bloody team as I am now.
"Joe," he said, sounding surprisingly lucid considering the ordeal and the late hour, "The sun will rise, the sun will set, and I'll have lunch."
True that, Dad, but you also told me what someone else said about this team.
"Baseball in Boston isn't a matter of life or death. It's bigger than that."
Which is it?
Tonight, the Red Sox will start the second half of their 2004 season. Winning this series might set the tone of the rest of the year, and may decide whether they get into the playoffs or not. Then again, it might mean nothing.
Could be, maybe, it's both. I still haven't had lunch yet.
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