It used to be that The Curse of the Bambino plagued our fair city. But in my lifetime, and more impressively, in my children’s lifetime, the Red Sox have won the World Series three times. THREE. COUNT ‘EM. THREE. TIMES. It’s getting to be sort of a normal occurrence around here. Well, not really, but sort of.
My husband, who is an ivy league trained Ph.D chemist trying to cure Parkinson’s, would give up his career and family to be a professional baseball player. He is a walking statistical machine. He ought to have a website called “Stump the Pathetically Obsessed Baseball Guy.” He is constantly making baseball analogies. In fact, maybe his show should be called, “A Pathetically Obsessed Baseball Guy Talks Life as a Baseball Game.” He has always tried to teach me about the nuances, and strategy of the game. And just how much that little white ball says about life in general, but it just never really worked for me, and I basically zoned out when he would try and compare a traumatic event to a ball game.
Baseball is a little slow. Actually, a lot slow. It can be tedious, and very similar to watching grass grow. I mean, take me to a Celtics game, and I’m in. Things move FAST, there are dancers and monitors and crazy stuff happening all over the place. That’s my speed, but baseball, ugh, just not enough going on to keep my novice interest. I used to go to games before the kids, and then afterward, too. I basically just went for the Fenway Franks. But eventually, you could buy them in your grocer’s freezer case, and I just dropped out, letting Peter and the kids hold down the fort on this front, so we wouldn’t be asked to turn in our Boston residency cards (because if you’re not a Sox fan in this town, they ask you to leave).
Anyway, all three times the Sox have made it to the the World Series, it’s lit a fire under me, and I’ve maybe even gotten a little rabid. You just can’t ignore the craziness of this city when we have a sports team in a playoff situation. Nobody talks about anything else, everybody is sleepless-in-Seattle tired, and people all get very superstitious. I, myself, have five hats on the tv that COULD NOT BE MOVED. There’s also a large plastic Sox cup in the bathroom Peter was using to rinse off the dog’s muddy paws, and although it’s been irritating me, I have not moved it an inch since the series started. Last night on the news a guy talked about not changing his underwear or socks for three days. I am glad at least Peter isn’t that guy.
After the Boston Marathon bombing, this city was pretty depressed and freaked out and sad. The Sox supported Boston and came out swinging. They know that people love baseball here. They know that they’re a source of fun and a certain kind of glue. As Big Papi said at the time, “This is our fucking city.” You can hardly go anyplace where you don’t see a “Be Strong” t-shirt or hat on someone. The Sox adapted it be “B Strong,” and even mowed it into the field at Fenway. This team has been a source of pride and camaraderie as the city has had to heal from an unspeakably awful wound, that occurred during one of our other beloved sporting events.
Anyway, in case you live in a cave, The Boston Red Sox won the World Series last night, at the famed Fenway Park, their home, which hasn’t happened since 1918 (the year my mom was born). I stayed up way too late. I’m exhausted today. But guess what? I saw something I’d never seen before in this game, in this team, a life lesson–“Try your best. And then get out there and try harder.” There you go, Peter. I think I finally get it. I just might watch the whole season next year.