The Beginning
The alarm rang, 8:30 a.m. After a shower, banana and water, shoes on, it was 9:15.
I saw my neighbor on the way out, nodded, climbed into my car and fought my eyes as the hills of Marin unraveled.
Phone calls, typing and coffee, and it was back in the car.
The Build
Three days prior, my shoes off and my hands to the heavens, David Ortiz lifted a two-run homer over the short, right-center field fence in Fenway. Big Papi stomped on home plate and a mullet, mop, jheri curl, Jesus cut and a whole lot of gray and red, mobbed him.
For a moment there was salvation, comfort for a cold New England night, something to say in response to 19-8.
Red Sox fans could always remind themselves, years after Varitek, Pedro Martinez, even Big Papi had left Boston’s bay for greener pastures, that “it wasn’t all bad.”
Then, one sunrise later, a broken-bat bloop single, Johnny Damon’s hair waving in the Boston breeze, and the country awoke. But back from 3-0? Never. Not since the Alamo, not since Rocky and Apollo. Not 3-0. It’s just fiction and fable.
Doubt
By the time I got home, the national anthem had been sung, announcers had branded the Red Sox comeback, win or lose, triumph or tragedy, a historic moment, and Bucky Dent had lobbed a feeble toss to Yogi Berra.
It was all preparation. A reminder that watching the Red Sox is like a warm bath: you always know sooner or later, if you stay in long enough, it’s gonna get cold.
Then it didn’t. Big Papi struck again. Derek Lowe’s ball was sinking like Tyson’s teeth: swift, precise and unexpected. And Johnny Damon, 2 for 1,050, brought himself and three others to the plate, 6-0 and the dreams started.
Away from calls that needed to be made, articles that needed typing and the traffic on 101.
I thought of Ted Williams unfrozen, Yaz, Bill Buckner, Mo Vaughn, Roger Clemens, even Nomar, lined up in front of Yankee Stadium, Bucky Dent on his knees, George Steinbrenner with a closed checkbook and the Bambino clicking glasses with the Red Sox faithful. Eighty-six years forgotten, flushed and laid to rest.
It wasn’t elation. It was a knot in the pit of my stomach.
The game was wide open. I’d asked for a blowout. I’d asked for the Red Sox to get up early, leave the Yankees to their bullpen. I’d asked for Derek Jeter to cringe, A-Rod to seem lost and Gary Sheffield to seem modest.
All had happened, but still the knife slowly approached the shower. All of Red Sox Nation paused, ready to play Janet Leigh.
Promise
In game 6, Curt Schilling’s bloody ankle was everywhere. Seemingly, every pitch was followed by a subtle cut and a shot of his red, stained sock. It was gore reserved for slasher movies and operating room footage.
Somehow it seemed fitting. A player wobbling on one leg battling a franchise that always lands on all fours.
When he hobbled to first base trying to beat out a charging Bernie Williams, I thought the series would end. A shoestring that, for three days, could be cut at any time. The Red Sox fought, but eventually they would have to break, both mentally and physically.
One inning led into another. The much-maligned Mark Bellhorn capitalized on John Lieber’s one major mistake and the game was almost over, the Red Sox on top.
When A-Rod karate chopped the ball free, it all flashed before me, the whole cast of characters. Manny playing drunk hobo in left field. Pedro’s disdain as chants of “Who’s your daddy?” rained down on him. David Ortiz’s Paul Bunyan swing. Bronson Arroyo’s cornrows. Jason Varitek’s confused postgame interviews.
Then Keith Foulke came onto the field and somehow the game was over. Schilling spoke of God. I just couldn’t forget the bloody sock. A fitting symbol of Red Sox pride and suffering. If they were going to do it any way, it would be the hard way.
The End
The final out was mundane. A grounder to the sure-handed Pokey Reese.
I saw the Red Sox crowd the field. I think I received more phone calls in five minutes than PBS ever does during its telethons. Everyone was feeling charitable, offering congratulations to diehard, casual and converted fans alike.
As Joe Buck once again fumbled, trying to find some historical context and my longtime Boston-based friend screamed in my ear, “They did it,” the only thought that stuck in my head was, “Holy s–!”