Everything and Nothing by Matt Waters

It’s a ground ball to second, pathetic, rolling meagerly toward inevitable doom. I watch. The scene appears to be moving in slow motion. A serene calm has invaded my senses, the worst has arrived and will eventually pass, just as the moment would, fleetingly, fatefully. Pokey Reese immaculately scoops the ball from the depths, measuring up the impossible as he aims a throw towards first base. Just as they had done for the last four games, one man didn’t just represent a whole, he elevated above, forming an impossible force, an immovable will, a historical comeback. The throw is perfect. The Red Sox begin to celebrate on a field polluted by ghosts, victorious. The deed is done.  What went wrong? Even now, the memories are almost indecipherable, a nightmare’s vagrant hieroglyphics, blended together in a twisted collage. I analyze my overconfidence. A heartbreaking Game 4 loss is brushed absently aside, discarded. Game Five, its conclusion producing an inert revulsion in my soul, is taken on the chin, because we were heading back to the stadium. I wasn’t worried, far from. It would take Game Six for history’s mist to begin a sudden evaporation, allowing my vision to digest and understand one undeniable fact: They were choking.

One couldn’t understand the jubilance, even if it were described with one hundred adjectives. All season long, we’d waded through a supposed cesspool of journalistic fraudulence: They didn’t have enough pitching, they weren’t a team, they were winning ugly, talent without heart, tin men. We stood by them as the staff collapsed in September, we maintained hope when all appeared lost against the Twins. Upon A-Rod’s double against Joe Nathan, an extra inning, season saving rip of the tide, our trust was regained. They would win. How we knew.

It was in the air, an elevating breeze of temptation, to thump our chests, to expunge our pride in favor of insulting arrogance. Some undeniably would. The Red Sox were supposed to be improved, they were supposed to have the heart we didn’t, possess the arms cut off our staff, the intangible quality that we somehow misplaced. It was Boston who was favored on the outset of the 2004 A.L.C.S.

All season the anger had been building, shots at an awful second half rotation hurting a little more each and every time. ESPN’s power rankings shunted the Yankees often as far down as eighth, despite their top shelf division standing. The Vultures were circling.

I can still see it, they’re play is phenomenal. Alex Rodriguez deserves an extra zero on his contract. Hideki Matsui effortlessly destroys every pitch near the strike zone, while Gary Sheffield shakes off cobwebs of statistical post season’s pasts to practically envelop the proceedings. Derek Jeter plays like Derek Jeter does in October, and that questionable pitching, that maligned pitching, not only perseveres, it thrives. We have an insurmountable 3-0 lead.

The walls, they come tumbling down, not with one play but a collection, not with one pitch but their sum. The Hammer of God is broken in Game 4. It’s a shocking blown save by a clearly fatigued Mariano Rivera, burnt out from a long season of bailing out his brethren.

Game 5 is it, the one. Jeter hits what looks to be a game breaking triple off Yankee nemesis Pedro Martinez. But Tom Gordon bows in deference to pressure, and New York falls in extra innings. Horror lies with the simplicity. The finality. For the second straight night, David Ortiz smiles and romps with his teammates after delivering a game winning blow. The stake is drawing nearer to our hearts.

Curt Schilling runs his mouth. In Game One, he was embarrassed, blaming an ankle injury for his porous stint as starter. It was true of course, but that’s against the code. Players never blame an injury for failure, aren’t supposed to anyway. Schilling’s post game whining fueled the mutual and self-sustaining hate shared between two ancient rivals, making his legendary Game 6 heroics all the more galling.

There he is, practically on one leg, never fielding a bunt back in his direction, never tested against any resolve, just coasting. An early deficit isn’t fated to be reversed. Victory now demands will. Destiny has changed its hand. They had no fight left.

Images rush by. Tony Clark’s double bounces over that devilishly low right field Fenway Fence, the lead run holds at third, Game Five continues. Who’s changing the rules? Alex Rodriguez slaps, impishly. Perception is tainted forever, right or wrong. A strikeout in the ninth, Keith Foulke is untouchable.

I remember. Game Seven. Kevin Brown against Derek Lowe. Tomorrow Night. Still waiting for tomorrow night.

What was it like?

 It’s seeing your pride stepped on, mocked after it’s ruin, having to watch all you used to believe swept away with barbaric efficiency, all the negative thoughts ever spinning through the brain heinously realized, the vanquishing of hope. Grand Slams. Defensive Gems. No mercy. This wasn’t a game, it was an execution, and I watch it all, because eyes fix with untamable curiosity toward the unfathomable. Start to finish.

We are forced to face a question: Were the doubters correct, or are we just foolish in our faith? Time’s wasted in defeat, savored in victory.

A summer is made empty by one game. Is life this unfair?

Ruben Sierra hits a ground ball to Red Sox second baseman Pokey Reese, the 27th out.

The memory remains haunted, yet unavoidable in importance.

I remember this feeling forever, what it is to kiss the abyss.