By Ryan McGowan
It’s Olympic time, so let’s figure out who’s really number one. Americans are a rather competitive lot. Nothing in America can be appreciated for what it is; everything has to be quantified in a list as either better than or worse than something else. This is probably the reason why we get lists such as the "Top 25 Sports Movies," "America’s Most Wanted," and cookie-cutter value meals from McDonald’s. The Olympics would be a great topic for today in debating whether America, as many establishment types would lead you to believe, actually produces the best athletes in the world. But since I find watching most Olympic events about as riveting as a six-cassette set of "NPR’s Greatest Hits", today we’ll tackle a question which has been burning up the airwaves on WEEI today: Which team is REALLY number one in Boston, the Red Sox or the Patriots?I have decided to undertake this debate in a two-part format, one in which I will argue from the persona of the Sox, and tomorrow I will present the point of view of the Pats. The Pats have won the right to go last with their status as defending Super Bowl champs.
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THE CASE FOR THE RED SOX
It is inconceivable and laughable that this discussion is even taking place. The Boston Red Sox are undoubtedly the number one team in New England. It’s not even close. Three words: Red. Sox. Nation. Not only do the Sox have their die-hard, localized fan base in Eastern Massachusetts, but their influence stretches from Bangor to Burlington, from West Hartford to West Warwick, from Concord to Chatham. This, of course, does not even take into account the millions of transplanted faithful that show up in droves when the Sox play on the road. With the possible exception of the Yankees (who have an unfair advantage in population base anyway), the Dallas Cowboys, and the LA Lakers, the Sox have the most universal fan base in American team sports. Red Sox Nation is like the National Guard of sports fandom; when the team is not around, the fans lay low and follow the events from afar, but when the action is in town, they become as full of life as quickly as Johnny Five in "Short Circuit."
Places like Anaheim, Tampa Bay, San Francisco, and Baltimore watch helplessly as entire sections of their ballpark are totally commandeered by legions of loyal Sox rooters. Seas of Ramirez, Martinez, and Schilling jerseys, "TEK WRECKING CREW" t-shirts, and Damon’s Disciples with their fake beards and Rastafarian-esque hair dominate the landscape when the Sox play away. With such a following away from home, it’s amazing the team doesn’t have a better road record this year; every game is akin to a home game. The best the Patriots have for a rabid fan base is a bizarre subculture of thick-necked, woodcutting men with mullets, mesh hats, plaid jackets, and hunter’s caps, hailing from such cosmopolitan villas as Glocester, RI, Swanzey, NH, Otisfield, ME, and Fitchburg, MA. Oh, and a million fraudulent fair-weather fans who use a downtown Boston victory parade as an oh-so-convenient excuse to skip work or school on a cold Tuesday in February. Where were these clowns during the Dick MacPherson or Rod Rust eras? 85% of those phonies couldn’t tell the difference between Ronnie Lippett and Ron Jeremy. True fans? Not even close.
The Patriots will argue that their superior TV ratings is proof that their franchise has risen to the top spot in the Boston sports scene. They will contend that the NFL, with its smooth labor relations (at least since 1987) and its multibillion dollar financial empire, has replaces Major League Baseball as American’s pastime. They will say that the Patriots’ two Super Bowls in three years is indisputable confirmation that the team once known as the Patsies have become the true kings of the six-state region.
We will grant the Patriots their ratings, their league’s profitability, and their two championships. Congratulations.
In Boston, though, it doesn’t make a lick of difference. The Sox are still king.
Flash back to the fall/winter of 2003. The Patriots were in the middle of the most successful season in the 44-year history of the franchise, arguably one of the best in the entire history of the NFL. They had beaten the Dolphins in Miami on an improbable 82-yard touchdown pass in overtime from Tom Brady to Troy Brown, one of the great wins in team history. They were gathering momentum, confidence, and more karma than Shirley MacLaine and the Dalai Lama combined. They weren’t killing teams, but they were calmly and assuredly beating them every week, sometimes in games that they didn’t deserve to win but somehow pulled it out anyway. It was a golden era for the Patriots franchise.
Back in Boston, what do you think was the conversation topic of choice on the airwaves and around the water coolers? What was everyone in New England talking about? Certainly the Patriots, right? Of course the buzz around town was the magnificent season being strung together by one of the best teams in the most popular sports league in the country?
Of course not. We in Boston had much more important things to worry about. For example, were the Red Sox going to be able to trade Manny Ramirez and Nomar Garciaparra for Alex Rodriguez and Magglio Ordonez?
That’s right: a speculative, wishy-washy trade rumor that was taking place in the OFFSEASON was on the forefront of everyone’s sports-related (and even non-sports-related) conversation. No one wanted to talk about the quietly spectacular season that Brady was enjoying, or the timeless excellence of Troy Brown. Nobody fretted over whether Antowain Smith would be able to get the job done at running back, if Damien Woody’s transition to guard was going to hurt the offensive line’s cohesiveness, or if superkicker Adam Vinatieri’s back would leave him in traction by the time the playoffs rolled around. Even the war in Iraq, hometown senator John Kerry’s presidential bid, and abstract talk about some convention that was coming to town in July got pushed off the menu of our collective consciousness. All we wanted to talk about was what A-Rod would look like in a white Sox uniform. And we cursed the airwaves when the player’s union nixed the deal, then cursed John Henry, Larry Lucchino, and Theo Epstein when they weren’t willing to pay the extra $14 million to get the deal done, and we watched A-Rod accept a trade to become one of the Storm Troopers in the Bronx, just another mercenary for hire by the evil Emperor Steinbrenner.
The Red Sox are more than just a baseball franchise; they are a regional obsession. The 2003 season in general (and the 8th inning of the fateful ALCS Game 7 in Yankee Stadium in particular) opened up a new level of mania in the Nation. The disappointment of that late October night in New York did not diminish any of the fervor that New Englanders have for the team; if anything, the zeal increased tenfold. We were five outs away from finally toppling the hated Empire and restoring proverbial peace and order to the galaxy. We had the game won. We had a three-run lead in the eighth inning, with our inimitable ace on the mound, and a lights-out bullpen ready to go. It wasn’t supposed to end the way it did. The Empire was supposed to be defeated; the Death Star is supposed to blow up in the end, even if Luke had an easier time bullseyeing Womp-Rats in his T-16 back home than any of the Sox had in hitting off Mariano Rivera that night. Still, we felt that Game 7, and the Red Sox’ quest to finally bring home another championship to Yawkey Way, was a story of epic proportions. It was, quite simply, a story that was worthy of our collective obsession.
In no other American city would a 17-2 season and a Super Bowl championship ever be the second-biggest story of the fall/winter. Even in New York, a city that loves its baseball just as much as we do in Boston, a Giants or Jets Super Bowl victory would eliminate any sting from a Yankees or Mets World Series loss from the fall. In Boston, though, the Patriots’ victory over the Carolina Panthers on February 1, 2004, was simply a consolation prize. We got to keep a set of Ginsu steak knives, while we watched the Florida Marlins accept the Ken Jennings-esque victory trophy, taking small consolation in the solace that we at least wouldn’t have to watch another Yankees World Series parade.
We all watched the Patriots’ victory parade and the celebration in Scollay Square on that cold February day. We all ran around and cheered wildly, chaotically slapping high-fives to strangers when Vinatieri’s kick put an end to the vigorous challenge of the hearty Carolina Panthers. Like everyone in New England, we love the Patriots. We just love the Red Sox more. They are more important to us.
The victory parade for the Patriots’ second Super Bowl championship was a raucous, yet scintillating event. It warmed us all up during a cold winter which featured multiple negative-wind chill days (including two playoff games in Foxboro). But it pales in comparison to what a Red Sox victory parade celebration would be like. I offer you one man’s perspective:
The governor of Massachusetts would have to declare an official state holiday on the early November day on which the parade would be held. No work would get done that day, anyway. A state of emergency would also have to be declared, making it illegal to drive on the roads of Greater Boston, similar to the Blizzard of 1978. The traffic for the parade would be a gridlock that might not be cleared up for days, thus forcing hundreds of thousands of people to choose between abandoning their cards or missing the greatest pure celebration in the history of mankind.
Each town in New England would send busloads upon busloads of people to central points north, south, and west of the city. There, the people would gather on a town common or a high school athletic field, and the initial celebration would begin. Everyone would be wearing a Sox hat and jersey, and people would be exchanging high-fives and awkward male hugs that would make Rocky and Apollo proud. At a predetermined time, those masses of people would begin marching toward Kenmore Square. The fans are so much a part of the Red Sox franchise and its lore; they need to be part of the parade, too, not merely spectators.
When the throngs of humanity has reached the city, they will line Commonwealth Avenue from Brighton to the Public Garden, and then will wrap around the Common all the way to City Hall Plaza. The team will ride on top of the same Duck Tours buses that the Patriots players rode in for their parade, but somehow they will seem more regal, more elegant, for this parade.
The procession will last around two hours. There’s no need to rush this celebration; we’ve certainly waited long enough for it. The cheering mob of Sox fans will be in a complete frenzy, including thousands who have traveled from all over the world to be part of this celebration which they have anticipated for their entire lives. There won’t be any looting or destruction, as Northeastern University will have required that all cars be moved at least three miles from campus before Game 7 of the World Series started. Finally, as the parade has finally reached City Hall, innumerable members of the Nation will be nearly moved to tears as tarps are removed, revealing bronze statues of the Game 7 winning pitcher (Martinez or Schilling?), the batting star (Ortiz or Ramirez?), the manager (Francona?), and two other players who represent the franchise (Varitek and Nixon?). A wall-sized mural depicting the final out, with the scoreboard reading that the Sox have been victorious, will be painted on the wall of City Hall.
Throughout New England, old men and women will be watching the proceedings, and will be content. Thousands of old, sick people will then pass away, happily, finally having seen what they have always wanted to see: a Red Sox World Series title. It will be the greatest celebration of all time.
It will certainly be more memorable than Troy Brown yelling out "BINGO!" In this town, the Red Sox still reign supreme.
COMING TOMORROW: Counterpoint – The Patriots Strike Back
