Peace At Last.
By Erik Haan
Millions of Red Sox fans will continue to echo that sentiment probably until Spring Training 2005. It rings especially true for me.
You see, when I was seven years old my father woke me up in the middle of the night because he wanted me to "witness something I'd never seen before." Excited, I followed him into the living room. What happened next definitely ranks in the top 10 Most Traumatic Events of My Life.
It was a cold October night in 1986 and, well, let's just say that the spectacular event I was promised included my father throwing his hands up in the air and cursing at the television set, which he hastily shut off as he continued his tirade.
While I was groggy when I entered the room, I certainly wasn't after the tall moustached man named "(Expletive) Buckner" did something really, really wrong.
So I shuffled down the hallway in my Spiderman pajamas with the feet in them, closed my door, and crawled into bed. And then the tears started flowing.
Soaking my pillow in Biblical proportions, I cried my eyes out. I didn't know what had just happened, but I knew I really liked the Red Sox and that they had done
something very bad.
And so it was: My first Red Sox memory.
While I'm just 25 years old, and while my Red Sox Nation membership card doesn't have the fraying or yellowing of thousands of others, it was, to say the least, a proper initiation into what would become an 18-year obsession.
I wanted to know why the Red Sox had messed up so that it wouldn't happen again. After all, that night was more than a seven-year-old could bear. It was like
having Santa wake me up to TELL me he put coal in my stocking.
I paid a lot of attention and found out that Buckner should never have been in that game. Why would McNamara mess with what had worked all season? Why
didn't he put in Dave Stapleton (At the time, it was like putting Mientkiewicz in for Millar - You did it to sure-up the defense). It just made no sense.
And that began years of me analyzing every pitch of every single game. If Derek Lowe throws an 0-2 fastball that catches too much of the plate in a meaningless game with the Devil Rays, I get mad. What's that? Francona didn't call a bunt with runners on first and second and no one out trailing by one run in the eighth inning of Game 30 of the season against the Orioles? My blood starts to boil.
Which brings up the question: Why did my father purchase for me a 1986 pennant that said "Boston Red Sox: 1986 World Champions" BEFORE the World Series even began? I don't know how or where he got that, but what was HE thinking?
Anyways, you get the picture. I'm obsessed. It took one game to make me a nut case. I never even played baseball and I've had people tell me I could be a
baseball analyst. Not that I want to. I just wanted to feel like I had control over something I had no control over: A Curse.
What escaped me all of these years is that there really is no explaining some things that happen. While I try to reason some out (I told myself it was ok the
Sox were beat by the Yanks last season because it would make an eventual World Series victory that much sweeter), I knew some things just had to be dealt
with. I often wondered how long I would -or could- take.
But the 2004 Red Sox took it all away.
In historical fashion, and maybe for dramatic effect, they brought me to the edge of insanity after Game 3 of the Yankees Series. I took that game in at a Boston
bar with friends and the train ride to our car was polluted with my angry impressions of Dale Sveum and Manny Ramirez after a full night of baserunning gaffs and poor overall decision-making.
But the hope stayed alive. And while the pulse was weak while the Sox were on the verge of extinction, it grew stronger every night. They made me a believer
once again with good coaching, timely hitting, and clutch hitting.
They finally beat the Yanks, making history in the process, and steamrolled through three World Series games with the best team in the National League.
And while I was watching Game 4, I realized something.
I had nothing to complain about.
For the first time since those days when all I worried about was sorting my baseball card collection into Topps, Fleer, and Donruss, I could just sit and soak
up what was happening. I was seeing the greatest Red Sox team ever assembled.
Thank you, 2004 Boston Red Sox. You taught me to never give up, even when the times are tough, you're back's against the wall, and people are just about out of faith for you.
And when I wake up tomorrow there will not be any need to dissect your performance. Goodnight, Bambino.
