Home Sweet Home Opener
By Karlsie
I wanted to take today off from work as a religious holiday - but they didn't buy it and I didn't want to push things because I'm taking all of next week off. Instead, I rushed out of work exactly on time (a rarity for me) and listened to the game on the Spanish station as I ran to pick up kids after track and lacrosse. I don't speak Spanish, but I kept hoping to hear the equivalent of "ggggggooooooooaaaaaaaalllllll" as I listened. Much to my disappointment, that didn't happen - of course, there were no runs scored as I listened, so perhaps that was part of the problem. The commentary was fun to listen to, but it wasn't long before I was searching for the game in English to figure out what was happening.
At the high school, the track meet was in full swing and there were radios tuned to the game (in English) all over the stadium. Instead of the usual warm ups and such that normally happen in early April, kids were huddled around speakers hanging on every word - leaving to warm up only when the coaches made first call for their race.
My son was one of the exceptions. He has entered the second phase of Sox fandom: believing if he says, "I don't care enough," that he will believe it. That he won't care, he won't find himself straining in public places to catch the score. That he won't have his heart broken in August or October. It began shortly after he realized he'd never be anything more than a mediocre player and quit organized baseball - but I know better. I tried it myself when I was his age - but the Sox always find a way of reeling you back in when you're guard is down.
After all, this child went to his first Sox game when he was 3 weeks old and "saw" Clemens pitch. I read him Giamatti's "Green Fields of the Mind" as a bedtime story and one of his earliest memories is the smell of roasted peanuts on Yawkey Way. Here it is, 15 years later and when he is going through a rough time, the best way to comfort him is to hand him a jar of roasted peanuts and just let him inhale the heavenly ambrosia.
Despite his pretended nonchalance, in the car, he couldn't help but listen and speculate how many languages the game was being broadcast in. "You think there's a Russian or German station carrying the game right now?" he asked. I recently handed him John Hough, Jr.'s book "A Player for a Moment," to help him come to grips with all this. Every so often I catch him sneaking a look at the photo on the back cover of Hough and Pesky in sitting together in the dugout. It won't be long until he's back in the fold with the rest of us.
We picked up his little brother after lacrosse practice at the middle school. He stood by the flag pole wearing his Yankee Haters cap and ran to the car as quickly as he could.
"Mr. Teelin said the score was 7 to 1 in the 7th," he cried out breathlessly, "any changes?"
"Not yet."
We made it home to catch the last two innings. After which we celebrated by popping the Drop Kick Murphys' CD "Tessie" in his computer and dancing around the dining room singing, "Tessie, you are the only, only, o-o-only," at the top of our lungs.
My husband walked in, took one look and shook his head. I know he can't help being born in New York - and I have long since forgiven him for it - but he really doesn't understand what it is to be a Sox fan. He grew up with real winners: before salaries worth more than the GNP of a third world country, steroids, and endorsement deals that make you ashamed we have live in a land of such wretched excess. He came of age when it was Mantle and Maris and DiMaggio. Winning was New York's manifest destiny, its divine right and Boston's burden to bear.
He shrugged his shoulders saying, "We'll give you this one because of the day," but I know better. We won today because it counted. Today was the day the Red Sox nation turned its lonely eyes to our boys and they brought it home for us.
Don't blame us if we ever doubt you, you know we can't live with out ya - Red Sox, you are the only, only o-only..
Today we win - and it was the sweet taste of this victory is something we will savor all summer.
