Winter Reflections
By Karlsie
Since it's a new year and everyone is doing the reflection thing, I figured I'd reflect a bit on the why I'm a Sox fan thing.
Every so often, the kids ask if I'd be such a Sox fan if I had grown up outside of Boston. Would I be a Yankees fan if I grew up in NYC or a fan of the Tribe if I lived in a city where the river once caught fire? The honest answer is I don't know. I became a fan early on because of my big brother, Stevie. As a teen babysitting his pesty baby sister, he wanted to watch the game and I, being the adorable toddler that I was, wanted to play. When the announcer talked about a foul into the box seats, I asked him what a box seat was. He went out into the garage, found a box and stuffed me in it saying, "There's your box seat, now shut up and watch the game."
I've been hooked ever since.
Some forty odd years later, it's hard to know if that's a family legend, truth or something in between - sort of like the time one of my siblings dared me to shove my father's cufflinks in the electrical outlet to see sparks, and I did (that sibling now claims it never happened, but others remember me blowing myself across the family room) - but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Stevie is the same brother who used to bring home a bobblehead doll and the paper megaphone with the Red Sox logo on it you got when you bought popcorn at the game for me. I used to have a stack of those megaphones on my dresser in my bedroom before my mother threw them out declaring we'd be "overrun with ants" if I didn't.
I am ready to confess I didn't watch the game where the '67 Sox won the pennant. I was outside playing with some kids from my suburban neighborhood. It was one of those, "You need to get outside and play more�" sort of nags from my mother. I was also in one of those modes where I couldn't play little league (girls need not apply in those days) in a time when it was more fun to play baseball than watch it, so I had a bit of an attitude when it came to watching televised games.
There was a collective roar that went up from the houses on the street and the teens in the neighborhood soon came rushing past on their Raleigh choppers and Schwinn Stingrays - leaving skid marks and popping wheelies in excitement - the Red Sox had won the pennant!
When you grow up in the Boston area, the Sox are part of the background consciousness that comes with labeling yourself a Bostonian. My moments as a Sox fan can be defined by certain things. I remember sitting in the bleachers checking out Fred Lynn's backside in '78 - when the choice was a six pack of beer or a bleacher seat for your $3. We used to chant "Freddy, Freddy" to try and get him to wave to us. I took both of my boys to their first games before they were born. In 1989, I was opening day with my friends to celebrate the arrival of the Baseball Ghod himself: Nick Esasky. (Yes, his framed 8x10 still hangs in my office with the sentiment: to Karla from Nick Esasky, "Baseball Ghod.")
It is a part of who I am. I can't imagine a time when I was ever not a Sox fan. Baseball has surged and faded - like the tide rolling in and out of my life - but it has always been there in the background. I think it also gives me a sense of perspective. I remember when the Sox were so bad that you couldn't give tickets away. I look at today's depth chart and think: we're not doing too badly. Sure, there are holes I'd love to plug, but overall we're in decent shape. Young people today are spoiled - three years in a row we've made it to the post season. We're in a cycle where our hearts are broken in October instead of August and even had a year where it wasn't broken at all with a World Series win.
You're spoiled, I'm not. I can watch the hot stove (mis)dealings with a smile of wry amusement and hope. I've seen how pathetic this team can be and, trust me, we are head and shoulders over that pathos.
Pitchers and catchers report for duty in just over six weeks. In between there are the Winter Olympics in Turino, driving kids to curling (or, as I prefer to call it, Canadian bowling) and lacrosse practice as well as baseball clinics and everything else. But come February, you'll hear me cry: "Play Ball!" to herald the coming summer months when the world is right again.
