SOX FANS ARE MADE, NOT JUST BOURNE
By Chuck Bourne
I moved to Boston in the fall of 2001. Having lived in Somerville during the summer of 2000, I knew exactly what to expect in this city. That year the Red Sox went 85-77. Walking up to the Fenway ticket office and grabbing tickets for any remaining games between the middle of June and the time I had to return to school wasn’t even an issue. Having grown up attending San Francisco Giants games at the stadium near the park that may nor may not still be called Candlestick Point; I grew accustomed to this aspect of ticket purchasing. I had been to Fenway before, but this summer I was older and able to appreciate the subtle intricacies of baseball more.
In August of 2001 a friend and I packed up his Honda Civic and headed to Boston. After three weeks of living like Gypsies and criss-crossing this great nation, we arrive in Boston. The second night here we headed down to a Bar near Faneuil Hall. After a few beers I looked around and knew I had made the right decision for this portion of my life.
That season the Sox finished 82-79, missing the playoffs once again. I only caught the tail end of that season, but fondly remember the disasters that were Darren Oliver and Frank Castillo. I had the pleasure of seeing Rickey Henderson playing left field in 45 degree rainy weather wearing a full body thermal suit and looking like he didn’t even know where he was. That night sticks out in my mind since the Bruins lost their first round series to the Habs and crushed the hopes of hockey fans all over the Northeast. Yet sitting there in Fenway, shivering and probably contracting pneumonia I truly enjoyed myself. Granted, the field level seats helped, but I knew I would be back.
Last season was a roller coaster ride that ended in heartbreak. Considering the way things are going through Monday afternoon, I don’t want to revisit that ALCS. Let’s just say that at some point during that season the Sox got to me. I can’t pinpoint the day, the play but I was hooked. I would watch nearly every game each night. My roommate Steve seemed to be in the same boat. We would watch the games in our lavish Brighton apartment, mock players on other teams and marvel in the unbiased fashion in which Remy and Orsillo would call every game
from above home plate.
I don’t recall the day tickets went on sale this year, but the following Monday I had a doctor’s appointment in the morning. This forced me to take the 57 bus to Kenmore and hop on the Green Line headed towards downtown. The appointment was uncharacteristically quick, which left me time to check out and see what tickets were still on sale. As I arrive at Fenway there were about 50 people in line
already. It was maybe 40, slightly drizzly and just cold. I had no gloves, no hat and a thin old fleece on. Going on to work at that point was not an option. I ended up with tickets against the Yankees in April, a Saturday day game against the Dodgers and game in July against the A’s. The A’s tickets were piggy backed, since I couldn’t even get two together. I lucked out with some good games but was so panicked that tickets would sell out while I was deliberating that I didn’t even know what games I had until I got to my office.
Regardless of how things go tonight and in the rest of the games of the ALCS, it was a great season. I have never seen a team that had such character, individuality and a feeling of togetherness at the same time. I can’t really say why I decided to write this. I think it came about as I was sitting at my desk around 11 this morning. I feel like a character played by Dave Chappelle in his brilliant sketch comedy show.
The last two and a half days are like a blur and my body can’t fully deal with it. I watched the game on Saturday night in a Philadelphia sports bar. Although the city is known as the city of Brotherly Love, I ended up in a heated verbal exchange with another patron simply because he walked by and made a side comment about the Red Sox always losing. This gentleman ended up asking both my friend and I outside, which we both politely declined in a most sophisticated manner. I felt as if he were personally attacking me with his casual comment. I
couldn’t just sit by idly and let it slide. So here I am. I have already read Bill Simmons’ latest column and even read most of his chat until the overlords at ESPN switched so only "Insiders" can read the transcript. Three hours to go and I honestly have no idea what to expect. I don’t want Tony Clark, John Olerud and Ruben Sierra celebrating in this city. These players should all be bench coaches
somewhere or playing golf right now. Instead they have each had enormous impacts on various games this October. This needs to stop.
I can’t wait until tickets go on sale next year.
P.S. Spellcheck attempts to change Olerud to "overdue." Overdue is defined as "Coming or arriving after the scheduled or expected time." Coincidence? I doubt it.
