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The pilgrimage followed the forever route, due east, then north for Hartford. They cheered Berry in Bridgeport, and they cheered him anew in Hartford, a place that had assumed a hallowed significance in BLOHARDS lore. Berry had been born in Hartford, a place that, entirely due to Berry, had assumed a hallowed significance in BLOHARDS legend. Berry, who as a Connecticut lad could have gone either way (Sox or Yanks), had, as he says, grown up under the spell of Sox radio announcer Fred Hoey. Berrys grandfather Bunts Berry, the first man in the history of Hartford to bunt, having laid one down in 1878. The Ballad of Bunts Berry used to be dutifully recited each April as the bus passed the old East Hartford cutoff. The year I traveled with the BLOHARDS, Berry himself delivered the rendition of the legendary tale. Maybe Powers still tells of Bunts Berry during the bus trip, maybe another old-timer like Dick Durrell, the guy who organized the championship trophys upcoming visit to Fairfield, has taken up the task. I dont know. The nouveau BLOHARDS seem more taken with Tessie, a lyric the Royal Rooters used to sing to rouse the crowd back at the turn of the last century. Sox management unearthed the tune, and the story behind it, a year or two ago, and Dr. Charles—thats Charles Steinberg, the magician of community relations for the Henry/Lucchino gang, the wizard behind the wonderful ring-presentation festivities at Fenways Opening Day—arranged for the Boston band Dropkick Murphys to make a new recording. Its pretty good, but . . . I just dont know. Tessie belongs to everyone in the Nation, anyone with the ninety-nine cents to download it. Bunts Berry belonged to the BLOHARDS. I hope someone in the membership still remembers how it goes.
As Berry sat down after his stirring tribute to his grandfather, copies of the 1985 BLOHARDS quiz were handed out. It was a simple test for any fanatical fan, and the bus trippers were, to a man, fanatical fans:
To the BLOHARDS, that last one was a howler. They couldnt contain themselves. Hoffman! Haw, Haw!! Sheesh. Hoffman!!
The reminiscing began. Yeah, claimed one BLOHARD, I was at the 78 playoff game, (That gave him points, even though the game featured every BLOHARDs darkest nightmare). I went to that entire last series against Toronto (more points). No, said another, I honestly was not at Game Six of the 75 Series (deduction), but I went to an earlier Series game (add a few). Frank Malzone? Bill Monbouquette? Eddie Bressoud? Sure—saw em all as a kid.
It was me making that last comment. I was loosening up. Remember this? I asked, and began in my cracked, altogether awful tenor. Hi, neighbor, have a Gansett/Give that lager beer a chance it/Has that straight from the barrel taste . . . A couple of others joined in: In bottle, can, on tap its great/Yes Gansetts got the flavor/Nar-ra-gan-sett flavor/A taste thats light/But not too light/Straight from the barrel taste/Thats right!/Thats Gansett.
God, said one BLOHARD, It seemed like Curt Gowdy played that every inning. It seemed like it was the only commercial he had.
As for our getting it right, a BLOHARD elder chipped in: Too easy. He was right.
Our membership seems to get younger and younger, Berry said, even back then, before the 86 team reenergized the Nation big time. Very few are left who remember Black Jack Wilson and Fritz Ostermueller from the 30s. Whatever . . . The club is prospering. There has been serious talk of starting a BLOHARDS chapter in Chicago—there are plenty of Red Sox fans there. Most of them dont recall Irene Hennessey, but they root for the Sox. Thats what counts.
Who was Irene Hennessey? I asked.
Berry looked at me. Why, he answered finally, Shes the one who first sang the Have a Gansett jingle. He paused. I assumed you knew. Its not always easy, being a BLOHARD.
But Berry was right when he declared that, among the BLOHARDS, all that matters is loving the Sox. Breeding, position, intelligence, wealth—these things dont mean much when youre wearing a baseball cap. This salient fact was acted out, in a way, as the bus parked behind Fenway, and the unsteady BLOHARDS piled out and headed gleefully for the window to pick up tickets that had been left for them by Arthur Moscato, the estimable ticket director, and Dick Bresciani, the cherished media-relations chief. There were, presumably, some pretty bright and pretty successful people in this ragtag, slightly sodden assemblage. But all they were at the moment was Red Sox fans, and—excepting a Little League single by a son or daughter, or the birth of a grandchild—this was about as happy as they could be in this life.
There were more BLOHARDS inside Fenway. Suzyn Waldman, down on the field singing the national anthem, was introduced to the crowd as being from New York (boos) and Boston (cheers). Yes, sports fans, that Suzyn Waldman—the one who has been, in recent years, in the employ of George Steinbrenner and his YES Network, the one who this season stepped in for Charlie Steiner in the radio booth when Charlie headed for Los Angeles to be Vin Scullys sidekick. Heres something to suck on, Yankee fans: In the 1980s and 90s Waldman was a BLOHARD, her dues were always paid up. Her dog in 1985 was named Fenway. Im betting that if she still has a dog, hes named Fenway Two or Fenway Three. Were everywhere. And Suzyn, youre outed.
BLOHARDS all over the lot. There was a big BLOHARD in Section 22, Row 21, Seat 14 (names withheld). Seat 14 is a school administrator from Manhattan who sheepishly admitted to me that he was playing hooky. He had called too late to get a seat on the bus, but had driven up nonetheless.
There was a BLOHARD sitting next to him who was in private debate over the wisdom of ordering a beer even in this frigid weather. He ordered two.
There was a BLOHARD in Row 19 (name not even sought). He was in the end seat next to a pretty young Bostonian. He could have been her father, but that wasnt what he was trying to be.
The BLOHARDS had an active and exciting day at Fenway, and so did the Red Sox. The Hose, who were showing signs of life in the mid-1980s—showing signs of being the team they would be right through the 90s—eventually hosed the Yanks 9-2, and the game immediately became part of BLOHARDS lore. Attendance at this opener became something that would earn you points at future club functions.
Happily, very happily, the BLOHARDS headed back to their bus. They settled into their seats, cracked open Gansetts and started chattering away in BLOHARDS fashion. Surely Oil Can Boyd will win 20 games this season, and surely the Sox will score 900 runs . . . Surely well finish ahead of the Yanks, surely well win the pennant . . .Surely well be World Champions, just like we were only yesterday, in 1918 . . . One by one, BLOHARDS fells asleep. When they awoke, they were back in New York, exiles again, forced anew to take what nourishment they might from those unreasonable dreams of hope.
So that, my pink-cheeked Bosox newcomers, is what the grizzled old BLOHARDS are about. Or, at least, were about, before we did in fact win it all, thus becoming fashionable and far less woebegone.
As any few of you who have chanced upon Our Red Sox in the past few months might have realized, parts of the above history are cribbed from my book. Of course, as any of you who know anything about the business Im in are well aware, double-dipping is a time-honored journalistic tradition.