(2 of 6)
There are hundreds of people on the BLOHARDS mailing list. Strangers in a strange land, enemies behind the lines, living day by day in a condition perhaps most acutely expressed by Aeschylus in Agamemnon when he wrote: "I have seen how men in exile feed on dreams of hope." I'd like to poll that membership right now (I think to myself as the cab pulls up to the curb), and ask the question, Would you rather win it all, or would you rather beat the Yanks? I would wager that, while the larger Red Sox Nation would choose the whole enchilada, the BLOHARDS precincts would vote for a Yankee killing. I know I would, I conclude as I hand over 30 and, still feeling beneficent, say, "Keep it. Cowboy Up!" The cabbie doesn't understand English very well, but nods energetically.
Where would you meet to divvy up the ducats but at Legal Seafoods? My sister Gail, who works at Gillette, comes down from the 47th floor of the Pru Tower to join us, bearing the pair of Game Five tickets that she has scored. Her friend Millie arrives, and she will sit alongside Gail in Section 8. I have my press pass plus four excellent seats in Section 13, several rows up but right behind first. In the Spirit of '78, which you might have read about in Part I of this diary, I have called my friend Bag, who is coming with his wife, Annie (to whom I had introduced him, lo those years ago). The other two seats will go to my lifelong friends from Chelmsford, Bruce and Mike. When it comes to valuable Bosox tickets, you call the usual suspects. And those suspects show up.Mike and Bruce order Guinness; I have a bowl of the world's finest (and realest) clam chowder, plus a Sam Adams, because this is a day about Boston, not Ireland.
"Cowboy Up!" we toast, as I hand out the tickets.
"Slainte!"
"Reverse the Curse!" someone adds.
"Yeah, " I say. "I read where David Wells actually believes in it. He said it was one man's opinion, but he believes the Babe has cursed us and he's going to do his part to keep the Curse alive even though he hasn't pitched well in Fenway. He believes the Curse is real."
"You don't?"
"Well . . . no. Do you?"
There is a good deal of equivocation among these several college-educated, non-institutionalized adults. Finally I change the subject. "What's with Gerry Callahan, anyway?" (see Part II here)
"A shame upon Chelmsford," Mike answers.
"He made a mistake," says Bruce, who also has great sympathy for Rush Limbaugh as he heads in for treatment.
We have two rounds and then head for John Updike's bandbox. Walking up Comm Ave, we lament the (long ago, now) demise of the Eliot Lounge, and talk about how spiffed up and luxe the brick townhouses look. "When I was here in '76, college kids lived in them."
"Couldn't touch 'em now."
The river of Bosox fans that streams through the Kenmore confluence on Game Day is a shimmering, sublime organism. On Game Day Against the Yankees, ALCS tied 2-2, it is biblical in its gloriousness and, by way of contrast, in its solemnity. It has in its flow the wide-eyed child, the rambunctious youth, the hopeful parent, the dreadfilled pensioner, the helped-along grandmother. And, in this instance, at least one suburban cowboy from Westchester County. "Can I borrow your hat?" asks an (obviously) B.U. coed who has recently (and very obviously) been in proximity of a keg. Not today, sister. But by the way: Where were you 30 years ago?
There's no question: As we settle into our seats, we think we're going to win today. When Derek cruises the first on the swell of only eight pitches, we're sure of it. He's on, we're on, the future is afoot. Old Dom (You're Better Than Your Brother Joe) DiMaggio threw a perfect strike to start things off with his ceremonial pitch, and everything has carried on from there. Tonight, Manny goes yard (as they say), Nomar breaks out, Trot and Walker continue to do the things they've been doing this autumn, and then we hand it over the Williamson, who's got as much mo as Mo. So what if Wells got us in the first, too, now we're going to . . .
Issue a walk.
Another walk.
Oh, good, Boone.
0-2. Great.
Good, a grounder.
Jeezus, No!