On behalf of fellow baseball fans, thank you.
After 86 years, you’ve achieved what no one ever (really) thought was even likely.
More to the point, in a stretch of eleven days, you achieved what nobody in his or her right mind thought was even within the realm of possibility—and probably put a fair number of people in the hospital in the process.
Four in a row against the Yankees (whom no one outside of Yankee nation likes) and then four in a row against the Cardinals (whom no one outside of Cardinal nation roots for).
There was a lunar eclipse--don't know what it means, but it warrants mentioning.
Manny was given up on.
Pedro is old.
What WOULD Johnny Damon do?
My girlfriend was at home on the other side of town. And she watched. In fact, she called her mom. Said, "Keith Foulke is on the mound. Mom, you should look, because I know you loved him when he was with the White Sox."
Her mom watched. My mom watched. And I hate to be gender specific for a moment, but damn, what other sport gets moms and wives and girlfriends watching?
Curt Schilling became a saint tonight.
Read that sentence again.
Pedro, as if he needed any more of an invitation, entered the Hall of Fame tonight. And then ran around the outfield with the World Series Trophy over his head, looking like he’d just won the lottery. Twice.
Tonight was about Boston. The Red Sox and their fans. Everyone who follows baseball knew what tonight was, knew what it meant. Whether you thought there was too much of it or not, it was there for everyone to see.
The Cardinals were a great team. Their fans are fantastic, period. I will not argue with anyone about this. Some say, "Hey, they are too quiet when things got hectic for their team." Oh, really? So you're saying that the Cards fans recognized that their team was up against something much, much bigger than just the 2004 AL champs? And refused to scream and yell unless they had two strikes or two outs?
Intelligence is not a cop out. Intelligence is a positive. The Cards fans, PRECISELY because they did not mindlessly scream and yell, earned my respect.
They knew. Perhaps even before we did.
And that's why I write this thank you note.
Thank you for the thread on Sons of Sam Horn "win it for (insert your name here)".
I saw "Good Will Hunting." I read the "Sports Guy." I'm on board. Along with every other baseball fan.
Thank you for Pedro. Thank you for Tim Wakefield. Thank you for Papi. And Manny and Millar, and Mueller. And Johnny Damon.
Thank you. This is the type of team that 8 year olds are going to speak about reverently when they are 80.
And isn't that why we watch? So that the 8 year old in all of us gets it?
This isn’t a bandwagon issue. I’m going to be in Boston for business reasons this weekend. I will not be buying a hat. I will not purchase a Red Sox jersey (although years of dealing with evangelical Protestants while at a Christian high school have made a What Would Johnny Damon Do? T-shirt awfully tempting).
I have a team. And I will continue to root for them. There’s been no conversion here. But you’ve given us something we all can appreciate, merely by our joint status as fans of baseball.
The punk band Dropkick Murphys have a song called simply, "For Boston"—it’s the opening song on a CD which features a very stout, very serious, very Irish looking baby with a beanie cap on the cover.
I’m not from Boston. I’m not Irish. And I’m certainly never going to be mistaken for a punker. Of course, it’s one of my favorite CDs.
I won't bore you with the lyrics.
But the first words you hear are "For Bo-ston, FOR BO-STON, we'll sing out, loud and proud!"
Indeed.
