There's Always Next Year, Part 5

Sunday, October 24, 2004

           

For the first time in almost twenty years, The Red Sox were heading back to the Fall Classic and would be facing the St. Louis Cardinals, and the effects were felt all throughout the city of Boston. The story was all over the local news, on the radio, and it was being talked about everywhere. Fans were exuding a mixed sense of confidence and jubilation. The catch phrase was the same everywhere you went: Go Sox! It was a great time to be a part of the city of Boston.

My Uncle Ray and I were heading to the bleachers for game two. Game one had been on Saturday night, and my father went with Josh. I didn’t have many opportunities to go to games with my uncle, but I appreciated it when I did. I thrived off his passion for the game, which was always in full display. He always increased my enjoyment of the whole experience of attending a baseball game.

I missed most of game one because I had to attend a wedding. I spent most of the night running between the reception hall and a separate bar that had the game on. The Sox were up 7-2 early, but allowed the Cardinals to tie it up in the sixth inning. Thanks to a late inning home run by Mark Bellhorn, the Sox would go on to take game one 11-9.

           

I had a much more positive attitude compared to the Yankee series. The way I felt about the rivalry with the Yankees over the years was that they were the bullies of the playground, and the Sox were a constant victim having their lunch money stolen. There was a lot more tension in the ballpark during those games, and when they were over I always felt drained. But now the Sox had stood up and defeated the bully, and with the roll they were on, they appeared to be untouchable.

.          

Schilling was starting for Boston. I wasn’t sure how he would be able to follow up his performance in New York, but he was up to the task. He pitched six innings, allowing only one unearned run. The Sox pitching was too much for the Cardinals to handle, and the Red Sox took a 2-0 series lead with a 6-2 win as the series headed to St. Louis. Sox fans, including myself, could feel what had eluded them for decades finally within their grasp.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

           

Alan and I once again decided to go out near Fenway, this time meeting friends at Tequila Rain on Landsdowne Street. As we walked down Landsdowne, many fans were lined up at the other bars and clubs that occupied the street located behind the Green Monster. I was worried that we weren’t going to be allowed into the bar because the place was already going to be full.

           

Once inside, we made our way towards the large back area, which opened up to a long bar along on one side of the room with numerous large screen televisions on the wall behind it. Tables were packed in all throughout, and we were able to find a seat relatively close to the bar. It was a great venue to watch any type of sporting event.

Game three of the series was on Tuesday, and the Cardinals couldn’t figure out Pedro Martinez, who pitched seven shutout innings. St. Louis would score their only run in the bottom of the ninth, but it wasn’t enough to beat the Sox, who took game three 4-1.          

Derek Lowe started for the Red Sox in game four, and was just as masterful as he was in game seven in New York, giving up only three hits and no runs in seven innings. The Sox scored three runs early, and were holding onto the 3-0 lead as the game rolled towards the later innings.

           

As the ninth inning approached, I was standing next to the table that my friends were occupying. Reminiscent of Coogan’s only a year before, I found that I couldn’t sit. I was brewing with nervousness, excitement and anticipation. I didn’t know how I was going to handle a wish that I had been holding onto since I was a child finally coming true.

When Red Sox pitcher Keith Foulke made the final out of the game, broadcast announcer Joe Buck said the words that will reverberate in my mind forever.

           

“Red Sox fans have longed to hear it. The Boston Red Sox are World Champions.”

           

As the bar went crazy, so did the players on the field. The Red Sox all rushed towards the pitcher’s mound, jumping on top of each other. The leaps of joy turned into embraces as the cameras worked their way between the players. They all received World Series hats and t-shirts, and eventually moved the celebration from the field to the locker room for toasts and champagne showers.

The party in the bar made its way out to Landsdowne Street. Everyone was cheering, exchanging high fives and hugs. Alan and I shuffled through the crowd, following droves of people heading away from the park towards Boylston Street. For a long while we joined fans strolling up and down the middle of Boylston, reveling in the festivity.

As the crowds began to thin out, Alan and I headed back home. I was too amped to even think about sleeping. I continued to watch the celebrations on television, switching between the team’s highlights in St. Louis and the stragglers who were still hanging around the streets of Boston. Eventually I forced myself to turn the television off, and was able to find some sleep.

Saturday, October 30, 2004

           

I met a group of my friends behind my office early in the morning and we began walking up Commonwealth Avenue towards Kenmore Square. It was the day of the rolling parade, where the Red Sox would ride on Duck Boats through the city, saluting fans and showing off the World Series trophy.

           

As we arrived on Boylston Street in the Back Bay, people were already lining up on the sidewalks to claim a front row seat. We decided to duck into Whiskey’s, one of the several bars across from the Prudential building, which was already starting to fill up. A beer at 9:00 in the morning never tasted so good.

           

The parade began around 10:00, and hit Boylston Street shortly thereafter. As the Duck Boats rolled by, the reality of what I had experienced over the past couple of weeks really hadn’t sunk in yet. I still couldn’t believe they had won. But they had finally done it. A group of self-proclaimed “idiots” had defied the odds and had broken a curse that had been hanging over the organization for eighty-six years. They had done it not only for me, but for Red Sox fans young and old all over the world.

I later found out that on the night they won that my father and my uncle were on the phone with each other at the end of the game; my father at his home in Massachusetts and my uncle at home in Florida. My uncle had taken my grandfather’s ashes off his mantle, and was holding them on his lap during the final out. My uncle even flew up from Florida to attend the rolling parade. For many around Boston and New England, the win meant more than just the breaking of a curse and trophies. It bonded family, friends and generations, and we gladly thanked them for it. For my family, the years of agonizing and torment we subjected ourselves to had finally come to an end. More importantly, fans no longer had say those words that had haunted them for decades: “There’s always next year.” Next year had finally arrived for Red Sox Nation, and it will hold a special place in our hearts and memories forever.

There's Always Next Year, Part 4

Friday, October 8, 2004

           

The Red Sox ended up with the Wild Card playoff spot and drew the American League West Champion Anaheim Angels in the Division Series. Being the Wild Card and not winning the division, they had to open on the road in the best three out of five game first round series. The bats opened up for the Sox in Anaheim, outscoring the Angels 17-6 to take the first two games. Game three was home at Fenway, where the Sox would look for a sweep of the series.

           

One concern for the team was the status of Curt Schilling. After leading the team with twenty-one wins during the regular season, Schilling was called upon to pitch game one in Anaheim and set the tone for the rest of the rotation. He pitched a solid game, allowing two earned runs over 6 2/3 innings, but he re-aggravated a right ankle injury from earlier in the season. It was being diagnosed as tendinitis and Schilling was scheduled to make his remaining scheduled starts for the rest of the playoffs, but it was a little concerning to fans and something to keep an eye one.

           

The Red Sox would be sending Bronson Arroyo to the mound to attempt to close out the series, and the Angels would be countering with eleven game winner Kelvim Escobar. The Sox faced Escobar once during the regular season in July, where he we was outdueled by Pedro Martinez in a 4-2 loss.

           

My dad and I took our normal route to the park for the 4:10 start. October weather was similar to early April; you needed layers, especially when the sun went down. With the winter months looming the night air tended to be more brisk.

           

The level of excitement from attending a regular season game was multiplied a hundred times over for a playoff game. The amount of fans walking around the ballpark before the game seemed to magnify, giving off a positive buzz with the anticipation of winning the series.

           

If there was any drawback of not having season tickets for a full season, it was that we were relocated to the bleachers for the entire post season. The seats were further off the field, and being more outside the action and surrounded by more people, there were tendencies for more distractions from the game. Plus most of the seats around Fenway were not built for the average size adult, being cramped on top of each other with not much leg room. I could usually follow multiple conversations of people sitting around me. But there was a totally different atmosphere in the bleachers, where most fans had two beers in their hands at all times during the game. I always had a blast, despite the diversions and the loud fan sitting behind you. We ended up in section forty, a small triangle of seats right behind the Red Sox bullpen. It was a good vantage point close to the field and straight back from the pitcher’s mound.

           

The game could not have started out any better. The Sox opened up a 6-1 lead after five innings, and Arroyo pitched a solid game, striking out seven Angels and allowing only two runs over six innings. It appeared they were on their way to an easy victory until it unraveled in the top of the seventh. After three walks and a single, the Angels scored a run and still had the bases loaded with their slugger Vladimir Guerrero coming to the plate. On a 0-1 pitch from Sox reliever Mike Timlin, Guerrero hit a towering shot that looked like it was going to clear the atmosphere.

           

“It’s coming right at us,” I said.

           

The Sox right fielder Trot Nixon made an effort on the ball, but it was no use. It cleared the wall in right center field for a grand slam. An engulfing groan was heard throughout the crowd. The game was tied at six. I couldn’t help but provoke that familiar sinking feeling in my gut. Was this all going to unravel right before my very eyes?

           

Our prayers were answered in the bottom on the tenth. With a runner on first base and two outs in the inning, Boston’s “Big Papi” David Ortiz hit the first pitch he saw off Angels’ pitcher Jerrod Washburn over the Green Monster. The ball park exploded. The team’s signature victory anthem, The Standells’ “Dirty Water”, was drowned out by the massive cheers.

           

The ballpark emptied out into the streets, where the cheers and energy of the crowd continued. As my father and I circled the ballpark, fans were calling for the Yankees, who were still dueling with Minnesota in their first round series. But Sox fans knew the inevitable, and with a potential rematch of 2003 looming, they wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

           

My buddy Jeff and a couple of other friends were picking me up at my apartment in Watertown. We were going to a concert out in Worcester, a city in the central part of the state about an hour from Boston along the Massachusetts Turnpike. I was looking forward to the concert, but I would be paying a price. The Red Sox would also be opening the American League Championship series in New York. I had bought my ticket for the concert months in advance, and unfortunately the timing couldn’t have been worse.

           

Overall I was pretty confident about the game. Curt Schilling would be taking the mound for the Sox in game one against the Yankees’ twelve game winner Mike Mussina, who was 1-1 in three starts against Boston during the regular season. This was the type of game that the Sox acquired Schilling for, and fans were expecting him to step up. Mussina on the other hand had been a thorn in the side of the Red Sox since signing with the Yankees in 2001. That same year, he almost threw a perfect game in September at Fenway Park. In game seven of the championship series in 2003, he pitched three stellar innings of scoreless relief, holding the Sox at four runs that allowed the Yankees to ultimately rally back in the game. It had all the makings for a classic matchup.

           

We made it to the arena in Worcester, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t help thinking how I was allowing myself the miss the game. Why on earth did I buy a ticket for a concert in the middle of October? My friends were in the same predicament, but it didn’t seem to bother them as much.

           

It turned out I didn’t miss much of anything. About halfway through the show I made my way to the concourse to fill up my beer. One of my friends was already in line, and I caught him just as he was hanging up his phone.

           

“Any word on the game?” I asked him.

           

“They’re losing 6-0. Schilling got shelled,” was all he could reply.

           

On the ride home we listened to the late innings in the car. The Sox were able to pull within one run in the top of the eighth, but the Yankees scored two more runs in the same inning. I was confident they had one more rally left in them, but up by three with two outs in the eighth, New York brought in Mariano Rivera to close out the game. Rivera didn’t actually arrive to Yankee Stadium until the second inning, flying directly from Panama after attending the funeral of two family members. It didn’t deter him from doing his job. After forcing first baseman Kevin Millar to pop out to end the eighth, he pitched a scoreless ninth to earn the save, a routine that Yankee fans had grown accustomed to in October.

           

The biggest concern for the Fenway Faithful was the status of Curt Schilling. His ankle injury appeared to be more serious than originally anticipated, and the Yankees took full advantage. He had ruptured the membrane surrounding a tendon, and his outlook for the rest of the postseason was doubtful. Talks of surgery in the offseason were already being discussed.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. The one guy the Sox brought in to help them over the hump and break the curse was going to succumb to an injury. It appeared the repeated nightmare of falling short to the Yankees was coming true all over again. With the luck of the Red Sox and what I’ve experienced in the past, what else was there to expect?

Saturday, October 16, 2004

           

Alan and I left Watertown on the afternoon of Friday the 15th and began driving into the city to attend game three until the radio told us that the game was postponed due to the weather. Watching the rain come down on my car, I was a little relieved we didn’t have to brave the elements. We turned around and headed home.

           

Saturday turned out to be a decent day and my dad and I headed to the game. Bronson Arroyo would be pitching for the Sox against the Yankees Kevin Brown. Boston was in a 0-2 hole coming back to Fenway, losing a tough pitcher’s duel in game two. Pedro Martinez allowed three runs over six innings, but it wasn’t enough. The Sox bats were stifled by Jon Lieber, who allowed just one run over seven solid innings. Boston desperately needed to win game three to put themselves back in the series.

           

Back in the bleachers for the 8:10 start, the atmosphere had a heightened sense of anticipation from the Division Series. During the regular season, Yankee games were always special events, and the crowd is fired up from the first pitch. In the postseason, this attitude was amplified. Knowing how important this game was, fans also were restless.  

           

When the Yankees started the game with three runs in the first off a Hideki Matsui home run, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. This was turned around with the Sox scoring four in the second, with a little help from a Trot Nixon home run. Alex Rodriguez led off the third with another home run, and the Yankees scored two more runs in the inning. The Sox answered with two more runs of their own, and the game was tied at six after three innings.

At this point both starting pitchers were out of the game, now having to rely on their bullpens, benefitting from the extra day of rest from the rain. In this offensive slugfest, I could only wonder who was going to yield first. Which bullpen would step up and shut down the other team’s offense over the next six innings?

           

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Red Sox. The Yankees scored another eleven runs, and the Sox were trounced in game three, 19-8. When the game was pretty much in hand, my dad and I said goodbyes to some of the fans sitting around us, and headed for the exit. Looking dejected, my father made one thing clear to me as we left the ballpark.

           

“I can’t come back here tomorrow and watch the Yankees sweep us. I just can’t.”

           

I could only nod my head in agreement. As much as we tried to remain optimistic, it was tough to shake the same old feeling that we’ve grown accustomed to. History was not on our side either. No team in Major League Baseball had ever come back from down 0-3 to win a playoff series. If the franchises’ past and Schilling’s injury was any indication, it looked like it was going to be the same old result for the Red Sox; they would suffer yet another humbling defeat at the hand of the New York Yankees.

Sunday, October 17, 2004

           

With little argument from me, my father gave the tickets for the game that night to my cousin. I was very content with sitting in my warm and comfortable living room and watching the game on television. Plus I shared the same sympathies with my dad; if the Red Sox lost, I didn’t want to be there in person to witness it.

           

Alan and I settled into our recliners and prepared for an evening strenuous television watching. The Sox were giving the ball to Derek Lowe in an attempt to salvage a win, while the Yankees were countering with the “El Duque” Orlando Hernandez and his high pitching leg kick.

           

Lowe pitched a decent game, lasting into the sixth and surrendering only three runs. El Duque was equally effective, also allowing three runs over five innings. With a 4-3 lead, the Yankees called upon Mariano Rivera once again in the eighth inning to earn a six out save. Rivera did his job in the eighth, and the Red Sox were down to their final three outs.

           

I was sitting on the edge of my chair, my heart in my throat as Kevin Millar made his way to the batter’s box to begin the ninth. The camera panned through the crowd at Fenway, showing faces of fans clasping hands in front of their faces, hoping for any sort of life from their team. Their prayers were answered when Millar drew a five pitch walk just as the clock struck midnight at Fenway. Cinderella wouldn’t be going home from the ball just yet.

           

As Bill Mueller approached the plate from the on deck circle, Dave Roberts came out of the dugout to pinch run for Kevin Millar. Roberts was a speedster, who stole thirty eight out of forty one bases during the regular season. Right away, he stretched out to a big lead off of first base.

Rivera threw over to first three times to draw Roberts back to the bag, but it didn’t matter.

           

“He’s going,” I said. We both knew it. Rivera knew it. Everyone at Fenway Park knew it.

           

When Rivera finally delivered to home plate, Roberts took off. The pitch was high and outside, but it was in the vicinity that Yankees’ catcher Jorge Posada could make a throw to second base.

           

In that split second, all I could think of was the worst. Roberts was going to be out, and the Sox were going to squander their first base runner of the inning on a stolen base attempt. I almost didn’t want to watch, but my eyes were seared to the television. I held my breath as the throw made its way to second.

           

Roberts slid on the right side of the bag as Derek Jeter covered the base. The throw was close, but Roberts was able to sneak his left hand on the base before the tag could be applied. Safe!

Fenway erupted. I let out a sigh of relief as I sank back in my chair.

On the very next pitch, Mueller drove a base hit right past Rivera up the middle into center field. Roberts was on his horse, and came around to score the tying run. Fenway exploded again as the Sox were back in the game.

At this point I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and wasn’t sure how much more drama I could take. But nobody was heading to the exits at Fenway, and I wasn’t about to call it quits either.

The Fenway Faithful were rewarded for their patience, and it was well worth the wait. In the bottom of the twelfth inning after a Manny Ramirez single, David Ortiz was the hero again, hitting a home run to right field. The Sox dugout emptied as Ortiz made his way around the bases, and Fenway erupted one last time. After five hours and playing into the wee hours of Monday, the Sox had forced another game that would be played later that night. And I needed to get some sleep.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

The Sox had brought the series back to Yankee Stadium for game six. Game five was another marathon, clocking in at just less than six hours. It went into the fourteenth inning and required more late inning heroics by David Ortiz. After hitting a lead-off home run in the eighth inning to help tie the game at four, Ortiz singled up the middle in the fourteenth to score outfielder Johnny Damon and win the game 5-4. Big Papi was turning into Mr. Clutch, willing the Sox to victory when they needed it the most.

Game six was a different story though. It was announced that Curt Schilling would taking the mound for the Red Sox, even on his injured right ankle. He would be pitching with a torn tendon in his ankle, which was being held down by three stitches. Jon Lieber would once again be starting for the Yankees. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from the television.

Alan and I assumed our same positions in the living room. It was a cold, raw night in the Bronx with a light mist in the air. Neither team scored a run through the first three innings, and Schilling looked like he was on his game.  In the fourth inning the Sox opened up for four runs with the help of a home run from second baseman Mark Bellhorn. They would hold on to win 4-2 to force a game seven.

The story of the night was Curt Schilling, who was simply masterful. When he took the mound in the first inning, blood was already seeping through his right sock, which the broadcast kept focusing on throughout the game. He allowed only one run through seven innings and silenced 55,000 New York Yankee fans. For me, it was the gutsiest performances by a Boston athlete since Larry Bird. The bloody sock, and the win, would be a part of Red Sox lore for many years to come.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Here we go again. For the second straight year, the Red Sox and Yankees would need a deciding game seven to determine who was going to win the American League Pennant. I couldn’t help but feel positive about the game. The momentum was all in the Red Sox favor, and I thought they had an edge in the pitching matchup. The Sox would be relying in Derek Lowe, who pitched well in game four. He would be facing Kevin Brown, who only lasted two innings in game three at Fenway.

Alan and I decided to head to Boston Billiards to meet some friends and to watch the game. Right down the street from Fenway, it was a great place to mingle with other fans that would have an animated atmosphere. We arrived there early enough that we were able to score a great seat in front of their big screen television. The main bar, shaped like a giant horseshoe, was right behind us. Past the bar was a giant room, lined with rows of pool tables. As the first pitch drew near, the tables and the standing room between our seats and the bar filled in all around us.

The game couldn’t have started any better. The Sox put two runs on the board in the first inning off of a David Ortiz home run. This was followed in the second by a grand slam to right field by Johnny Damon, who had been struggling at the plate throughout the series. The bar was in mayhem as the Sox took a 6-0 lead, and the level of confidence in the room jumped through the roof.

All I could do was revel in the enjoyment of the rest of the game. Derek Lowe pitched a gem at the right time, allowing only one run through six innings. Johnny Damon hit another two run home run in the fourth inning. The Sox not only beat the Yankees, but they embarrassed them. Fans in New York could only watch in disbelief as the Red Sox finally turned the tide on the Yankees, winning game seven 10-3. The Sox were finally making their way back to the World Series.

The celebration in the bar spilled out onto Brookline Avenue. We slowly maneuvered through the cheering crowd towards Fenway and Yawkey Way. All the other bars in the area were emptying out into the streets. Fans were climbing on top of cars, and some were even scaling light posts. Everyone was in unison enjoying the moment, and nobody was ready to go home.

           

Although the Sox still had four more World Series games to win, they finally did it. They passed the biggest hurdle of all, topping the mighty New York Yankees. What made it so special was the fashion they came back to win the series. I was ready to count them out, but the team never gave up. The accomplished the greatest comeback in sports history, and they were riding the momentum into the World Series.

There's Always Next Year, Part 3

Saturday, July 24, 2004

The dog days of summer were now in full swing in Boston, just eleven days after the Major League Baseball All-Star Game. Temperatures were up, and many weekends consisted of trips to the beach and barbeques. Similar to the heat, the Red Sox and Yankees rivalry was about to be brought up to a new level.

           

During 2004, I was living in Watertown, Massachusetts with my friend Alan. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment that was on the second floor of a two-family home. Watertown is conveniently located just outside of Boston towards the western suburbs. Where we lived was a couple of minutes’ drive to the river roads and Storrow Drive, which led right along the Charles River and into the city. We also had an MBTA bus stop up the street that could take us right into downtown Boston by way of the Massachusetts Turnpike. It wasn’t city living, but we were close enough and had the resources that we could be in Boston in a short amount of time. We used this to our advantage to spend many weekend nights out in the city.

          

Every Red Sox season Alan always tried to take his dad to a game, and he was lucky enough to buy tickets to the game today. The Yankees were back in town, and had a comfortable nine and a half game lead over the Red Sox in the American League East standings. It appeared the Sox were going to finish second in the division yet again to the Yankees for the eighth straight year.

I was at home watching the game on television. The main living area in our apartment was a pretty wide open space made up of auburn, hardwood floors that consisted of both a living room and dining room. In the living room there were two busted recliners and a love seat, and none of them matched. My old warped pool table from home sat conveniently under the chandelier in the dining room where a nice dining set should have been. A picture of the Rat Pack, playing pool themselves, hung on the wall. It was a typical bachelor’s paradise. We spent most of our time here watching many sporting events, including the New England Patriots’ win five months earlier in Super Bowl XXXVIII over the Carolina Panthers.

The game began with a rain delay for almost an hour, not starting until around 4:30. All I could picture in my mind was Alan being miserable while braving the weather, but it was well worth hanging around for. With the Red Sox trailing 3-0 in the top of the third, Sox pitcher Bronson Arroyo hit Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez in the back with a pitch. On his way down to first base, Rodriguez glared at the pitcher’s mound and had some choice words for Arroyo. The Red Sox catcher and team captain, Jason Varitek, moved himself between Rodriguez and the mound, and the two began a heated exchange and until Varitek pushed Rodriguez in the face. Both dugouts and the bullpens emptied, and the melee ensued.

When it comes to baseball brawls, they’re similar to train wrecks; they don’t happen very often, but when they do, it’s hard to pull your eyes off of them. They can be downright ugly and embarrassing for the teams involved. Rodriquez made his best effort to take down Varitek, but the Red Sox catcher was built like a tank, and he wasn’t budging. The skirmish extended to right in front of the stands next to the Red Sox dugout, with other players becoming involved and piling on top of each other. I was totally captivated by the whole thing.

Eventually order was restored and the game continued, and the Sox would take a 4-3 lead in the bottom of the fourth. This would be erased by the Yankees scoring six more runs in the sixth inning, and the Red Sox trailed 10-8 going into the bottom of the ninth. The Yankees called upon their dominant closer, Mariano Rivera. A Red Sox killer if there ever was one, Rivera had converted twenty three consecutive save opportunities going into the game. Rivera sacrificing a lead was about as rare as snow in July; it just didn’t happen. Things were looking bleak, and the Sox were three outs away from dropping another game in the standings.

One of the city’s most beloved players, shortstop Nomar Garciaparra, hit a double to begin the ninth. He would score on a Kevin Millar single, bringing the Sox within a run with Bill Mueller coming to the plate. Mueller would do the unthinkable, hitting a walk off home run into the bullpen in right field. The Red Sox dugout emptied for the second time of the day to greet Mueller as he crossed home plate to score the winning run.

When Alan returned home, he was still firing on all cylinders from the game. He said the atmosphere was the most intense that he had ever experienced at a Red Sox game. The rain delay didn’t help matters either, allowing fans extra time to consume more beers and adding to the rowdiness of the crowd.

It was later reported that the game was almost postponed due to the rain. The grounds crew was ready to call of the game, but the Boston players argued otherwise. Some of the Yankee players had already showered upon being informed the game was going to be cancelled. The brawl was the spark the team needed, and the late inning comeback win only added to the heroics. Many fans, including myself, saw this as a crucial turning point in the season with two months left to go.

Saturday, July 31, 2004

           

It was a week after the brawl, and the Red Sox were on the road in Minnesota. The game was tied at four going into the bottom of the eighth inning until the Twins’ Jacque Jones hit a home run that put Minnesota up for good. The Sox would lose 5-4. But the big news of the day was that the Red Sox had traded their star player Nomar Garciaparra in a three team deal to the Chicago Cubs.

           

When I first heard the news I was stunned. Nomar had been with the team since his rookie season in 1997, and during his tenure he was one of the best hitters in the American League, winning back to back batting titles in 1999 and 2000. But more than being one of the team’s best offensive players, Nomar was a cult hero in the city of Boston. His name naturally rolled off the tongue of every Bostonian: “Nomaahhh.” His batting glove ritual upon stepping into the batter’s box before each pitch was enough to drive opposing fans crazy. His popularity was unrivaled, and he was the player I always thought would be in a Red Sox uniform.

           

But there were rumors swirling around in the media that Nomar was unhappy in Boston. With his impending free agency at the end of the season, the organization offered him a sixty million dollar contract extension before the season began, which he declined. His recent history with injuries, including an a right Achilles that kept him out of the first fifty-one games to begin 2004, had made him expendable.

           

The Red Sox received two good players in the deal, acquiring shortstop Orlando Cabrera from the Montreal Expos and first baseman Doug Mientkiewicz from Minnesota. Nomar would be going to the Chicago Cubs, who were also fighting for a playoff spot in the National League, and Nomar would certainly fit right into the middle of their lineup. The trade did accomplish one thing for Boston; they acquired two defensive oriented players, which they were lacking at both the shortstop and first base positions.

           

Although I did not like the trade, it was something I was going to have to accept. Like any other trade or signing in professional sports, regardless of my opinion, it something I was going to have to wait and see how it played out. What happened over the next month I don’t think could have been predicted by anyone.

Monday, September 27, 2004

           

With a week left in the season, the Red Sox trounced the Tampa Bay Devil Rays 7-3 to earn their ninety-fourth win of the season. The team hit four home runs and Bronson Arroyo earned his tenth win of the season. Along with the victory, the Red Sox clinched a playoff berth for the second straight season. The players celebrated in typical fashion, exchanging hugs and cigars in a champagne soaked clubhouse.

My father always told me that the toughest part in a long baseball season is reaching the post-season, which couldn’t be more accurate. The Red Sox made their case with an unprecedented month of August, posting a 21-7 record during that time. At the end of July when they traded Nomar, they were 56-46. Since then, the team’s record was 38-19. Arroyo’s victory also made him the fifth pitcher on the staff with ten wins, the first time the team had accomplished that feat since 1979. They were one of the hottest teams in baseball at the right time of year.

Who their opponent in the first round of the playoffs was still to be determined, and trailing by three games in the standings to the Yankees, they still had a chance to win the division with six games left in the regular season. It would be great if they caught the Yankees, but to me at this point it didn’t matter. They still had a lot of work ahead of them, but the toughest part was over. They had made the post-season, and in October anything can happen.

There's Always Next Year, Part 2

Friday, April 9, 2004

           

It was Good Friday, but I wouldn’t be going to church. The only place of worship I would be attending would be Fenway Park. It was opening day in Boston, and I was fortunate enough to be attending the game with my father. The game was a 3:05 start, and the Red Sox would be playing their divisional opponent the Toronto Blue Jays. The Sox had already opened the season on the road, splitting a four-game series with the Baltimore Orioles.

           

It was an average April day in Boston, which meant it was still cool enough that I would need a jacket, especially if I was going to be sitting outside all day watching baseball. Plus when the sun went down, the temperature would drop and I would more than likely freeze. My dad and I made our way towards the ball park from our office. On a day where I was able to leave early to go to the game, it was good to be in with the boss.

As regular season ticket holders, we had attended many games together over the years, and we always walked the same route to Fenway through South Campus. It was a relatively quiet area compared to the main campus on Commonwealth Avenue, and during the academic year there was a moderate activity of foot traffic of students going to and from class.

           

We usually talked about different things on our walk to Fenway, like what was going on with family and friends. In the end the conversation would usually turn to sports, the Sox and baseball. We would discuss the previous night’s game, certain players, and what to expect in the game we were about to see. My dad always talked about the Sox with enthusiasm, whether it was in a positive or negative manner. His vast knowledge of the game of baseball always influenced me, and for that reason we saw eye to eye on many things, especially when it came to our favorite team.

           

We would eventually have to cross Beacon Street and dodge our way through four lanes of traffic. In ten short days, runners taking part in the Boston Marathon would be crossing this path while heading into Kenmore Square. This would lead us through one of the main parking lots next to the ball park as we approached Brookline Avenue.

As Fenway came into view, I began to feel the excitement in the air. It was more than just a baseball game to me, but again the anticipation of a new baseball season. For me it was a backdrop to the upcoming summer months, which besides Red Sox games included golf, days at the beach and barbecues with friends and family. This feeling was not only felt around the ball park, but it reverberated throughout the entire city of Boston. Opening day was usually one of the top stories of the local news, and weather broadcasts reported for days leading up to it. I always knew I was fortunate to be in attendance.

We joined the crowded streets as droves of people dressed in combinations of red and navy blue descended upon Fenway. Lines to enter the local bars, such as the Cask N’ Flagon and Boston Beer Works, extended onto the sidewalks. We crossed Brookline Avenue towards Yawkey Way, the small side street that served as one of the gateways to Fenway Park. Outside the gates lines of people eagerly waited to have their ticket scanned.

Upon entering Yawkey Way, it’s as almost as if we were transcended to another world. Various vendors lined the sidewalks, and the smell of cooking sausages and grills immediately filled the air. Fans walked up and down the street taking in the atmosphere while sipping on draught beers. The entrance to The Yawkey Way souvenir store was to our right across from the park, where consumers were purchasing new memorabilia for the upcoming season.

We made our way into the park and through the concourse underneath the grandstands along the third base side of the field. The concourse at Fenway was always very drab looking, made of mostly concrete. There was very little color, with green poles and beams lining the walkways. Various food and beer vendors stretched all up and down the concourse. Before the game the walkways were always packed with people, many balancing Styrofoam containers of food and drinks. We wiggled our way through the crowd towards our seats.

One of my favorite parts of opening day was walking up the ramp to see the field for the first time. It was usually crammed with people trying to find their seats, and today was no different. We trudged down the narrow stairs towards our seats as other fans stopped to ask the ushers where they were sitting. I reveled in the sight of the field, beginning with the freshest green grass one could lay eyes upon. The overbearing presence of the left field wall, better known as the Green Monster, loomed to my left. Players from both teams were finishing their pre-game workouts on the field, with some of them playing catch right in front of us along the third base line. It was a sight I had waited six months to see.

I said hello to many of the familiar faces of the fans that sat around us, many also being season ticket holders. Sitting right behind the press box, we had the pleasure of many photographers passing right by us, usually struggling to unlatch the gate that opened onto the field. A sign that read “Be Alert: Foul Balls and Bats Hurt” was also posted on this gate. I always chuckled at its obvious message.

Unfortunately the game didn’t live up to all the pre-game excitement for the Red Sox. They were up 5-4 going into the eighth inning, but the bull pen gave up six runs in the last two innings, and the Sox lost 10-5. On the walk back through South Campus, my dad and I talked about the game we just watched. There was not much to say after a tough loss, but I was in good spirits for the most part. The excitement of a fresh baseball season was here, and anything can happen over the course of a long season.

     

Friday, April 16, 2004

My Uncle Ray was able to score me a ticket for the game so I was heading up to Fenway right after work. Tonight’s game was special for a couple of reasons. It would be the first meeting of the season between the Red Sox and the New York Yankees. It was the first time the teams had met since Boone’s home run last October shoved a dagger into the heart of every Red Sox fan. Tim Wakefield, Boston’s reliable knuckleballer who gave up the home run to Boone, would be the starting pitcher for the Sox. As a fan I couldn’t have asked for a more enticing matchup. Also earlier in the day, the Red Sox unveiled and dedicated the new statue of Ted Williams outside of Fenway Park.

           

For me, the dedication of the statue was special because Ray had a small part in its development. It began in the fall of 2002, when one of Ray’s neighbors in Venice, Franc Talarico, knocked on his door and asked my uncle to teach him about Ted Williams.

           

What most people should understand about my Uncle Ray is that he’s not only the most die-hard Red Sox fan, but he’s also a baseball enthusiast and historian. Similar to how my father brought my brother and me when we were kids, my grandfather took my father and uncle to Fenway when they were growing up. Ray was with my father in attendance at the 1975 World Series. He used to create t-shirts and sell them outside Fenway Park during the 1980s. He was a co-author of a book chronicling Babe Ruth’s years with the Boston Red Sox that was published in 1997, The Babe in Red Stockings. You could say he was a little fanatical about his team.

           

There was a specific reason that Franc went to Ray seeking his help. Franc knew my uncle was from Boston and a big sports fan. What Ray did not know about Franc was that he was a sculptor charged with the task of creating a statue of the Red Sox legend for the Ted Williams Museum in Lecanto, Florida. Franc wanted to learn about his subject, and Ray was happy to oblige.

           

Over the next couple of weeks Ray would go visit Franc in his studio and brought some books on Ted Williams. Ray showed Franc how Ted was one of the greatest hitters of all time, how he loved to fish, and that he was a fighter pilot in World War II and Korea, losing five seasons in his prime of his baseball career to the wars. Ted also had a very truculent relationship with the Boston media, leading to frustration with some fans and a couple of incidents that made Ted stop tipping his cap. Then Ray told Franc about Ted’s work with the Jimi Fund.

           

The Boston Red Sox adopted the Jimi Fund as their official charity in 1953, a partnership that has developed to raise money for kids battling cancer. In the organization’s early years, Ted Williams was its number one supporter. He would make numerous visits and spend countless hours with kids in the hospital, all behind the eye of the media. An autograph from Ted usually meant a donation by the lucky fan to the Jimi Fund. The organization raised millions of dollars over the years thanks to the efforts of Ted Williams. This was all Franc needed to hear. His image of Ted was forming in his mind, and the sculptor would soon go to work.

           

After that my uncle didn’t see Franc for a while. One day Franc called up my uncle telling Ray that he needed a human model in a baseball uniform. It turned out that Josh was a baseball player for Venice High School, and volunteered to be Franc’s model. Franc took pictures of Josh from every angle, and used them in his development of the statue.

           

At the same time in Boston, Mayor Thomas Menino was talking with the Red Sox ownership about a statue of Ted Williams at Fenway Park. The ownership was enthusiastic about the idea, and eventually found out about the work that Franc was doing for the Ted Williams Museum. Franc called up Ray and asked if he would accompany him to meet with some representatives from the Red Sox in Boston. They were both on a flight the next day.

       

 This all led up to the dedication earlier in the day. Ray was able to attend as Franc’s “consultant”, and Ray brought along my father as a guest. It was like Christmas had come early for my uncle. The event was attended by the mayor, former Red Sox players like Johnny Pesky and Bobby Doerr, and the current Red Sox ownership. Members of the media were there, and Franc announced to one reporter that “the curse was over,” and that Ted was going to chase it away. My dad stood on the sidelines the whole time, acting like he belonged while taking in the whole ceremony.

           

I finally arrived at the park and met my dad and uncle, and they took me to see Ted. There were crowds of people slowly making their way up Van Ness Street, huddled around the statue to see if for the first time. What Franc captured was not Ted Williams the great baseball player, but Ted Williams the person. The statue depicts Ted holding a bat over his left shoulder, and with his right hand he’s placing a baseball hat on the head of a child. Franc immortalized Ted not only tipping his cap, but giving it away.

We walked to enter the gate on Yawkey Way, and Franc was walking a few feet in front of me. It seemed that everyone recognized him, and were shouting praises such as “Great work, Sculptor.” Franc just nodded politely to his fans and kept on walking.

           

Because of Ray’s “consultant” role, he was given tickets for him and my dad in one of the press boxes along with Franc. My seat was in the grandstands on the third base side, but I didn’t care. I had a familiarity with my dad’s tickets that sitting there seemed routine. I loved the opportunities to sit in different areas of the ballpark and see another vantage point of both the field and the game. It’s one of the more unique features of the game of baseball.

The outcome of the game could not have gone any better. The Sox busted out four runs in the first with home runs from third baseman Bill Mueller and outfielder Manny Ramirez. Tim Wakefield was masterful, allowing only two runs over seven innings, and the Sox won 6-2. It was the first of many regular season meetings, but this game had to mean something to the team and to Wakefield. Receiving a standing ovation when he was introduced on opening day, Wakefield knew the fans were behind him, and he went out and delivered. Overall it was a special night for Red Sox fans, and I was glad to be a part of it.

There's Always Next Year, Part 1

In his book Keeping it Real: Everything You Need to Know About Researching and Writing Creative Nonfiction, Lee Gutkind describes the genre as “the use of literary craft in presenting nonfiction – that is, factually accurate prose about real people and events – in a compelling, vivid manner.” So suffice to say, the following tale did happen, but maybe not as elaborate as I portray it here. To me, it couldn’t have happened any other way.

I originally wrote this for my creative nonfiction course in the fall of 2012, one of the eight required online classes that would eventually lead to my master’s degree. It took the whole seven weeks of the course to write and rewrite, and I enjoyed rekindling all of the unforgettable memories. I haven’t revisited it since or really have shared it with any type of audience until now. So I figured what better time than the tenth anniversary of the Boston Red Sox broking the curse and winning the 2004 World Series.

You have to understand that to me and my family, the Red Sox are more than just a sports team. They’re a way of life. As you will see in the following story, the Sox did more than just win a championship in the fall of 2004. They bonded generations of fans and families like mine that was so used to losing for decades. Many fans like my grandfather lived their whole lives and never saw what we witnessed that October. It still gives me goose bumps just thinking about it.

But this tale doesn’t begin in 2004, but in the fall of 2003. Due to its length, I will post the story is segments over the course of the next several days. I hope Red Sox fans can relive some of their own special memories of one of my favorite sports teams of all time. For everyone else, I hope you keep coming back to see what happens next. Enjoy.

"There's Always Next Year"

Thursday, October 16, 2003

I stood staring at the television above my head, clutching a beer in my right hand. The bar was packed to the gills, filled with revelers that were all there for the same purpose. There wasn’t a seat to be found, and even if I wanted to sit down, I don’t think I could have. I was too antsy to sit. Being short helped me blend in with the crowd, and tonight I didn’t mind going unnoticed.

My buddies Jeff and J.M. were out with me on this particular Thursday night. It was Game 7 of the American League Championship Series. My beloved Boston Red Sox had battled through six games with their division rival, the New York Yankees, to end up here. The winner would take the American League pennant and move on to the World Series. The loser would go home.

But this was more than just another game for most Red Sox fans. This was an undertaking that had been going on for the past eight seasons. Since 1996, the New York Yankees had won seven division titles and four World Series championships. The Red Sox had finished second in the division standings to the Yankees since 1998, even suffering a humbling defeat in the 1999 American League Championship Series, where the Yankees beat the Red Sox four games to one. To many, including myself, this wasn’t even considered a rivalry. This was a one sided degradation that we as Red Sox fans had to watch and suffer through year after year. At this point in a decisive seventh game, I had a feeling that both teams finally appeared on even ground.

One must first understand that I was no stranger to the Red Sox’s torrid history. My father, a life-long Red Sox fan who introduced me to this cruel and torturous culture, has owned season tickets since 1972. Some of my earliest memories are attending games with him in the early 1980s. I remember routing for my favorite players when I was a kid: Wade Boggs, Jim Rice, Dwight Evans and even Roger Clemens. My dad’s tickets were in the front row on the third base side, close to the visiting team’s dugout and next to the press box. Going to Fenway and sitting in those seats was second nature to me. We had a great vantage point of the field and the game, and as I grew older I became appreciative of how fortunate I was to have such great seats.

My first recollection of humiliation that my father had suffered for many years came in 1986, during the now famous Game 6 of the World Series against the New York Mets. My parents, my brother and I had gone to a friend’s house to watch the game. Being nine years old at the time, I made the mistake of lying down in front of the television and stretching out on the floor, and eventually I fell asleep. My father woke me up to watch the bottom of the tenth inning with the Red Sox leading 5-3. The Sox got two quick outs, and they were one out away from their first World Series title in sixty-eight years. My father wanted me to witness what had eluded him his whole life. Everyone in that living room, and all around New England, were ready to celebrate. Red Sox pitcher Bruce Hurst was already being named the series’ most valuable player. The television showed the scoreboard at Shea Stadium, which was congratulating the Red Sox as World Series Champions.

Every Red Sox fan who was alive to remember can tell you what happened next. The Mets hit three straight singles, followed by Bob Stanley’s wild pitch and the infamous error that rolled through Bill Buckner’s legs, leading the Mets to score three runs and win the game 6-3. The Red Sox would go on to lose game seven and the World Series. I don’t think I heard my father scream as loud as he did that night, sitting on the edge of his seat the whole time. He led the verbal attack on the television while the collapse took place, like it was the television’s fault. I think I might have had a minor heart attack at the age of nine.

 Standing in the bar almost twenty years later, I tried not to dwell on those memories. Tonight all my focus was on the game. We found our way to Coogan’s right outside Faneuil Hall near Boston’s Financial District. It was a typical Irish bar that served normal pub fare, with plenty of beer to keep the patrons happy. It was a fairly good sized bar and the lights were dim. Pictures and beer signs lined the walls, and many of the tables had been cleared out to make more room for standing patrons. Overall I was enjoying the vibe in the bar tonight. There was a steady level of noise throughout the game that would grow earsplitting when fans cheered in unison from the runs the Sox scored in the second, fourth and eighth innings to build a fairly comfortable 5-2 lead.

At this point I had developed a steady buzz on the beer, helping to alleviate the stress of watching the Sox grind through seven and a half innings. The team’s ace, Pedro Martinez, had pitched a solid game so far, allowing only two runs on six hits. But if there’s one thing that I learned from my years of being a Red Sox fan it was to never get comfortable. The Sox had the tendency to build your hopes up and then tear your heart out the next minute. In big games like this I couldn’t relax until the final out of the game was made.

With one out in the inning, the Yankees’ shortstop and team captain, Derek Jeter, came up to bat and hit a double to right field. This was followed by Bernie Williams lining a single to center field, which allowed Jeter to score. Yankees now trailed 5-3, and I might have had my second minor heart attack at the age of twenty-six.

At this point Red Sox manager Grady Little made his way to the pitcher’s mound, and I breathed a brief sigh of relief. Pedro pitched a great game, but at over one hundred pitches, it was time to hand it over to the Red Sox bullpen. Red Sox reliever Alan Embree was warming up and ready to come into the game. Instead, after a brief talk with Pedro, Grady gave him a pat on the back and headed back to the dugout.

“What’s he doing?” I said under my breath to no one in particular.

“Why is he leaving him in the game?” I raised my voice even louder to anyone that would listen. 

“WHY IS HE LEAVING HIM IN THE GAME??!!??” I said one last time, hoping somebody could explain to me what I was witnessing on the screen.

At that moment all of my impending fears came true. The Yankees hit two straight doubles and scored two more runs, tying the game at five. The entire bar could only watch in disbelief. The game was now going into extra innings, and I was almost certain how it was going to end. The Yankees’ Aaron Boone confirmed the notion I was feeling in my gut. In the bottom of the eleventh inning, he hit the first pitch he saw down the left field line for a home run. The Yankees won the game 6-5 and took the American League Pennant with them to the World Series.

We left the bar shortly thereafter and made our way through Faneuil Hall, speechless to what we just witnessed. I felt like I had been punched square in the stomach. The loss resonated in the air, along with the smell of late night street vendors selling sausages and steak tips. We questioned each other and cursed Grady Little for leaving Pedro in the game. What was going through his mind? Could he not see Pedro was tired? Throughout the whole series, Little had consistently gone to his bullpen, especially to relievers Mike Timlin and Alan Embree, in the late innings. Why didn’t he stick with the same successful formula? Why, why, why? All we could do was ask the unanswerable questions and ponder what possibly could have been. At some point I muttered the saying that had become familiar with Red Sox fans for decades.

“Well, there’s always next year….”

January, 2004

I was at work like any other day. With the holidays just passing, things were relatively quiet around Boston University. I worked in the lending department at the local credit union on campus, and the flurry of loan applications had quieted down significantly since before Christmas. Members were still looking for money, but not as much as they needed for holiday shopping.

Much time had passed since Game 7 and the wounds were beginning to heal, but it was still a lingering memory. My father would be going to Fenway to turn in his order form to renew his season tickets with Spring Training about a month away. He was the president of the credit union, and we had the convenience of occupying an office relatively close to the ball park.

My dad happened to be in Venice, Florida on October 16, 2003 for Game 7. Venice is a quiet town on the Gulf Coast just south of Sarasota, where his brother Ray had moved in 1986. During the winter months it hosted many people from Massachusetts escaping the cold New England winter. For these older travelers, Venice is a great place to kick back and relax for a few months, and my dad enjoyed making trips there to visit his younger brother.

My father was watching the game with Ray and my cousin, Josh. Ray was a Red Sox and baseball junkie, and his living room was filled with baseball memorabilia and pictures of old Red Sox players. As soon as Boone hit the home run, Ray stormed off to his bedroom, not even seeing the ball land in the left field stands.  He wasn’t seen for the rest of the evening. The phone rang a few minutes later. It was Josh’s sister calling from Massachusetts, crying into the phone. Josh tried to console her, telling her it was only a game. For my dad, this was another crushing defeat in a long line of losing and embarrassment, going back many years.  For a younger fan like Josh, he finally joined a club of cynical Red Sox fans like his father and uncle, and Boone’s homer was his admission. But even the devastating loss would not discourage my dad from renewing his tickets. The thought of giving them up never entered his mind.

My father has owned his tickets since 1972. When he first approached the Red Sox about purchasing season tickets, they allowed him to visit the ballpark and personally pick out his seats. The ticket package that he owned originally began as only Sundays, opening day and holidays, such as Marathon Monday on Boston’s Patriots day every April. He eventually expanded this package to full weekends, now incorporating Saturday games.

My dad’s memories and suffering of being a Red Sox fan went back to his childhood. My late grandfather, who never witnessed the team win the World Series in seventy eight years, influenced my dad in the game of baseball and the Boston Red Sox. My dad was nineteen and stationed in Vietnam in the fall of 1967 when his sister sent him a care package of press clippings, all on the Red Sox Impossible Dream season. He was in attendance in Game 6 of the World Series in 1975 and witnessed Carlton Fisk’s monumental home run down the left field line, only to return to Fenway the following night to see the Red Sox lose the decisive Game 7 to the Cincinnati Reds.

The losing ways continued in 1978 when I was only a year old. The Red Sox squandered a fourteen game lead in the American League East to the New York Yankees that was highlighted by the “Boston Massacre”, a four game sweep by the Yankees at Fenway that would tie both teams on top of the standings. The teams would face off in a one game playoff for the division on October 2nd, and Bucky Dent’s three-run home run that barely reached over Fenway’s Green Monster put the final nail in the coffin of the Red Sox season. Then there was 1986. Aaron Boone’s home run was just another reminder of these torrid memories.

Although my dad was always hopeful about his team, he felt there was always the same mindset amongst fans. How will the Red Sox find a way to lose this time? Will the team always be losers? Will this year finally be the year? It always seemed to be the case, no matter what the situation. After eighty-five years of losing, he couldn’t help feel this way about the Red Sox. This was an attitude that I was also lucky to inherit.

My father also didn’t believe in the so-called Curse of the Bambino, the stigma hanging over the organization since it sold its prized player, Babe Ruth, to the New York Yankees after the Red Sox won the World Series in 1918. The Babe would go on the be one of greatest players that ever lived and the Yankees became one the most successful team in all of sports, winning twenty-seven World Series titles. Since the Red Sox sold Ruth, they had not won a World Series, accentuated by a string of bad luck and by some monumental collapses and losses. The story of the Curse was even publicized in a book by local Boston sportswriter, Dan Shaughnessy. My dad felt that Shaughnessy secretly rooted for the Sox to lose, just so the theory in his book would hold up. This was also an opinion that strongly rubbed off on me.

A lot had happened over the winter for the Red Sox, leading me with a sense of optimism for the new season. The team had hired a new manager, after deciding not to renew Grady Little’s contract. The Red Sox announced in early December they were going to hire Terry Francona, just a week after they had made a trade for Arizona Diamondback’s pitcher Curt Schilling.

Schilling played a big part of the Diamondbacks team that won the World Series in 2001, sharing the Most Valuable Player honors with fellow pitcher Randy Johnson. He was considered a big game pitcher, and was exactly what the Red Sox needed. Schilling played under Francona in Philadelphia from 1997 through 2000, and many members of the Boston media speculated that Schilling would come to Boston only if the team hired Francona.

Personally, I loved the trade for Schilling. He was a perfect complement to Pedro Martinez in the rotation, and I felt the Sox placed themselves as the frontrunners to win the American League East Division. I didn’t know much about Francona though, only that he didn’t have a great track record in Philadelphia. There were other candidates for the position, such as Los Angeles third-base coach Glenn Hoffman and Anaheim bench coach Joel Madden. I only knew Hoffman from his playing days with the Sox in the early 80s. I was leaning with the media, and thought that Francona was hired to appease Schilling. I guess only time would tell how Francona would do.

On this particular day in January, my dad came down from his upstairs office and approached me at my desk.

“I’m heading up to the park,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I responded mockingly.

“Yes I’m sure. Do you want to go for a ride and grab some lunch?” I agreed.

We exited out of the back of the building to the small lot where his car was parked. It was at least a ten minute walk to Fenway, and on a January day in Boston, we were not going to fight the cold. We drove through the area of B.U. known as South Campus, mostly made up of dorms right off Beacon Street that bordered the town of Brookline. Since it was winter break and there were no students around, the campus was quiet.

While in the car my dad enjoyed listening to the local sports talk radio, which at one point I listened to religiously. Over time I would grow angry and frustrated with many of the fans that would call in to express their opinions, and eventually I just gave up and couldn’t listen anymore. The hot topic right now was the New England Patriots, who were about to begin the playoffs and make a run at another Super Bowl. I was just glad the conversation had moved away from the Red Sox and their decision to hire Terry Francona. The media was already burying the guy for his lack of success in Philadelphia, and he hadn’t even managed a game in Boston yet. Neither one of us couldn’t stand the pessimism that made up the Boston sports media, but for some reason my dad still subjected himself to the geniuses on the radio. 

We soon reached Fenway and made our way to the ticket office. As we drew closer to the park, I felt a little of the anticipation of the coming season, even in the frigid temperatures of a Massachusetts winter. For me it was more than just being a Red Sox fan, but the return of the game of baseball. It was something I looked forward to every spring, and this year would be no different.