Regarding Curses and Subsequent Reverses

By this point I think it’s safe to say that you have been bombarded by the intravenous twenty-four hour sportscasts, out-of-shape, former bench players’ analyses, and Dodge-sponsored pitching breakdowns for a sleepless week. Morning headlines pouring down like Zoloft and emergency contraceptive pills. Each evening settling into your seat, fastening upright, and pulling the straps as tight as can be. October. The premieres of Desperate Housewives and Lost. The release party for some of network television’s worst ad campaigns (though the allure of seeing some of my fellow alumnus get shot with paintball guns does intrigue me…ivy league, bitches). The MLB postseason was once again upon us. Jobs on the line, expectations to be met, and handbags to slap away tagging fielders’ mitts. The New York Walmarts vs. the Boston K-Marts. The assholes vs. the dicks. Repetitive performance vs. unflattering style. Or is that me?

The result thus far…Boston GM Theo Epstein hasn’t had this much fun since his bris. Following late nights of cardiac ball, mornings of assdragging, and afternoons of second guessing, both players and fans can now binge drink more freely the next two nights. But on Saturday night, we must protect this house!

By the way, I am a fairly polished Red Sox fan. I strayed early in life, somehow caught up in the allure of the coke-sniffing ’86 Mets at the tender age of five. But my pedigree pointed to Boston and no where else. I’ve heard reports of cousins leaving the womb clad in full BoSox uniform. It took me a little longer. Specifically, a year of college and a Pedro. With all of the excitement of the 1999 postseason (both New York teams were in it, as well as the Sox) I gravitated towards Boston’s team. Finally being away from home I was able to appreciate the Sox on my own, without it being forced on me. Valuing players like Nomar in his prime, younger versions of Trot Nixon and Jason Varitek, nickname fraternal twins D-Lowe and D-Lew (Derek Lowe and Darren Lewis, respectively), and the strange train wreck appeal of Brian Daubach, Jose Offerman, and John Valentin (not to be confused with his Latino crime-fighting partner Jose Valentín). While they were a decent set of names to print beneath the title, it was Pedro Martinez who headlined the show. When he went down with a back strain in Game One of the ALDS against a Manny Ramirez-led Cleveland Indians, a frenzied panic swept a Nation whose rhetoric I had just begun to understand. A heroic return from the bullpen in Game Five to win the series and a dismantling of the Yankees in a don’t-believe-the-hype duel with Roger Clemens in the ALCS was enough to claim Pedro a permanent place in the collective memory of Sox fans, a member of which I now began to consider myself. In these two outings, Pedro (now elevated to solely first name reference and reverence) dominated to the point where there were very few worried souls in Red Sox Nation. And this is a jumpy bunch.

The Pedro-led Sox came back from an 0-2 deficit (beginning what has now become an October tradition) to best the Indians and traveled to New York for the ALCS. But these were different Yankees. None of that store bought gleam of today’s A-Rods, Sheffs, and pre-liquefied Giambis. The most dangerous Yank-by-way-of-Asia was Hideki Irabu, and feared for completely different reasons (cannonballs, shower room encounters, and gameday buffets being a few of them). Tom Gordon was blowing games for the Red Sox and the subject of a Stephen King horror novel. Now he blows games for the Yanks and is the subject of a Stephen King horror pop-up book. Whatever the reason, the Red Sox were not built to withstand the New York team of 1999 or even last season’s (though that is a more debatable topic). We were built this season, from top to bottom, and the investment later rather than sooner, paid itself off.

The Red Sox are on due course after 172 games, four more wins from the promised land. I want more than anything for the BoSox to win this thing. I want to share a championship with everyone who experienced AFB last year with a slack jaw and knotted stomach. Everyone who’s pain dwarfs my own, in terms of years, losses, and heartbreaks. Any fan that’s died not having seen the Red Sox win it all, if only so the people they left behind feel another connection with them. Is it sad that I put so much into these games as to get kicked out of Yankee Stadium for rowdy conduct or that I can let a loss affect me for days? Sure, but I’m not alone. This was reinforced as I watched the Sox players last night coat the remaining fans at the Stadium with victory champagne. The Yankee grounds crew cutting the lights out on the partying Sox. I still can’t get enough of the image of Pedro goofily dancing around the locker room with what looks like a soaked poodle on top of his head. He showed his resolve last night, most likely requesting to face the Yanks one last time. Once again he wasn’t the Pedro of old as New York touched him up for a couple runs. He’s shown a few glimpses this postseason, but overall has not dazzled. The ALCS was dominated with talk of Pedro’s last performance in a Sox uniform and the like. I’m not ready to lose this guy, and with yesterday’s win probably won’t. But if this is going to be as storybook as the Nation has forever prophesized, we need one more brilliant Pedro performance. Then I won’t feel bad penciling his name in as a write-in on the November 2nd ballot and will cheer him in whatever colors he wears next season. Except pinstripes, of course.

In the spirit of High Fidelity, my ALCS Soundtrack (in chronological fashion):

4 More Wins To Go!!!