Hub fans bid curse adieu
By
John Breneman
Diamond rings the size of a baby's fist. Fighter jets tearing
across the sky and soldiers in wheelchairs rolling across
the Fenway grass. A Red Sox championship banner billowing
from the Green Monster.
All of a sudden, 1918 doesn't seem so long ago. Not when
Johnny
Pesky (circa 1942 Sox) is standing right there soaking
it all in with Dom
DiMaggio, Dewey
and Yaz
and the rest of us 35,000 lucky stiffs, all crammed into this
hallowed baseball artifact, swept up in the emotion of a shared
dream.
Everything is different this spring, right? The Sox made
history, choked the Yankees, broke the curse, swept the Cards
and made grown men cry. World champs. Aw yeah. It feels good.
What, you say the Yankees are back in town? OK, now that
another New England winter has frozen the exhilarating memories
of last October into Red Sox lore, it's time to come out and
play once more. But first we have a couple small matters to
attend to.
You know, distributing gaudy and symbolic chunks of etched
gold. Singing songs to honor the glory of Red Sox past and
present. Unfurling gigantic World Series banners … in
your smug Yankee faces.
Or
cheering like idiots when the announcer calls out "Mariano
Rivera." You didn't have to be at the park to
hear Fenway erupt with a standing O for the once-dominant
closer turned hapless tomato can.
"What can I say -- just tip my hat and call the Red
Sox my daddy," Rivera said in my imaginary pre-game interview.
He scoffed at any suggestion that the tables have turned,
that perhaps now the Yankees will be haunted by the Curse
of the Splendid Splinter, and said, "Wake up Ted
Williams, I'll drill him in the ah… frozen head
I guess."
We were almost done saluting our heroes of 2004, honoring
Red Sox warriors of games gone by and bidding farewell to
the ghost of Mr.
George Herman Ruth. Almost ready to ring in the new
year with an 8-1 Yankee spanking, a savory and immensely satisfying
Wakefield knuckle sandwich.
But wait, what first-ever Red Sox defending world champion
Opening Day extravaganza would be complete without a special
appearance by the president of Rwanda? From up in the bleachers
I couldn't see whether or not President
Paul Kagame brought his mitt but it looked like he
had finally ditched Mitt Romney.
After three innings on the mound it was clear Wakefield
had stepped forward as one of the Yankees' new daddies. Wake
had the Yanks shooting blanks with his 54 mph fistball and
his knee-buckling knuckler, leaving a breeze of whiffs and
nicks in his wake. After the game, Wakefield declined to comment
on his role on the 2016 Sox pitching staff.
Fans from around the region flocked to Fenway for the mind-expanding
'05 opener, high price of gasoline be damned. High price of
beer be damned too, while we're on the topic. According to
my crude calculations, Sam Adams premium unleaded carries
a ballpark pump price of roughly $72 per gallon. (Psst, we
smuggled in our peanuts. My friend only paid a couple bucks
at the grocery store, but the nuts have an estimated Landsdowne
Street value of $50-$75.)
Yes, it is definitely good to sit in the Fenway bleachers
with a cold brewski while Tedy Bruschi of the three-time world
champion New England Patriots throws out the first pitch alongside
Richard Seymour, Bobby Orr and all-time undisputed ring king
Bill Russell.
The
true significance of what this all means to the generations
of people who have placed hope in something called the Red
Sox cannot be captured in words (though the Boston Herald
headline "Joy of Sox" comes close).
For me, it is all in the emotion of the thing. It's the way
you feel when the Sox do it -- when they battle back from
so far down and really finally do it -- while you're screaming
at the TV with your family and friends.
It might be that shiver you feel when the scoreboard on Opening
Day flashes a giant black-and-white of young Johnny
Pesky, looking like the kid Moonlight Graham in "Field
of Dreams." It might be remembering when your dad took
to that first game and there he was, Roberto
Clemente. Or Yaz.
Or Mickey.
I think loving the Red Sox -- sorry, I mean the world champion
Red Sox -- is all of that and much more. It's a whole Zen,
Ken Burns, Pudge, Cooperstown, Cy Young, Tony C., Babe, 1918,
Impossible Dream kind of thing. You know what I mean.
Today's story can also be found on the website of my new
employer, BostonHerald.com
Posted 5 years, 2 months ago on April 13, 2005
