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Hello, and welcome to the twenty-fourth installment of NotWriting.com, an open
journal on how one writer spends his time when he really should be
writing.In case you were
wondering, I’ve been off in a cave licking my wounds. Once again, my team,
the Boston Red Sox, came this close (my fingers are half an inch
apart) before they lost.
Hell on Earth
It’s not easy being a Red Sox
fan in New York. I was born in Maine and went to college in Boston, yet I
now live in the land of the enemy. The Valley of the Shadow of Death, you
might say.Everywhere you go,
there’s some greasy-haired fat guy wearing a Yankees jacket. Stores
routinely sell Yankees pennants, keychains, and Derek Jeter “bobble-heads”
at checkout counters. When you ride the subway, you’re faced with fifty
copies of the Daily News, where, on the back page, there’s always
some smug headline like, JETERRIFIC!, ROCKET-PROPELLED GRENADE,
SWINGIN’ IN THE RAIN, and my favorite, DIRTY SOX GET WASHED!
Lest I sound like some wackjob
lurking outside Yankee Stadium with an axe waiting for a chance to split
Clemens’s cranium in half, let me make something very clear: I don't hate
the players. I honestly don't. Well, maybe Garcia, Clemens, Posada and
Boone, but that's it.
Seriously, rather than the team, it’s
the fans I loathe. Why? Oh, I don't know, their arrogance maybe? A sense
of entitlement? Whatever it is, every year when the playoffs come around,
fans here in New York start talking about the Yankees’ going to the World
Series as if it's a fait accompli. (Yankees fans: fait accompli,
a French expression, translates roughly to "a done deal.") And then, God
forbid, if the Yankees happen to lose the playoffs or the Series, their
“fans” will have the audacity to whine and mope for the next five months.
Hey, folks: Try 85 YEARS of
bitter, heart-shredding defeats and disappointments. Then you can mope a
little. Until then, shut the fuck up.
As a footnote to this, yesterday while
doing laundry in the basement of my building, I overheard two old guys
talking. Keep in mind that, as of today (Saturday, October 25, 2003), the
Yankees are down 3-2 in the World Series against the Marlins.
Old Guy #1: (Coughs.) So what’s the
problem?
Old Guy #2: The Yankees, they're losing,
that’s the problem.
Old Guy #1: (Dropping quarters into a
dryer.) I hear ya.
Old Guy #2: I wish they’d just win it
already. These late nights are killing me. My angina’s been acting up.
Old Guy #1: Clemens is pitching Saturday.
They’ll pull it out, they always do.
Old Guy #2: They better.
The Trouble with Yankees Fans
During playoff time, there's a collective sense in the air around New
York that if the Yankees lose, it will somehow negate the proud and
winning tradition the team has built for a century. I mean, how many
championships does your team need to win before you realize they’re
unquestionably the greatest franchise in the history of baseball? Now
don't get me wrong—I'm
not saying the Yankees should just lie down and let the Red Sox win for
once; rather, what bothers me is the greed on the part of Yankees
fans. Never will you hear one say, "Gosh, you know, such-and-such team
hasn't won in a long time. It'd be nice to see another team win it for a
change." You will never hear a Yankees fan utter those words, and
that's the problem.
I guess it shouldn't surprise me; New
Yorkers are notoriously myopic. According to lifelong New York residents
(especially those who never venture beyond a fifty-mile radius of the
city), New York has the best of anything there is, so why bother going
anywhere else? Want a good bagel? New York’s the only place you can get
one. Entertainment? Hey, you can’t beat Broadway, baby. Want a baseball
team to root for? Fuhgetaboutit, the Yankees are the only team you need.
The other thing I loathe about the
Bronx Bombers (one of the stupid nicknames for them) is that the team acts
as a magnet for fair-weather fans. Some of these people are celebrities,
like Robin Williams and Donald “The Donald” Trump (Billy Crystal is an
exception), but the majority are New York folk and assorted losers around
the country who, even if they’ve never been to New York, support the
Yankees only because they like to support a winning team. And if the
Yankees aren't winning, these people disappear faster than breakfast
buffet flapjacks at a fat man’s convention. You never hear or see these
people mid-season, when the Yankees are getting the crap kicked out of
them. Come October, however, if the Yankees make it to the playoffs, these
parasites emerge from their holes and slip on their Yankees caps. They
think they’re fans, but they have no idea what it means to be a fan.
(In case you think I'm the only person who believes this,
here's an editorial I found after I filed this column.)
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TURNCOATS: Among Red Sox fans,
Roger Clemens (top and bottom) is
often referred to during discussions
of another great American traitor,
Benedict Arnold (center) .
CELEBRITY FAN: Robin Williams, alleged
Yankees fan. Funny how you never see
him wearing a Yankees cap.
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What it Means to be a Real Fan
I submit that the only
two teams with fans who live up to what it really means to be a fan
are the Boston Red Sox and the Chicago Cubs. Longtime fans of these
two teams have demonstrated they have faith, and faith is what it
means to be a fan. It’s easy to support your team when it has a
history of winning, but it requires faith to stand behind your team
when it’s consistently getting snipped at the finish line.
Red Sox fans like me are the
quintessence of faith. Unlike fans of the Yankees, who have to see
their team win year after year, believers in the Sox are steadfast.
We’re not going anywhere. Sure, like Job in the Bible, we have our
moments of doubt, but every spring we keep coming back.
So, last Tuesday night I lived
through another painful reminder that life isn’t fair. The bitch of it
is, I saw the whole thing coming.
But before I tell you the story
of my most recent heartbreak, let me take you back in time to a
fateful day 25 years ago.
You see, unlike 99% of the
population, I can pinpoint the exact day that I lost my innocence. And
I'm not talking about that kind of innocence, mind you. What I'm
speaking of is the day I realized life isn’t fair: Monday, October 2,
1978. Among Boston Red Sox fans this will be known forever as the day
Yaz (Carl Yastremski) popped out with two men on, and the Red Sox lost
a one-game playoff to the Yankees, 5-4.
That afternoon, as I sat in front
of the TV tossing ball into glove, I experienced death for the first
time in my life. And the team that killed my beloved Red Sox was the
New York Yankees, so you can understand why I harbor a grudge. |
GOOD TIMES AT FENWAY: The scene of some
of my best childhood memories.
1
Where Dad and I sat for my first game
at the ballpark. The Red Sox lost to the KC Royals, but I got to see
star third-baseman George Brett make a couple impossible
diving catches.
2
Where Dad muscled the two of us
in front of the other pesky kids so I could get a ball autographed by
the
legendary Ted Williams. Later that night, I puked on myself from
too much candy and crap, and I lost the autographed ball a few
months later because I wanted to play catch and didn't have a ball
around, and I lost it in some pricker-bushes.
3 The
foul pole
above the Green Monster. In 1975, my hero, Carlton Fisk, hit one of
the most famous homeruns in baseball history
during the World Series against the Cincinnati Reds. Although I
didn't get to see that one firsthand, I did see Jimmy Rice pound
a couple over the wall and also witnessed Yankee Reggie Jackson miss
hitting one over the wall by inches (yeah!).
4
Where
I was sitting in the bleachers during batting practice when I caught a
ball hit by Carl Yastremski and threw it back to, but way
over the head of, center-fielder Fred Lynn, who quipped to me, "Hey,
good arm, kid." Now you understand why I keep the faith.
Last Tuesday Night, When I Saw the Whole Thing Coming
My friend Tony (a Mets
fan who hates the Yankees as much as I do) lives up in the Catskills
and only gets one station on his TV. The night of the game there was a
major storm up there, so he couldn’t catch Game Seven on radio either.
Being the friend I am, I filled in, giving him the play-by-play over
the phone. Since Alexas and I have unlimited long-distance with
Verizon, this wasn’t a problem. It gave Tone and I an excuse to talk
on the phone for four hours, and it gave me the chance to stick it to
the phone company, something I enjoy doing whenever I have the chance.
Anyway, I did the play-by-play,
and things looked good for my boys early on. (For the record, I want
it known that at no point did I think the game was in the bag. I, and
legions of other Red Sox fans, have been through too much
disappointment with this team to ever consider a game over until the
last out.) However, when it came to the seventh inning and Red Sox
hurler Pedro Martinez was losing his stuff (he barely got out of a jam
with two men on), Tony and I kept saying to each other, “Pull him,
pull him, pull him.”
But they didn’t pull him.
Management allowed him to stay in for another inning, and the rest is
history. The Yankees went on to tie it up, which is where it stayed
until the top of the 11th.
At this point, the Yankees are in
the bottom of their lineup. Tony and I speculate furiously on how long
the game will go. His prediction: the 14th inning. I, on the other
hand, sense it isn’t going to last long.
I will never forget what I said
next, and MAY GOD STRIKE ME DOWN RIGHT NOW if I’m not telling you the
absolute truth here. I said roughly the following:
“You know, it’s not the heavy
hitters that worry me in situations like this. It’s these bottom of
the lineup guys. They’ve got nothing to lose. Nobody’s expecting them
to do anything great, so they don’t feel the pressure.”
Boone steps up to the plate.
“Like take Boone here. This guy
makes me nervous. He’s just the type of guy to step up and crack one
out of the park. All he’s been doing for the whole ALCS is screwing
up. He’s got to be thinking they’re gonna send him down.”
Wakefield, the Red Sox
knuckleballer, goes into his windup. I have a flashback to Monday,
October 2, 1978 with Bucky Dent at the plate.
“Watch, he’ll hit a homerun right
here.”
The first pitch hangs over the
plate, and Boone swats it into the left field mezzanine. Game over.
“Homerun, Tone,” I said. “Did I
call it or what?”
“Yeah. All right, talk to you
tomorrow.”
We hang up. Within two minutes,
fireworks are booming outside. More of my favorite people: Yankees
fans with explosive devices and the collective IQ of a rake handle. No
doubt they bought the things special in anticipation of this moment.
More idiots whoop out their windows. Cars scream by my window, horns
blaring, leaving me with nothing but resentment and the Doppler
effect.
By now the TV and the lights are
off, but I continue to sit on the couch in the dark so I can
pray. I pray for the Red Sox players, who put up a good fight and
were undoubtedly crushed by their loss. I pray for the Red Sox fans,
that the Creator might assuage their collective misery. But most of
all I pray for the team, reaffirming that I know they’ll one day win
it all, that it will happen in my lifetime, and that victory, when it
finally does come, will be the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.
Someday, my friends. Someday.
- 30 -
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CYBER-BEGGING: The author,
trying to scrape together enough
money for Red Sox-Yankees tickets,
needs your financial support.
Red Sox fans
like me are the quintessence of faith. Unlike fans of the Yankees, who
have to see their team win year after year, believers in the Sox are
steadfast. We’re not going anywhere. Sure, like Job in the Bible, we
have our moments of doubt, but every spring we keep coming back.
Above: Clearly, if alive today,
Jesus would be a Red Sox fan.
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©2003 Chris Orcutt and notwriting.com. All rights
reserved. |
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Above: The author, still not writing. He's
in a cave, licking his
wounds. But
come spring, he'll be back, rooting
for his beloved Sox again.
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