New Day Rising
Warning: Pretentious essay to follow. Your regularly scheduled tomfoolery will resume tomorrow
Last night the Red Sox slipped from their perch atop the AL East and slid a half game behind the New York Yankees. As soon as the game was over, I uttered a few choice Anglo-Saxon words, settled up my tab and headed home. On the way there, I reminded myself that last year the Sox had won the World Serious - something I had wait thirty-odd years to see. Something my father had waited sixty-odd years to see. Something my grandfather had waited - well, I shuddered to contemplate the long long span of years Papa had waited to see the Red Sox win it all.
When I got home I checked my email and washed the dishes left over from dinner. Then I sat down on the couch, opened a book, and began to read. After a while the words began to swim out of focus. I closed the book and simply sat for a while, letting my wander to other places, before I in turn wandered off to bed. I didn't think about, let alone agonize over, the Red Sox.
This may surprise those who know me and my overwhelming passion for all things Red Sox. It will definitely surprise anyone who saw do any of the following during the 2004 campaign: yell; curse; talk to myself; mutter under my breath; jump up and down; stand on one foot; cover my eyes - the list goes on. I think there's still a groove in the floor of the local, from all the gametime pacing I did there last season. But I can't muster up that kind of behavior at the moment, for several reasons.
First and foremost is the fact that the 2005 Red Sox are doing the best they can. (Well except for Manny but that's a whole 'nother topic.) Yes they are. We all know the Sox have potent lineup, but even the best bats can't carry a team the whole distance - I refer you to 2003 Grady Little Special Edition team as ample proof of this fact. What it takes is pitching pitching pitching. It's pitching that allows a team to win the close games during the season when the bats are slumping. It's pitching that allows a team to contend in the steel-cage match we call the post-season.
The Red Sox just don't have the pitching this year. Last year the rotation featured two legitimate aces in Schilling and Pedro, and not a single pitcher missed his scheduled start. This year the rotation is a crap shoot. Some nights we get so see Magic Dave the Cupcake Man with his deadly curve. And some nights Magic Dave can't find the rabbit in his hat and gets chased after two innings. And so it goes with all the starters - not a dependable stopper among them. Last year the bullpen featured an effective duo of left/right set-up men in Embree and the Timlinator, and of course Foulke the monster closer. This year - well let's say the pen has been (ahem) combustible and leave it that.
The injuries must be considered as well. A long string of injuries, from the very beginning and all season long. Schilling. Foulke. Bellhorn. Trot. Kapler. The Giraffe. Cupcake Man. Miller. Stern. Youkilis. Some of the players not on the DL are practically walking wounded - Johnny Damon, for example, who just received his second cortisone shot in two weeks, his third of the year.
Simply put, the Red Sox are doing the best they can - competing as hard as they can - with what they have. Nobody should be bitching or complaining. The Red Sox are still in the race. Would you rather be rooting for the Devil Rays, or the Brewers, with no hope at all of playing October baseball? If back in April the Baseball Jesus had granted me a vision (to be known down through history as the Three Prophecies of Quincy) and revealed that 1) Curt Schilling would not be able to function as staff ace and 2) Keith Foulke would not be a monster closer but 3) the team would still contend until the end of the season, well, I would not have complained.
I still won't complain, or rage, or be bitter, even if the Red Sox fall short of making the post-season. I know the deal going in, and the deal is this:
And when you get hurt you can rage or scream or feel sorry for yourself. Or, you can do as beth suggests - face the music dressed in our best, and prepared to go down as gentlemen. Why not face adversity with some dignity? Why not cheer for the Sox until the bitter end, embrace our passion until the last out? After all nobody forces you to care. Nobody puts a gun to your head and says "ok... on my command... love!" It's a choice we all make, and you can avoid the consequences, the heartbreak, quite easily. Wall yourself off from other people. Follow golf. If you choose to love something, then take your hopes in hand, do it unreservedly and accept that sometimes the object of your affection may fall short. Not make the play-offs. Not win another championship. You know what I mean.
But there is a price to be paid for everything in this life, even miracles like last year's World Series trophy. Schilling and Foulke have already paid, struggling all year to regain last year's dominant form. And maybe our price, the price for October 27, 2004 is to watch this year's edition of the Boston Red Sox, fall just a little short. Is that so bad? Such an awful possibility? Especially with the future (Hello Mr. Hansen. Gimme five Mr. Papelbon) taking shape before our eyes?
Last night the Red Sox slipped from their perch atop the AL East and slid a half game behind the New York Yankees. As soon as the game was over, I uttered a few choice Anglo-Saxon words, settled up my tab and headed home. On the way there, I reminded myself that last year the Sox had won the World Serious - something I had wait thirty-odd years to see. Something my father had waited sixty-odd years to see. Something my grandfather had waited - well, I shuddered to contemplate the long long span of years Papa had waited to see the Red Sox win it all.
When I got home I checked my email and washed the dishes left over from dinner. Then I sat down on the couch, opened a book, and began to read. After a while the words began to swim out of focus. I closed the book and simply sat for a while, letting my wander to other places, before I in turn wandered off to bed. I didn't think about, let alone agonize over, the Red Sox.
This may surprise those who know me and my overwhelming passion for all things Red Sox. It will definitely surprise anyone who saw do any of the following during the 2004 campaign: yell; curse; talk to myself; mutter under my breath; jump up and down; stand on one foot; cover my eyes - the list goes on. I think there's still a groove in the floor of the local, from all the gametime pacing I did there last season. But I can't muster up that kind of behavior at the moment, for several reasons.
First and foremost is the fact that the 2005 Red Sox are doing the best they can. (Well except for Manny but that's a whole 'nother topic.) Yes they are. We all know the Sox have potent lineup, but even the best bats can't carry a team the whole distance - I refer you to 2003 Grady Little Special Edition team as ample proof of this fact. What it takes is pitching pitching pitching. It's pitching that allows a team to win the close games during the season when the bats are slumping. It's pitching that allows a team to contend in the steel-cage match we call the post-season.
The Red Sox just don't have the pitching this year. Last year the rotation featured two legitimate aces in Schilling and Pedro, and not a single pitcher missed his scheduled start. This year the rotation is a crap shoot. Some nights we get so see Magic Dave the Cupcake Man with his deadly curve. And some nights Magic Dave can't find the rabbit in his hat and gets chased after two innings. And so it goes with all the starters - not a dependable stopper among them. Last year the bullpen featured an effective duo of left/right set-up men in Embree and the Timlinator, and of course Foulke the monster closer. This year - well let's say the pen has been (ahem) combustible and leave it that.
The injuries must be considered as well. A long string of injuries, from the very beginning and all season long. Schilling. Foulke. Bellhorn. Trot. Kapler. The Giraffe. Cupcake Man. Miller. Stern. Youkilis. Some of the players not on the DL are practically walking wounded - Johnny Damon, for example, who just received his second cortisone shot in two weeks, his third of the year.
Simply put, the Red Sox are doing the best they can - competing as hard as they can - with what they have. Nobody should be bitching or complaining. The Red Sox are still in the race. Would you rather be rooting for the Devil Rays, or the Brewers, with no hope at all of playing October baseball? If back in April the Baseball Jesus had granted me a vision (to be known down through history as the Three Prophecies of Quincy) and revealed that 1) Curt Schilling would not be able to function as staff ace and 2) Keith Foulke would not be a monster closer but 3) the team would still contend until the end of the season, well, I would not have complained.
I still won't complain, or rage, or be bitter, even if the Red Sox fall short of making the post-season. I know the deal going in, and the deal is this:
It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart.The above words have appeared several times on this blog, because they express a powerful truth. To love something - whether that thing is a baseball team or an individual or whatever- is to sow the seeds of your own downfall. If you love you're going to hurt - somehow, somewhere, sometime.
And when you get hurt you can rage or scream or feel sorry for yourself. Or, you can do as beth suggests - face the music dressed in our best, and prepared to go down as gentlemen. Why not face adversity with some dignity? Why not cheer for the Sox until the bitter end, embrace our passion until the last out? After all nobody forces you to care. Nobody puts a gun to your head and says "ok... on my command... love!" It's a choice we all make, and you can avoid the consequences, the heartbreak, quite easily. Wall yourself off from other people. Follow golf. If you choose to love something, then take your hopes in hand, do it unreservedly and accept that sometimes the object of your affection may fall short. Not make the play-offs. Not win another championship. You know what I mean.
The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.Don't get the wrong idea. I will be disappointed if the Red Sox aren't playing ball next month. There are few things I like better than the Red Sox and October baseball. After the adrenaline rush of the last two Octobers, this autumn would seem awfully quiet without baseball. I'd like to see some more.
But there is a price to be paid for everything in this life, even miracles like last year's World Series trophy. Schilling and Foulke have already paid, struggling all year to regain last year's dominant form. And maybe our price, the price for October 27, 2004 is to watch this year's edition of the Boston Red Sox, fall just a little short. Is that so bad? Such an awful possibility? Especially with the future (Hello Mr. Hansen. Gimme five Mr. Papelbon) taking shape before our eyes?
It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.
Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.I will never learn. I will always believe.
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