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October 28, 2004
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... THE BAMBINO
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... THE BAMBINO HAS LEFT THE BUILDING
I've been lucky enough in my life to see some amazing things. I've seen the magic bullet, Lee Harvey Oswald's Manlicher-Carcano rifle, and Jackie Kennedy's pink Chanel suit close up and with my own eyes. I've looked down upon Washington DC from the outdoor walkway atop the Capitol dome (just under the pedestal with the "Freedom" statue -- visible here, right at the top of the curved part of the dome but under the pedestal going up) that you can only access if a member of Congress escorts you. I've looked out on a crowd of several thousand from a stage listening to me give the valedictory address at a commencement; seen some of the most powerful business leaders in the world speaking words I wrote for them, and heard a crowd of 1,500 roar its approval at them. I've seen a full moon while out on the ocean in the middle of the night, out of sight from land, when moonlight is the only light in the blackness. I've seen the casinos of Monte Carlo, and driven across France from south to north and arrived in Paris -- the City of Lights -- at midnight. All of these things were great, but none of them can even compare:
Last night was the most exciting thing I have ever seen in my life.
The city of Boston erupted into the largest display of wanton, unrestrained, unabahsed joy that I will ever witness. The Red Sox won the World Series, as you know... and set off a celebration that I was lucky enough to be a part of. My hands are sore from all the high fiving, and I'm all hugged out for the next two weeks at least.
The only way I can think to explain it to you is this: picture the one event or one thing that you have been saying for years, "I want to see this," or "if this ever happens, I've got to be there to see it"... that one thing that you expect to wait literally your whole life to see, and maybe never will. Are you thinking of it? Well, that's what I saw last night.
Since about my second week in Boston as a grad student, I've have been saying, "if the Sox ever do win a World Series, I have got to be in Boston when it happens." And you know what? I was there. Whether it happens four more times in the next ten years, or doesn't happen again in my lifetime, I was there the night the Red Sox finally won for the first time since 1918. It was the best night of my life. (Sorry, this is going to be a verrry long post... but I want to remember it all and have it down somewhere so that I'll have it for my own self to look back on... usually I write with an audience in mind, but tonight I am writing for me... so you're just going to have to sit through a long one. My sincere apologies for the lack of editing.)
First of all, I don't know if there is a better time or place for a drive than New England in autumn. As I drove from New York, through Connecticut and into Massachusetts, I was treated to the peak of foliage season in New England. For 200 miles, you get brilliant hues of orange, gold, red, and yellow that seem to come right off an artist's palette and into the landscape. I've done autumns in this part of the country since 1997 now, and it hasn't yet ceased to amaze me. If you have not ever seen New England in the fall, the colors here are more brilliant and varied than anywhere else in the US; I highly recommend that you make a trip to see it in person someday.
I don't know if you have the same sensation when you return to the place where you went to college, but every time I get back to Boston I get this instant sense of "I'm home." Not even heavy traffic could dilute my sense of happiness of being back, and being back for this reason. Anyway, I got into downtown and found the hotel that my friend Steve and I had reserved. (By the way, for some more good reading, and a personal account of Sox fandom, check out this piece that Steve wrote for Boston Magazine. Ever read something that made you realize that there are things about your friends' lives that you never knew? This is one of those articles. It's really good.)
Steve and I decided that anything close to Fenway was already going to be packed to the point of claustrophobia, so we decided to stay down in the financial district. We were only about two blocks from J.J. Foley's, one of the banking area's more well-known pubs... so we went in. It was quieter here at 7:15 yet; there were still a couple of booths open, so we quickly got one. Over the next hour, people started filing in slowly; at first, we were kind of worried that we'd chosen a bad place to be, but as game time got closer it started picking up.
My best performance of this early part of the evening was trying to convince a guy who was about to sit down at the booth next to us that the booth was already taken... it wasn't, but there was a cute little blonde who'd just walked in, and I was kind of hoping she'd be next to us. Ever try to convince a person who desperately wants to sit somewhere that the seat is taken even though no one appears to be sitting there? I'm proud to tell you that I turned on the silver tongue long enough to actually make the guy go away; I got the companion I wanted for the booth next door. (big cheesy grin)
So the game began... every time Fox showed some moment from past Sox failures (Slaughter's mad dash, Bob Gibson on the mound, Buckner, Bucky F.N. Dent, etc.), the crowd booed raucously. Something was different tonight; Sox fans actually felt -- dare I say it -- confident about a World Series. Johnny Damon led off the game with a home run, and the place just erupted; "Jesus" had set the tone for the game, and the assembled crowd seemed to know that it was our night. (First t-shirt purchased: "What Would Johnny Do?")
As the game progressed, the place filled up; by the 5th inning, it was standing room only. Steve's friend Steve (and this is my other brother Darryl) showed up in the 3rd after driving in from Connecticut after work. We ran into a stringer reporter from the New York Times who was doing a story on the passion and extent of Red Sox Nation; she was specifically looking for Sox fans who were not from Boston. Steve and I spent 20 minutes jockeying over who could deliver the best sound bite. If I see the article run, you'll get a link to it right quick, I promise.
The Sox made it 3-0 by the 3rd inning, and then Derek Lowe settled in, pitching a great game. Steve and Steve talked a lot, which was fine with me because it gave me an excuse to talk to my blonde friend, much to the chagrin of her three male companions. (Heh, heh.) Steve won the title for Most Unneccesary Tip of the Night by leaning across the table and saying, "Hey, I think she kind of likes you."
By the 7th inning, the noise in the bar was deafening; there was no more room to stand, everyone was shoulder to shoulder on the floor, and we were really glad for our booth. The crescendo rose with every out, every pitch. My cell phone started ringing off the hook in the 8th; my friend Mike from Boston, my friend Brent, Tim calling in from New York... every Sox fan in my circle was calling in.
The blonde next door had started leading the crowd in chants of "Let's go, Rrrred Sox," by the 5th inning; not wanting to be left out, the guys with her started chants now of "No more years," and "Yankees Suck." (It's always about the Yankees with Sox fans. They always suck, no matter who we're playing.)
By this point, there are no strangers in this bar. No one gives names; there is no need to. But you are on a face to face level with everyone; you've exchanged high fives or hugs or "Yeahhhhhhhhhhh!"s with every single person. There will be no such thing as personal space tonight, or boundaries of any kind. You are best friends with hundreds of people whose names you'll never know. You hug them as if you've known them your whole life.
By the start of the bottom of the ninth, I'm not sure if pandemonium is even descriptive enough to explain the atmosphere. The Steves and I just looked at each other with cat-eating grins, and sounded barbaric yawps at each other in disbelief that this was happening. It was so loud in the place that even from two feet away, we could barely hear each other shouting at the top of our lungs. My blonde friend and I were clasping hands and hugging over the top of the booth with every out. The entire bar was high fiving with every pitch.
And as first Scott Rolen and then Jim Edmonds got out, leaving us with only one to go, the anticipation level rose to something I will never experience again. There had to be 300 people in that bar, all of them waiting for something they'd wanted desperately all their lives but had never gotten. The noise reached ear-ringing levels. Everyone in the booths stood up; if they couldn't get floor space, they stood on top of their benches or tables. The entire place seemed to be bursting at the seams. I took out my cell phone and called Tim; I couldn't even really tell if he had answered on the other end, but I just yelled into the phone, "I'm not saying anything else... but I wanted you to hear this. You're here, Tim. You're with us." And as I stood on the floor at the edge of our table, I held the phone up over my head and turned to the big screen to watch...
I will replay the next moments in my head for the rest of my life. On a 1-0 pitch, Edgar Renteria grounded back to Keith Foulke (t-shirt #2: "Foulke the Curse"). Foulke fields it, starts running to first. He seems unsure if he wants to tag Renteria or toss to first. The bar starts shouting and screaming. Foulke underhands the ball to Mientkewicz. He catches it. The bar erupts even louder. Malphabet jumps into the air. There is bedlam at J.J. Foley's. The noise in the bar is so loud that we can't even hear the final call from Joe Buck. I look at Steve, who's been waiting 36 years for this, his arms raised.
On screen, Varitek leaps into Foulke's arms. In the bar, my blonde friend leaps over the top of her booth, steps across our bench, and hurtles onto me, leaving the ground completely and nearly knocking me over with a bear hug, her arms around my neck and legs around my ribs. I hold onto her with my left arm while holding my right in the air with the phone, hoping Tim can hear all this. I'm screaming "YEAAAAAAAGGHHHHHHH!" so loudly and barbarically that Howard Dean is jealous. I get hugged from my right by some random bar guy, and I nearly drop my phone. The bar has erupted into a mass war cry, one giant hug, and as I look around I don't see anyone not jumping and embracing.
My blonde friend gets down long enough to hug her companions. I hug the Steves. Someone else from the floor gives me a high five. The Steves scream at each other. I hug the blonde's companions, who at least for the moment have forgiven me completely because hey, we're all Sox fans. One of them is wearing a Minnesota Wild sweatshirt; it turns out that while he's a Sox fan, he's from St. Paul. I tell him I grew up in Minnesota. He hugs me tighter.
My connection to Tim is lost when my friend Irina from DC calls me. She doesn't care a bit about baseball, but knows how big this moment is for me. I don't know if she can even hear me. I cannot hear her, so I just yell, "I'm in a bar in Boston, I can't hear you!" I think she says "Congratulations" and then hangs up. My blonde friend grabs me by the hand and says, "Come on, we're doing shots!" (There is only one acceptable response when a person you find attractive says, "Come on, we're doing shots." That response is, "Okay.") It takes us two minutes to traverse the 20 feet to the bar, because everyone wants to hug us or high five us.
We get to the bar, and as we order the shot (I don't even know what I drank; she ordered it), the house stereo system cranks up THE song, as loud as it will go, the one they play at Fenway every time the Sox win a game... the six guitar notes sound out, and the crowd yells even louder. The tambourine kicks in, and the singer says, "I'm gonna tell you a story..." and suddenly the whole bar is dancing, singing along at the top of our painfully hoarse voices. No one has voice left, but everyone is screaming along, "Well I love that Dirty Water... awwwwohhh, Boston, you're my home!" and it's the best rendition of the song I have ever heard. I can't dance for squat, but tonight, we're Fred and Ginger.
We down the shot, and she kisses me. Very well. (Heh, heh.) We walk back over to our booth, hugging a dozen people on the way back. She's not letting go of me; she jumps back up into my arms again as we get back to the booth, clinging for dear life. I put her down, and suddenly Steve taps my shoulder, and says it's time to go to Fenway, 2.5 miles away. I look at him in disbelief for a second, as if to say, "Do you see this cute blonde person attached to me right now? I'm going nowhere with you, pal!" But I think better of it; tonight is a night for celebrating the Red Sox, not chasing girls. We say our goodnights to the crowd around us (some goodbyes are longer and friendlier than others). The Steves are outside before me, but when I get outside they're standing on the sidewalk just grinning like children on Christmas morning. The Red Sox have won the World Series. We begin walking to Kenmore Square.
We get up to Tremont Street, along Boston Common. There's already bedlam. Cars line Tremont, cabbies honking their horns, people leaning out of their windows and shouting. It's literally already bumper to bumper, and we're still two miles to Fenway, and it's already this crazy? I'm on the phone with my buddies from grad school, the guys with whom I developed my passion for the Red Sox, the guys who went with me to about 30 Sox games in our year and a half in Boston, the guys I wish were here to experience this with us... first Dave out in California, and then Damian in upstate New York. Dave says, "You lucky bastard, I can't believe you're there!" and I realize how fortunate I am to be in the middle of all this. The car horns grow louder, a constant cacophony now. "Can you hear this?" I yell to Damian. He's just repeating, "Unbelieveable" over and over, and asking me to hold the phone out to the street so he can hear it. (Damian has "1918" tattooed on his bicep. That's devotion. But now he's going to need to get some new ink done.) I call Tim as we get to Boylston Street and turn toward Fenway so that he can hear the craziness too.
There are first hundreds, then thousands of people on the street. Everyone either high fives you or hugs you on the way as you walk past them; it's an unwritten rule. (My hand was literally a little bit swollen by the time we got to Kenmore from all the high fives.) As we got to Newbury Street (the Rodeo Drive of Boston), there were so many cars in the street that no one was even moving anymore. People sat on the roofs of their cars and drummed a beat, others leaned out their windows waving Sox flags... and the crowds on the sidewalk thickened to shoulder to shoulder. There was nothing out of control about it; no one was vandalizing anything, as far as I could see.
Everyone just seemed compelled to be in the streets and head to Kenmore Square and Fenway. The closest comparison I can think of is Times Square on V-J Day. (No, war and baseball are not even close to the same thing; I would never make that comparison. I'm just trying to describe the crowd reaction and how everyone seemed compelled to just go outside and congregate and be happy together.) Even more than the sights, I will best remember the sounds of this evening; all the car horns and stereos playing Dominican music (for Pedro) or "Dirty Water," all the cheering. That's going to stay with me forever.
We got to CommAve (Commonwealth Avenue, for the unintiated) and completed the walk to Kenmore Square. We walked past riot police in their Robocop gear, which seemed odd, but we figured that a show of force might be what was keeping the crowd so well-behaved. More riot police lined the store fronts, discouraging anyone who might think about looting. We stopped to talk to a couple of them; most of them were civil and in a good mood. I've read reports that 100,000 people were there; I believe it. It was amazing, but truthfully was kind of anti-climactic. The walk there was giddy and celebratory; once people got there, it was like they didn't know what to do. We looked around for a few minutes, then tried to walk back.
The commander of the riot squad must have been the only cop in a bad mood. (Maybe he was a Yankee fan?) He decided it was time to clear people out; he cupped his hands and yelled that everyone had to move. (A joke, trying to get the attention of 100,000 revelers without so much as a megaphone.) The problem was that the Steves and I were right in front of them as he said it. We made the "mistake" of stopping to talk amongst ourselves about how best to get back... the cop seemed to take this as a slight. As he gave the order to his team to march forward, he looked at us and growled, "You had your chance." Shocked, we took a couple steps toward them, since our hotel was behind them. We had our hands up, to show no threat; Steve started to say something like, "We're leaving." The commander unsheathed his nightstick. We thought, "Uh oh." We turned around and went the other way.
I pointed across to the other side of CommAve (which is a divided boulevard with an island in the middle), we ran across the island and tried to turn down the other side. When we looked right, there was another phalanx of riot cops advancing on the square. It felt odd. I know why they were there... and I don't disagree with it necessarily. But it was still weird to be in a city, in a square that I know so well (in grad school we all lived literally right around the corner from Kenmore Square) and be staring down the barrel of a squadron of riot cops. It seemed to me they were overreacting; the crowd was extremely well behaved, from what I could see. But whatever their reason, there we were, looking at riot police with shields and sticks advancing on our position. I don't wish to repeat that experience -- though I must admit to a small bit of an adrenalin rush that was kind of like going down a black diamond run when skiing... you know you're in over your head, but there's still something sort of cool about it and you want to keep doing it even though you know you could be in danger. I wasn't scared so much, even though I knew we should leave; I kind of wanted to stay and see what would happen. (I never did outgrow that troublemaking imp phase where I just want to see "what would happen if...") Thankfully, Steve is saner than I, and we decided to leave.
However, via some of the back roads (thank you, Bay State Road!) we were able to get back to downtown without further incident. We walked back to the hotel, said goodnight to the other Steve, and settled in to watch the ESPN coverage of the win, before finally falling asleep around 4:00. We got up at 7:15 and drove back to New York and worked today, which was a bit of a challenge. But for the experience of being there in Boston when it happened, Steve and I got a little bit of celebrity out of it. We spent all of lunch and much of the day recounting the night's events. And I must say that the Yankee fans around us were gracious and classy and let us enjoy our moment. Thanks, guys.
So that was it... that was being in Boston when the Red Sox finally won the World Series. I have two more baseball posts left in me for tomorrow (mostly because Curt Schilling ticked me off today, but that's another story and I'm not letting him take this moment from me... and one that cousin Joe will actually appreciate), and then I promise you, no more baseball and no more Red Sox posts until February, when spring training begins and we start this all over again. (And for the record, there never was such thing as a "Curse." Just an 86 year run of bad luck.)
But no matter what happens next season, this one belonged to us. They can't take it away; we'll always have it. And I will always have the memory of the most exciting night I've experienced yet. I'm going to be hoarse for the next four days... I don't care. I took pictures, but I still have a couple of shots left on the roll, and we have the Halloween party this weekend, so I will wait till there are shots of me as Fat Elvis before I develop them... but I'll post them after this weekend.
Thanks for putting up with my delirium for the last two weeks, friends. We now return you to your regularly scheduled 'Mudge.
