I was explaining this slightly mystical scenario to my pal Walter as we arrived at Fenway Park for our 16th consecutive Red Sox season opener. Walter, who between a reporting stint in Afghanistan and a single-minded sports obsession with baseball, had somehow missed the Patriots Super Bowl victory. But he is a shrewd reporter and quickly posited the central question: could this be the start of a trend?
Moments later the stadium announcer informed the Fenway faithful that the Red Sox would not introduce their starting lineup, but rather present the entire team in numerical order. When the last assistant trainer had taken the field, the Patriots emerged from where they were hidden, behind a giant American flag draped along the famed, left-field Green Monster. As the Pats strode toward home plate, Super Bowl trophy in hand, to embrace their civic sports compatriots, the symbolism couldn’t have been more obvious. It was a cleverly staged theaterpiece and served as the perfect antidote to the “I, I, I-me, me, me” infection in sports.
The Red Sox have historically been one of the prime offenders, known as a “25 guys, 25 cabs” team. Even that divide would have been welcome last season. If only they had gone their separate ways. Instead, they squabbled, bickered, feuded and sulked off the field while, on the field, produced a half-hearted effort (and “half” is generous) that led to a classic September swoon. The late-season collapse left every fan in that peculiar congregation of the faithful known as Red Sox Nation with a sour taste. It recalled to me, in particularly painful fashion, that the best Red Sox season is always the off-season, when hopes and dreams don’t collide with reality, or the Yankees.
But we Bosox boosters are like the lead character in the movie “Memento,” doomed to forget almost instantly what has happened before. And so each spring we return to Fenway filled with renewed hope, however unreasonable it may be. This particular spring, however, with new fan-friendly ownership and an upgraded roster, the optimism seemed more than just a peculiar form of regional madness. And it was given an instant boost by the sight of the Patriots handing off their special karma to their baseball brethren. For a moment one could almost feel history’s bad vibes–84 seasons without a World Series triumph, “the curse of the Bambino,” the Bucky Dent and Bill Buckner horrifics–just float away over the Green Monster, out of Fenway and Boston.
This Era of Good Feeling lasted less than an inning. It was then that the great Pedro Martinez, on whose shoulder all our dreams rest, took the mound. And Pedro, who was the best pitcher in baseball till his shoulder gave out midseason last year, looked like an imposter. He lacked pinpoint control (hitting two and walking two), his fastball had no snap (topping out at 93mph) and the Toronto Blue Jays feasted on him. By the second inning, the Red Sox trailed 8-1 and doom and gloom were pervasive throughout Fenway. It was clearly more than just a bad start in the minds of the crowd. It was another lost season.
My cousin Jack, who was in a business meeting when the game began, says cell phones were ringing left and right, as people kept calling their friends to share the news–“ohmigod, did you see …?”–and to commiserate on the emotional devastation that lay ahead. We may be foolish of faith in New England, but that faith is built on a tissue foundation. Ours is a seafaring culture and we know how to jump ship as quickly as anyone. You could hear the splashes throughout the night.
Pedro, however, insists he is just fine, that he only needs some fine-tuning to adjust to his new muscular frame, bulked up during the off-season to protect his frail shoulder. Kind of like a figure-skater trying to find her balance after growing two inches and putting on 10 pounds over the summer. But nobody really believes it. Red Sox fans have already begun spinning the yarn. And, of course, it is an epic tragedy. It has been five years since the Red Sox let the Roger Clemens waltz out of town. Roger was finito, management insisted–aging, out of shape, a fading star. A season later Pedro arrived, the young stud who would make everyone forget Clemens. He did his very best, winning two Cy Young awards as the league’s top pitcher. But Roger, of course, won the other three–and a World Series ring with the despised Yankees to boot. And now is it possible that Clemens, on the cusp of 40, might even outlast Pedro, almost a decade his junior?
The premature exodus of a talent of Pedro’s magnitude would, of course, be a blow to all baseball and its fans. But it is just the kind of misfortune we have come to expect here in Boston. The Red Sox are the longest-running tragicomedy in American sports. And we who are fated to endure it are trained from birth to expect the worst because then we will never be disappointed. So I wasn’t really expecting a miracle. I was just hoping to have the Red Sox championship fantasy last long enough to be the centerpiece of my summer’s entertainment.
Oh well, I notice Elvis Costello is playing the FleetBoston Pavilion in June. And maybe “A Beautiful Mind” and “Gosford Park” will still be around. Perhaps we’ll wipe the dust off our picnic basket and make it out to Tanglewood this year. Even take a bike ride, if I still have a bike. Is Crane’s Beach where it used to be? (And an aside to Woodman’s: demand for your fried clams is about to skyrocket.) There’s fun (and much better food) to be had outside the confines of Fenway. But I confess I really loved that Era of Good Feeling. All 10 minutes of it. Now I can hardly wait for baseball’s off-season.
