Smile on your brother
Its been a few days, its been a while since I hugged my neighbor, since the kids with the pots and pans, since the woman across the street in her nightgown was jumping up and down on her porch, since the two kids waved their hats at us at the end of our driveway, since I jumped on the bed, since Beana screamed in my face… since I peed my pants.
I was working, you see. And my mom brought me in my dad’s portable TV. For good reason. Why stretch it so I can see the whole thing at home? That was the night. The TV was there for a reason, I was working for a reason, I peed for a reason.
THE REX SOX WON THE FUCKING WORLD SERIES.
Common knowledge now I know, but in the throes of passion and being stuck at work I wanted a sweep, but I wanted it all. Therefore the TV came into play, for good fucking reason my friend, good fucking reason. The broom got to sweep.
Now to look back and say something about said historic moment, I’m blocked. I feel like nothing I could possibly say would be as fabulous as those who in fervor wrote their passion immediately. They digested well. I have slow baseball metabolism. I’m still seeing Foulke’s face saying “we won” with such amazement, like a little kid. Like the kid that finally gets the power wheel for Christmas. Its way freaking cool and still, STILL you can’t believe its right there in front of you. Tangible, true, and not a dream.
You touch that power wheel, climb inside, but you’re still afraid to turn it on. Can you handle it? Will it throw you from its little seat?
So you hug it, and thank your parents, and sit in it, take pictures with it, and definitely revel in your vast coolness, but still can’t push yourself to turn on the ignition. And your parents wonder if they did the right thing? Let you build this present up to the most amazing gift since the Magi strolled up and said yo Jesus, happy birthday. The wonder if you really like it… do you even care?
Well I care my friend, I care. I love hearing radio stations say stuff like “WBCN, the rock of boston- home of the world series champion Boston Red Sox” I love that. I love people using the sox to advertise. I want to hear more and more. Use it, get commercial Boston. Shit, it’s perfect for Viagra.
Picture it, “After 86 years you’ll feel better than ever before”
Maybe I don’t have a personal relationship with the players like some do. Even though my obscure love for the Chaw is bigger than ever, I still can’t think of the perfect thing to say. Though I’d kiss his plug sloppy if given the chance.
And I considered professing my love for him, but I doubt it. I feel I would pale in comparison to some words I’ve read thus far. Maybe I am self-absorbed. I like it better to relate to me. I write about me. I can’t help it. Therefore, love you Chaw, but here’s what matters:
I love that Beth is no longer having palpitations over the impending doom we have all been brought up to live with.
I love that Kelly’s shirt is looser on her, and she wears it with pride.
I love that Steve imagined Orlando Cabrera saying “ I used to play for the fucking expos, I USED TO PLAY FOR THE FUCKING EXPOS.”
I love that DJ reminded me not to count my chickens even with one out left in the game.
I love that Beana’s away message read that she was back in 4th grade, which was the last time she was this excited about baseball.
I love that my neighbor ran and hugged me, that it was her husband’s birthday when they won, and that we will probably never have an incident with the driveway again.
I love that Karen’s dad was trashed when I talked to him on the phone, and that I couldn’t stop to laugh because he would always say something funnier after what he just said seconds before.
I love that I peed my pants jumping on the bed.
I love that my dad loved buying me a shirt, like I was 7 again, and something so much bigger than us, made us both smile.
just bitch slapped you with the truth 6:59 PM
bindi on the rug
just bitch slapped you with the truth 5:50 PM
get in the damn pumpkin
just bitch slapped you with the truth 5:50 PM
isis loves that the sox won the world series
just bitch slapped you with the truth 5:50 PM
from across the pond
a letter... from a fan, I believe was born to be a sox fan, it was just a matter of time until the two found each other!
I had another very late night last night, but it was worth
it! Pedro, you little beauty! And what about Manny? Just fantastic to watch.
I'll admit, I was nervous with the NL rules, and how it might affect the
redsox, but even big Papi at first was on top form. Now we have four chances
to do the job, and not make the same mistake them Yankees did, but Boston
are just on fire right now. I know there are people in Boston who have
waited their whole life for this, and I'm just a johnny come lately, but I
love them Redsox, and this could be something beautiful.
just bitch slapped you with the truth 11:14 AM
swing batter batter batter swiiiiiiing
Good morning red sox nation. Good morning! That’s right, it’s Monday, and maybe like me you stayed up till 12 and then got up at 5. Is that sleep in your eye? Oh it’s well worth it. Tonight you may rest. Tonight, travel day, or as should be known to the city of Boston, a day of rest. Like Jesus for god’s sake.
Its been tough huh? But its worth it, again, oh so worth it. Makes me want to look back on my experience with baseball. How it all came to be, my relapse and yet my ingrained, bred, home grown love affair with the Sox. It goes back, way back, deep into left field.
::: Wayne’s World swirled screen deal:::
When I was 8, and chubby, and had crossed teeth, and a bad perm that turned into a fe-mullet, I played tee ball. I played tee ball ‘cause Niko Dimatrakos played tee ball. Ironically he now plays for the Sharks but that’s an all-together different story. I remember wanting to be on his team, but Willie Pierce, who would later adamantly insist that he be called Bill, pressed that I be on his team. He was the first boy to kiss me under a sheet in his backyard, and he piped up to the coach to tell him I wanted to be on the orange team. So there I was, on Orange, not Red, not Niko’s team.
We sucked, yeah, but one game one of our guys caught a fly ball with his eyes closed. Pretty sweet, but damned if I could tell you who it was. I was a hitter, like Ortiz. I pushed my chubby butt into that metal tee ball bat, and socked it to the weakest kid on the team. Why? Cause fat kids don’t run fast.
I think I played short stop once, but I have no idea. Eventually I was in the outfield picking my nose or something. I think I played third base one time. I never found my groove, basically I spent most of my time on the bench, waiting my turn, and talking to Jamie Eden, who picked the Orange team of her own accord. Generally I felt like the Orange team was the dork team. And it was. I told myself I would go to a Red team game, but that never happened. Maybe we saw the tail end of one of their games before ours started, but that was about it.
I forgot about the red team. My dad got me a glove. I had my metal bat (which we found months ago and it was the lightest thing ever, but I remember thinking it was heavy) And the best part, My dad worked at Fenway in the box seats. I remember him taking me to the park on those sticky days. The air was foggy in my nose in those seats. Shaded from the direct heat. Nachos and shrimp in the inside. Most of all, chips and onion dip. I remember that onion dip. I loved it. And then the hotdogs would come on in.
At this point in my life, my dad could not possibly get any cooler. I would beg him to take me, and he would when there was a free seat in the box. No one checked. We got there early and it was amazing to just sit in an almost silent park. That’s my favorite view of Fenway. I couldn’t remember seeing guys warming up, or grounds crew sweeping. Just the simple part, where my dad would turn the TV on, I would sit in the far down hand right corner seat, put my balloon sneakers on the railing and just sit and enjoy the smell. Clean grass, air, and onion dip.
When I was 8, it was simple. When I was seven, my dad brought home this big poster in a frame about the world series. There were the Sox and the Mets, head to head. At that time it was all possible. And in my innocence, a year later, my dad tried to restore my faith and his at the same time. I don’t remember much. I remember my dad going to Fenway, with the smell of Old Spice in the air. He was going to work during the World Series, and why couldn’t I go???
My dad tried to gloss it over. He got signed bats and stuff. I think I had an Ellis Burks batt. We definitely had a Wade Boggs bat, which my dad gave to Mark Burns when he had chicken pox. Nice gift huh? Those two bats, I remember, wrapped up in my dad’s knee high white socks. God only knows where they are now.
After that, after that give-away of the bat, tee ball ended, hockey started, and I found the one thing I could understand. My dad brought me to games but never taught me how to keep score or know really what was going on. When it was a ball and when it was a strike. So I slipped away. It was easier to see when the puck landed in the net. That was a point, there was blood, there were fights, and Cam Neely was my god.
My dad stopped working at Fenway. The Garden came down, the Fleet Center went up, My dad worked a year in the boxes there, but he was getting old. Would any team ever make it? In his lifetime? In mine? He left the haute chips and guacamole. Hockey’s better on the ice, behind the goal, rubbing elbows with the goal judge.
And now here we are, on the precipice of something amazing. Something that says, hey remember when? Remember when there was hope, remember when nothing mattered, remember that when Willie Pierce kissed you under the sheet? It was dorky, but it’s still a good story. Tee ball is dorky, but it’s a story. Sitting in clean air in Fenway is a dorky relationship to have with baseball, but its mine. And maybe I jumped in at the end top ride this wave. But its always been there. It was something I was born into, and when my dad calls on the morning of game one to make a bet with me as to who will win, it’s still good to know that my dad will let me bet that the Sox will win so he can maybe have back that childhood we lost between us when Boston was still the greatest city ever; but we were only sidetracked by a stupid game called hockey.
just bitch slapped you with the truth 4:13 PM
day late and a dollar short... deal
An evening with the Yankees with nothing better to do.
Imagine, if you will, a little bar on the Upper East Side. TV’s are oddly quiet, the bar is littered with a few stragglers, and in the far corner sits a smug little man sipping from a frosted glass. He is undetectable, incognito, undercover. His eyes rise up to the screen above and in the dim light he winces. That bastard.
That’s right, there sits Jeter, silently crying into his beer, looking around for some comfort, but all he can find is barley and hops. He grits his teeth like it hurts to just be. And for good reason. He just got fucked in the ass like a cell mate on death row who’s bitch’s last request was for him to drop the soap in a good old fashioned way.
He sits, thinking, what if. And the bartender looks at him and finds the contempt for him. He approaches with caution.
“Yeah,” Jeter winces again, like his name hurts as well.
The Barkeep wipes the bar around Jeter’s arms. Vaguely familiar metaphor. And in the clear October night, the door opens and in wafts a smell, familiar to the nose that knows. In the shadow on the wall a head can be made out with odd attachments near the chin.
What the fuck is that, the bartender thinks.
It is Matsui, sauntering to the bar. He sees Jeter and nods. Jeter winces back and fixes the cuffs of his sleeve rhythmically.
“Tsing-tao,” Matsui says.
“Huh,” the bartender asks.
“Just give him a bud,” Jeter suggests.
“Not a Sam Adams,” the bartender laughs.
The two just stare at him
They sit, side by side, staring off into space. Finally the beer arrives, and still silence. Could be stoic, could be embarrassed, it’s hard to tell.
“He’s late,” Matsui says as he pops the bottle from his lips.
“He’ll be here,” Jeter winces.
Again the cold air whistles into the bar, and a shape from the cold emerges. Thin and rushing towards the bar. The barmaid, carrying a tray of cold ones heads right in his direction. They meet, and collide as the figure swats his arm down, knocking the tray.
“Hey guys,” says A-Rod, taking a seat.
The barmaid is crying, the bartender jumps the bar to check on her.
“What happened,” A-Rod asks.
“I have no idea, you were just walking weren’t you,” Jeter asks.
“Just another night huh,” Matsui asks.
“You bastards,” the barmaid yells.
just bitch slapped you with the truth 1:45 AM