But Ma, WHY did he do that?

On a blog about the pitfalls of being a socially-interacting human being while also being a sports fan, it seems appropriate to start from the beginning. You'll have many different kinds of relationships in your life, but the first one will always be with the woman who brought you to term. (Even if you walked out of the delivery room never to see her again...she still fed you from her own bloodstream for the better part of a year.)

But even the most innate connections are not immune. Case in point:

October 25, 1986. I'm 8-years-old. The Red Sox are in the World Series, up 3 games to 2 on the New York Mets. Up 5-3 in the bottom of the tenth inning, two outs, with two strikes on the batter. But let's go back a bit...

That year had been a great one for Boston sports. The Patriots even making it to the Superbowl after slipping into the playoffs as the last seed in the AFC was huge, and the Celtics had crushed their way to their 16th NBA championship that June. The Red Sox were cruising through the summer on their way to an AL East title and a berth in the ALCS against the California Angels.

The '86 ALCS was mesmerizing, even for an active 8-year-old. The improbable way that the Sox came back from 3-1, highlighted by that absolute roller coaster ride of a Game 5, was spellbinding. I couldn't look away. My brain flipped a switch that summer, and I was hooked on the home team.

Then Boston goes up 2-0 in the World Series against the Mets, and things in the house were rocking. My mother, you see, is most definitely a baseball person. She's followed the Red Sox every season for the past 60+ years (sorry Ma). She was a baby when Pesky held the ball in '46 (he didn't, though). She experienced the impossible dream of '67 (and the very real reality of Bob Gibson). She was there screaming when Fisk kept the ball fair in '75, only to have a bloop and a blast crush her again the next night. And when Bucky Dent hit his pop up over the wall in '78, she was only grateful that I was barely a month old, and as yet impervious to Red Sox-related pain.

But 1986 was different.

The Sox were crushing it, even against a favored Met team. They had the pitching, the hitting and the bullpen to win in the playoffs. The night games were a bit late for me (according to my mother) so when Game 6 went long I had to go to bed...but my mother promised to wake me up for the final outs. So when she walked into my room and said, "C'mon! Get up! They're going to do it!!," I flew across the hall without touching the floor, and landed in her bed to witness what she called "the moment."

I remember how happy she looked, with both of us grinning ear-to-ear as we made excited exclamations in high-pitched squeals. We were like overstimulated toddlers who can't help but hold their breath and flail their arms, lest we explode with an emotion too strong to understand. And when the first out of the bottom of the 10th inning landed in Jim Rice's glove (both my mother's and my favorite player...to this day), I remember fantasizing about Rice making the final out and running in from left field with the ball that changed everything.

Hernandez lines out to center. 2 outs!! My mother and I are in a perma-hug, our cheeks smashed together as we both faced the TV. Vin Scully is thanking all the tireless crew members behind the scenes that made the broadcast of the 1986 World Series possible. Bob Costas is ready to go live from the Boston locker room, everything covered in plastic to shield it from the champagne shower just seconds away. 2 strikes!! Unbridled joy, ready to explode.

Then a single. No big deal. Another single. That's fine, just prolonging the inevitable. And another single. Mets score to make it 5-4, tying run on 3rd, winning run on 2nd.

I can feel my mother's grip on my shoulder begin to slacken, as her other hand slowly makes its way to her face, covering her mouth. I am sure she has looked like this before ('67, '75, '78, etc.), but I have never seen it. It worried me, to say the least. I was 8, I had no clue about what was unfolding. The only pain I understood was a skinned knee or no ice cream before bed. But she knew. She knew, and there was nothing she could do about it.

When Bob Stanley's wild pitch brought in the tying run, my mother sat silent. All she could muster was a slow, deliberate shake of her head, now with both hands covering the bottom half of her face. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost...a very familiar, comes-by-every-October, makes-you-sick-to-your-stomach ghost.

And then there was "a little roller up along first...behind the bag...it gets through Buckner..."

My mother looked down toward the ground, covered her eyes with her palms, and exhaled.

I stood up on the bed, screaming. "But...why did he do that, Ma? WHY did he do that?" I needed her to explain to me what just happened, and that the Red Sox would get a do-over and still win. She couldn't even look at me. And then I knew it was real, and I balled.

I didn't just cry, I completely fell apart. Open mouth, choking sobs, tears and snot flowing down my face. It was epic. October 25, 1986 remains the only night I have ever cried myself to sleep.

One day, many years later, my mother admitted to me how awful she felt that night...not for the Red Sox (although I am sure that was part of it), but for me. She said that she felt like a bad mother, one that had knowingly led her lamb to the slaughter. She was worried that our relationship would be irreparably damaged. She was honestly sorry for waking me up that night.

She woke me up, but in a far deeper sense. She woke me up to what it was to be a Boston Red Sox fan. She showed me that the teams (and people) you love can hurt you...badly. And the more you love them, the more they can hurt you. But they're your teams (and people), and you just keep loving them no matter what. And the switch stayed on.

EPILOGUE

By the Sox-Yankees ALCS in 2004, being a Red Sox fan and all that entailed was old-hat. I was at home for the week recovering from surgery, so at least I didn't have to deal with New York City outside my apartment during the first three wipeouts. But then Boston started winning, and in uber-dramatic fashion. (Aside: My mother claims to prefer the nail-biting, close games--she says the lopsided scores bore her. Me? I'll take 10-0 and the few extra years tacked on to the end of my life. Every time.)

And immediately after Game 7 completed the most improbable 4-game winning streak in Red Sox (in baseball!) history, my mother called. She had called me every night of the that series to talk baseball, but that night she had little to say. She asked me how I felt, and I told her that I was so happy I was shaking. "They did it," she said. "They beat them."

Then, finally, it was her turn to cry.

And four games later, when the Red Sox won the World Series for the first time in 86 years, we both cried. I hugged her over the phone lines as hard as I could, and remembered that night on her bed in 1986. Sure, that didn't really work out the way either of us would have hoped. But that's baseball, and we wouldn't want it any other way.


Has a sports catastrophe ever impacted any of your relationships (friends, family, romantic interest and the like)? How? Let us know...