Gift Ideas...

Anyone wondering what to get me for my birthday/Christmas? Well, this book is a good choice. Sounds like a winner to me, and I am not the only one to think so. Nothing like a daily calendar that affirms your hatred of a sports franchise.

Here's another good book, nice little beach read it seems. Then there's this one, which I am sure is full of plenty of anti-Yankee snark. Right in my wheelhouse.

Of course, if you really love me, you'd get me this. I would even be happy with this.

But, to be perfectly honest, I would most rather just have this, this, this and this again..

Pretty please?

Seal clubber violently dragged from PETA luncheon: Escapes with life

How does that fake headline make you feel? Outraged? Maybe. Sad that generally good-intentioned people decided to take the low road? Sure. Feeling a little tingly that he got what he deserved? Well, that's only natural. You wouldn't be wrong if you felt any combination of those things. But would you be surprised? No, of course not. What kind of idiot disregards all common sense and walks directly into the mouth of the lion with raw steak strapped to their backs?

When you go to college in New England, as I did, and you're a Yankees fan, as I was at the time, you learn pretty quickly that there is a big (and sometimes dangerous) difference between being a die hard fan, and being a f&$king moron. You see, your friends and family, though fans of rival teams, still love you deep down, so although they may stop talking to you for a few weeks when you behave irrationally or childishly, they most certainly will not drag you into an alley on Yawkey Way and beat you within an inch of your life. And since we will dedicate a lot of time on this blog to dealing with friends and family, I thought I might talk about dealing with rivals while visiting rival cities.

When I was in college, everything seemed opposite to what I had grown accustomed to. Bars, restaurants, public meeting spaces, etc. - places that I could always ask the person next to me "What's the score?" and they would know what I meant, became profanity in New England because it always required a qualifier "No, the Yankees score". I realized many years later that NESN has a regular "Evil Empire Update" during Sox games, so it isn't as though they didn't know the score, they just didn't see the point in passing it on. The difference between me and most die hard fans though is that I had the common sense to adapt.

Case in point - my first and only trip to Fenway Park, a game between the Sox and the A's resulted in a relatively boring game but an extraordinary sociological experiment in the right field bleachers. For some reason, a guy decided that not only was he going to attend a Red Sox game with a Yankee hat on, but that he was going to act like a jack ass and point it out to everyone on his way in. As a Yankee fan, part of me could appreciate his fanatical support, while my evolutionary instinct to survive, which his lineage had apparently not honed over time, led me to believe that I had literally encountered the most shallow part of the gene pool. When he was douched with beer in the third inning he threw his hands up as if to say "Come on guys, honestly?" When his heterosexuality was called into question for three straight innings he responded by pointing at his cap and giving the #1 signal, over and over again reminding Red Sox fans that wherever they went, Yankees fans were the best in the business. By the sixth inning, the game was essentially over, and Sox fans had resorted to doing whatever they could to incite the guy. By the time he turned around to say something, a shirtless South Bostonian (I presume) had climbed over the seat and slapped him in the earhole, making the removal of the cap only a secondary consequence of his actions. While both of them were being removed from the Park, other Sox fans, I suppose in support, emptied their garbage and beverages on the guy, doing everything they could to humiliate him. I can only imagine the unholy treatment that Yankee cap received in the bleachers that day, but I did learn an important lesson:

• Don't where red to a Michigan game;
• Don't cheer for the Celtics in L.A.;
• Don't cheer for the Canadiens in Toronto; and
• Don't wear a Yankees cap to Fenway

Doing these things does not make you a die hard fan....it makes you a f*$king moron. If you do any of these things, you deserve whatever treatment you receive, just like those people in BMW's from Westchester County who thought they could beat the traffic by taking a right hand turn out of the old Yankee stadium (thereby heading directly into the "scenic parts" of the Bronx). When you are in rival cities do what you're supposed to do in a bear attack....sit the f*$k still and shut the f*$k up. Don't cheer, don't drink, don't eat, don't make eye contact, and certainly don't talk about sports. Just sit there like your only job for the evening is to be a seat filler. If your team wins, then have one hell of a time celebrating....two zip codes away when your car/plane/train has long ago left town.

A Little More History....

For those of you that don't know, I'm the guy who didn't know how to do his laundry. I guess I had an overprotective mother and a hyper-focused father. What I could do though was get batters out with limited natural ability and a combination of guile and strategic pitch command. The former was meaningless for my father, while the latter was a life goal. By time I got to college I realized that I was good at school work and baseball, but not good enough at the latter to make a career of it. I was essentially left without any other interests or past times, and when you find that you are no longer good enough to play baseball, well, you watch it. And watch it I did. In fact, in 1996, I watched 158 regular season Yankee games. I watched Spring Training, I watched pre-game, post-game, and that creepy show for kids on YES Sunday mornings. I watched the Yankees, because I had never known anything else. I come from Yankee country where everyone (except the depraved - who are Mets fans), watch the Yankees. Rather than wait and explore the field, I married my high school sweetheart so to speak, thinking that there was nothing better out there. From then until the Fall of 2007, Nate and I essentially stopped being friends for two months out of the year, what we would later call "initiating radio silence". It simply became a ritual for us. Watch games at different forums. Emails or text messages only (though once in awhile one of us would violate the accord by leaving a less than pleasant voicemail - I may have done that on the Boone homerun). On the night that the Red Sox won the World Series in 2007, the same night that Alex Rodriguez stated that he no longer cared to be a Yankee, I vowed to leave the Yankees forever if they took him back. Well since they're whores they did, and since I have never made an unreasonable promise that I didn't keep (ask Nate about Titanic when you get a chance), I skipped the trial separation and went straight to the "dead to me" divorce. I decided that I would pick a team that was young and exciting but had no conceivable chance of winning, by then known as the Tampa Bay Rays. Six months later, Nate and I had once again initiated radio silence. It lasted quite some time. Up until the final night of the 2008 Series, when I got a text from Nate that read "Sucks when your team walks out onto the field of play and pinches out a ham-fisted dump, huh?". Six years of education and an Ivy League degree and the best he could do was "ham-fisted dump". Yet it proves an important point: As educated and mature as Nate and I have become over the years, and as much as we love one another, in the end, we are still just two intoxicated d-bags in the bleachers with no shirts, twelve Utica Clubs deep, and VERY angry that we can't beat the Orioles. That fact is all you need to know about us on a going forward basis.

Root, Root, Root For The Home Team

One major drawback that goes with following your teams from a rival city, is that you are constantly bombarded with newspapers, local TV, radio, and other media centered around team(s) you hate. For example, there is a special place in hell represented by the New York Post back page after the Yankees beat the Red Sox...and if that win is in the playoffs, god help the unsuspecting Red Sox fan just trying to get to work on the subway. But we can get into that later...now I want to talk about one annoyance in particular: the hometown sportscaster.

Now, it is expected that regional broadcasters will be homers to some degree. In pretty much all cases, they are hired and paid by the teams they broadcast for. They travel with the club, they stay in the same hotels, they are basically the public face of the organization. And when you are a fan watching/listening to the games in the home market, you are fine when the broadcaster roots along with you. But watch your team in a rival market...oh boy.

Here in New York, the Yankees TV games are presented by Michael Kay with a revolving supporting cast, including Al Leiter, John Flaherty, Ken Singleton and others. Singleton is harmless. Flaherty I don't mind, he brings some solid defensive strategy and perspective as a former MLB catcher to the booth. (He played briefly for the Red Sox, as well, but you'd never know it by his comments...unless someone else in the booth mentions it in the context of "wow, John, that must have been awful to be over there. I mean, how did you deal with that? Gold star for you, buddy. That organization is just terrible...".)

And I will admit, I love to listen to Al Leiter in the booth. He deserves to do as many national games as possible. (FOX...please, please, please get rid of Tim McCarver...that guy is AWFUL. It would be funny if it weren't so tragic. In one Sox-Yankees nationally broadcast game 2 years ago, McCarver called Ted Williams "Teddy Baseball" and Don Mattingly "Donny Ballgame." I threw up in my mouth, and was immediately inundated with text messages from Sox and Yankees friends alike. I will give him this...McCarver has that special ability to piss of everyone equally.) But Leiter is great. I have been playing/following baseball for more than 25 years, yet Leiter manages to teach me something new about the game in almost every broadcast. He is the guy I want in the national booth during the playoffs, no doubt. He is the least Yankee-leaning of anyone in the YES booth, he is all about the game, the situation, the personnel, the nuances of pitching, etc. Sure, he praises the Yankees, but if Jeter Ks looking on a disputed call--but it was in fact a strike--Leiter will say so. He doesn't make excuses for the team that pays his bills, and he isn't afraid to criticize their play. Just a stand up guy, and a great baseball mind. Big fan.

But, then...there is Michael Kay. I really can't stand this guy. And guess what? I'm not alone. And it's not because I am a Red Sox fan, either. Picture the most obnoxious Yankees fan you can think of, and then imagine having to listen to him call a game against your team for 4+ hours. Pure, unadulterated hell.

Here is typical Michael Kay call: "Rodriguez DEEEEEEP to left!!! It is HIIIGH, it is FAAAR...and it's caught by the shortstop in shallow left center. Two outs."

His "SSSSEE YAAAHHHH!!!!" every time a Yankee hits a home run is the bane of every baseball fan's existence. As a Yankees fan friend of mine recently pointed out: "way to make a great moment ridiculous." The guy is an absolute toolbox. To mitigate his awfulness, I can mute the TV and listen to the Red Sox radio announcers do the game on my computer. It takes some skilled pausing/starting on the DVR to get it synced up just so...but it's definitely worth it (the key is to match the sound of the ball snapping into the catcher's mitt after a pitch with its visual equivalent). Anyway, I can get rid of Kay, but then can't listen to Leiter. Sad, but necessary.

Then there is the Yankee radio broadcasters, John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman. We'll start with Suzyn.

What a trainwreck. She is SUCH a homer, it is truly hilarious. No one can forget her performance during Joe Torre's final press conference as the Yankees manager. It was epic. Lest we forget, Suzyn is hired as a "professional" broadcaster, but that didn't stop her from balling on the air when contemplating life without Joe. Her emotional breakdown was so inappropriate that even her partner, John Sterling, had to cut in with (paraphrasing here) "Suzyn, all things come to an end...he's won 4 titles, he's going to the Hall of Fame, he made a lot of money. Torre will be fine. I'm sure it's sad (in the clubhouse), but honestly. He'll be fine, and for god's sake just pull yourself together."

But it gets better. Remember when Roger Clemens decided to return to pitch for the Yankees midway through the 2007 season? Suzyn Waldman does!!!

"ROGAH CLEMENS IS IN GEOWGES BOWX!!!!! MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS, OF ALL THE DRAMATIC THINGS!!!!!! YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT WHO'S GONNA TAKE THAT SPOT IN THE ROTATION!!!! ROGAH'S BAAAAACK!!!!" Listen here, with an expanded version here. You won't be disappointed.

To hear her tell it, Clemens was going to pitch for the Yankees for free (because Yankee Greatness was payment enough, of course) and it was 1986. But actually, he was being paid $5 million PER MONTH, he was 45-yrs-old, went 6-6 with a 4.18 ERA in 3+ months of work, and the Yankees lost the ALDS to the Indians. Suzyn is terrible...but we aren't done with Yankees radio quite yet. Oh no...

John Sterling. This guy is special. It's his call at the end of Yankees wins where Sterling really shines: "Inning over!! Ballgame over!!! The Yankees WIN!!!!!! THEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeE Yankees WIN!!!!!!!" Last game of the World Series, first game of spring training...it's always the same campy virbrato. And always height of douchyness.

Don't believe me? Watch/listen to this call from a game in 2008, and please note that the game is being played in mid-June. I belly laugh every time I see that clip.

(Aside: I am listening to the Sox game on the internet radio as I type this, and the Red Sox radio announcers are currently making fun of John Sterling, cracking each other up as each of them try their hand at an impression. Classic.)

But even more than that, he somehow manages to fail tremendously at his basic duty: calling the game. Incredibly, he doesn't seem to understand that his audience is NOT watching the action, they are listening to it. It is the RADIO, after all. But Sterling is unfazed. Game action continues, but his listeners are treated to whatever aimless story Sterling feels like finishing. You actually have to listen to the level of crowd noise to try and make out which team is doing what.

Here's a typical half-inning as called by John Sterling:

(NOTE: All stories are at least 4x as long and 5x as pointless as presented here.)

"It's a beautiful afternoon here in Minnesota as Posada steps in to lead off the top of the 4th. Just look at those clouds hovering over the ballpark! See that one? It looks just like a pirate ship! Well, of course, it's not the correct amount of sails for a fully-rigged barquentine of the period, but for a cloud, it's pretty close! You know Suzyn, that gets me to thinking about how I was there--and I mean THERE...6th row!!...one of the lucky ones--for that unforgettable 1956 Broadway revival of The Pirates of Penzance. What music! What lyrics! What costumes! It's amazing to me what passes as theater these days, it really does. Cano to second on the passed ball, another Yankee runner in scoring position with nobody out. But that just seems to be a familiar refrain these days, doesn't it Suzyn? (Suzyn: "Oh yes, John. Oh YES!!") You just don't get the same detail and care, really, if you want to assign a term to it--I would say 'care'--when it comes to Broadway costumes of today. This is something I feel very strongly about, as Granderson dances off third. And this costuming decline is happening everywhere, Suzyn, even--believe it or not!!--with the gloriously storied, richly wondrous and immensely Great (with a capital "G," no actually, to be perfectly frank, every letter in the word "GREAT" must be capitalized!!) New York Yankees. It was a sad day, for sure, when the Yankees decided to unceremoniously toss aside those beautiful lamb's wool uniforms made famous by Cozy Dolan and Hippo Vaughn. That's when a Yankee was a Yankee--and when a Yankee had guard against getting his jersey wet, lest it shrink 5 sizes in 3 minutes and become impossible to remove. Man, they were sharp, and Jeter retreats to second base after Gardner flies out to shallow right. Just incredible--nobody walks slowly back to second base after an out like El Capitan! Absolutely NOBODY!!! DEREK JETER NEVER CEASES TO AMAZE!!!!!!!!! (Suzyn: "Oh YES, John!!!!!) And Suzyn, of course, you'll be too young to remember this, but the buttons on those jerseys were made of desert-tanned bisonhide. Very durable, and you could chew on them if you needed a pick-me-up in the later innings. There's a walk that will load the bases. The nation was suffering through a severe food shortage at that time, as we all know, and I for one ate my fair share of belts and saddle-shoe tongues. Not bad, actually, especially when fried in mutton lard with a sprinkle of celery salt. So it sometimes can take tragedy to define you as a human being, as the first baseman grabs the line drive and that will do it. So it's 5 runs for the Yankees on 4 hits, 2 walks, 2 runners left on base and one of the more bizarre plays in Yankees history. We'll be talking about that one for a very long time to come, I can assure you of that. We'll be right back after this. You are listening to Yankees baseball on the New York Yankees Radio Network!"

Am I exaggerating?? Just listen for a game and you'll see...

So, how do you feel about your local TV and radio broadcasters, whether they be working for your team or another? Let us know...

What's In A Number?

The shock of seeing Josh Reddick wearing Mike Greenwell's #39 in tonight's Sox game reminded me of this fantastic site that lists the Red Sox all-time uniform numbers. It's arranged by number, so you can see every player in Red Sox history that has ever worn #1, #2, #3, etc. I have no idea if this exists for any other teams in any other sports...but if it does, please post.

"Reply All"

Have you ever left a voicemail, texted, emailed, etc. something you regret after a huge win or crushing loss to a rival fan (or friendly fan, for that matter)? Such as a drunkenly explicit message about the obvious dominant/submissive sexual relationship between your two teams, only to forget that your buddy lives with his Grandma and they share a phone line?

Or maybe said something too early, like a poorly timed "we own you!" right before that guy's team makes a miraculous comeback and makes you wish you lived in a hobbit hole?

In 2009, in Game 3 of the Red Sox-Angels ALDS, the Sox were up 2 runs in the 9th inning with Papelbon in to close it out. The Sox were down 0-2 in the series, and they had played like garbage up to this point, but they had come back numerous times in similar situations in 5 game sets, so although it was not looking great, it was not over. And with a win in Game 3, they could grab the momentum.

So as Pap got the first out in the top of the 9th, looking to send it to Game 4, I got a text from a friend of mine (Rays fan, former Yankees fan...don't ask, it's best if he tells it himself...). It read:

"Now the pressure is on the Angels, and they will fold like a sheet of origami paper in the skilled hands of Ichiro."

Being a life-long Red Sox fan, I knew better than to respond.

Then he sent me another text, with 2 outs, nobody on base, and 2 strikes on the batter. Sox still up 6-4. It read:

"Sox take this series, and they beat the Yanks. No way they want to see Boston in the playoffs."

Again, I stayed silent.

And then Papelbon decided to throw 48 straight 91-mph fastballs, and the Angles score 3 runs with 2 outs, and win the game.

Another text from my friend. This one read:

"I am such an asshole."

Agreed. But that's life, and that's baseball.

Any stories to share, let us know...

Boston Red Sox All D-Bag Team

This is a bit off-theme...but I had a fantastic time putting it together.

I love the Red Sox, but the players are human. And some of the players are better humans than others. So I've compiled a roster of my Red Sox All-Time D-Bag Team. Only 2 requirements to making the cut: must have played for the Red Sox at some point in their career, and must be a douchebag.

Enjoy...

RED SOX ALL-DOUCHEBAG TEAM

• 1B – Wil Cordero -- Sadly, pro athletes seem to have a proclivity to beating their wives. But Cordero will not be outdone--he beat his wife (repeatedly) while she was pregnant.
• 2B – Jose Offerman -- Convicted in 2007 on 2 second degree assault charges for attacking a minor league pitcher with his bat. Oh, and most recently was suspended for life from the Dominican winter league for punching an umpire.
• 3B – Wade Boggs -- Such a lovable guy that he was forced to pay alimony to his mistress in 1988. All the chicken in the world won't fix those broken balls.
• SS – Julio Lugo -- Honestly, don't know much about the man personally. Just really, really, really despise him. Hate his face.
• C – Tony Pena -- Any catcher who sits on his ass during live game play is going to make this list.
• OF – Tris Speaker -- Proud member of the KKK. As in, come-see-the-pictures-of-my-new-grandson level proud.
• OF – Ted Williams -- The statue of him outside of Fenway putting his cap on a child's head is like a statue of Liberace in bed with a woman. Williams hated kids, made a point to ignore them. After waiting hours just to say "good game Teddy," he would blow by my mother and her friends standing at the Fenway player's entrance/exit after every game without so much as looking at them. Evil. (Did do some good things in WWII, but still...)
• OF – Carl Everett -- So much to say...I'll use the 'Family Day at Fenway' incident, where Jurassic Carl (he doesn't believe in dinosaurs actually existing, since the New Testament never mentioned them) struck out looking and proceeded to go on a profanity laced tirade behind homeplate in front of a group of about 500 schoolkids. He was released shortly thereafter. I guess Carl never found the word "classy" in the Bible, so it must not exist.
• DH – Kevin Mitchell -- Before even getting into the league, he was shot 3 times due to gang-related activity in San Diego. Then, when signed by the Mets, punches Daryl Strawberry during a pick-up basketball game. Got mad at his girlfriend in 1986, and held Doc Gooden hostage as he decapitated his girlfriend's cat. Told a reporter that he never wore a cup because he "couldn't find one big enough for his junk." Missed games in his career due to: straining muscle while vomiting, breaking tooth on a chocolate donut. Arrested for assaulting his father in 1999. As a minor league manager in 2000, suspended for punching the opposing team's owner in the mouth.
• P – Roger Clemens -- Awful human being. Your heart is black, and I hate you. Sweet Jesus!
• P – Babe Ruth -- Imagine what Ruth could have done if he wasn't such a mess??? Wow.
• P – Curt Schilling -- The only thing Curt has been schilling for his entire career, is Curt.
• P – Dennis “Oil Can” Boyd -- Didn't get his nickname because he was good at working on cars...where he comes from beer is known as "oil." Arrested for threatening the life of his girlfriend and her son in 2005.
• P – Bill “Spaceman” Lee -- More hilarious than douchy, but still makes the list. Loved maoist china, told an umpire he'd bite his ear off, claimed smoking pot before games kept him impervious to bus fumes as he jogged to work at Fenway. Always keeps a Graig Nettles baseball card in his wallet, so that "Nettles's face is always up against the back of my ass no matter where I go." (I love that.)
• P – David Wells -- Said he hated Boston because he had no privacy. but when you miss games after cutting your hand on a wine glass after drunkenly falling off a bar stool in your own house in the middle of the day, you aren't due that much privacy. Got so fat that he gave himself type 2 diabetes in 2007.
• P – Brad Penny -- Pitched like sh!t for 4 months, got booed at Fenway and gave the fans the finger. Seems like the professional thing to do.
• P - Bob Stanley -- Game 6. October 25, 1986. It was Stanley's wild pitch that tied it, so even if Buckner fields that ball, the game still continues. Buckner is forced to move to Washington state to escape the pain, Stanley gets off scot-free. It's not right.
• CL – Ugueth Urbina -- Convicted of attempted murder for attacking farm workers with a machete and pouring gasoline on them. Sentenced to 14 yrs in prison.
• BN – Jose Canseco -- Multiple arrests and charges of domestic abuse, battery and assault throughout his career. In 2003 tried to charge people $5000 to hang out with him for the day. Huge, huge douchebag.
• BN – Rickey Henderson -- Again, comical. but his level of narcissism may never be witnessed in professional sports again. Rickey was the greatest of all-time!
• BN – Mike Torrez -- Could be a good guy, not sure. But if you give up a game-winning Homerun to Bucky Dent in a one-game playoff, you are a douchebag
• BN – Manny Ramirez -- Only a douchebag would have 5 sons, and name them all Manny Ramirez.
• BN – Steve Lyons -- Cared so much about the game that he would play tic-tac-toe with himself in the infield dirt. but it was as a national broadcaster for FOX that Lyons really shined...On Shawn Green taking Yom Kippur off: "He’s not even a practicing Jew. He didn’t marry a Jewish girl. And from what I understand, he never had a bar mitzfah, which is unfortunate because he doesn’t get the money." On seeing a partially blind Mets fan in the stands wearing special lenses to help him see the game: "He has a digital camera stuck to his face!" On sitting next to Lou Pineilla as Lou spoke Spanish: "I still can't find my wallet. I don't understand him, and I don't want to sit close to him now."
• BN – Jack Clark -- How do you deal with a teammate you don't like (Tony Gwynn)? Well, hang them in effigy in the visitor's dugout at Shea, of course. Declared bankruptcy while trying to handle payments on 17 different luxury autos. Lost his house and his business...that's how you take care of your family!
• BN – Jeremy Giambi -- All the douchyness of his brother, without any of the talent.
• MNGR – Don Zimmer -- Nicknamed "the designated gerbil" by his 1970s Red Sox teams. If a player had any whiff of independent thought, was immediately shipped out of town. Developed nicely into a crotchedy old man whose dumpy waddle couldn't back up his cantankerous mouth. You damn kids, get off my lawn!
• COACH – Dale Sveum -- Led the universe in getting runners thrown out at home. Hated him.
• GM – Dan Duquette -- True heir apparent to Tom Yawkey. When players draw up contract clauses that read "the only team I am not allowed to be traded to is the Boston Red Sox" because of you, you know you are a douchebag.
• OWNER – Tom Yawkey -- His vicious racism directly led to decades of horrible Red Sox teams. Institutionalized biggotry in the Red Sox organization, and got a street named after him for his efforts. Being the last team to integrate meant not competing for 20+ years. Good move.

So there it is...feel free to expand/comment on the list...

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...

A Little History...

In a couple of days, my Boston Celtics will play in Game 1 of the NBA Finals, a fact that should fill me with nothing but unbridled excitement and joy. Yet a cloud hangs over this gleeful event, in a form so unjustified it can be called cruel: my wife is a Lakers fan.

Thankfully, this is not my first rivalry rodeo. In fact, I have a propensity for befriending opposing fans--at this point it's kind of my "thing." It hadn't always been that way, though.

Growing up outside of Boston, I don't remember any real conversations with any fans of opposing teams. They were just those idiots in the stands at other ballparks and stadiums that had those dumb jerseys and hats on. But they never got closer than that, and it seemed like that was the way it was designed to be. And then I left my mother's house.

In my first week at my New England area college, I met a guy in the dorm laundry room and was immediately shocked to learn two things about him: he had never done a load of laundry in his life, and he was a Yankees fan. He was from upstate New York, and his whole town was full of them (Yankees fans, not people who don't know how to do their own laundry). But we had many other things in common (a love of baseball among them), and became friends almost immediately. And then the Yankees went to the World Series that fall.

I did everything wrong. I stomped around whining about how much I hated New York (the teams, the people, everything). I grumbled as they played inspired baseball and marched through the playoffs. And when they went down 0-2 to the Braves in the Series, losing those first two games in New York, I gloated. I felt great, they were going to lose. Then came Bernie Williams, Jeter, Pettitte and the Yankees bullpen. Braves don't win another game, Yankees take the Series...I punch a wall.

But despite all of this, I still held on to my laundry-challenged friend. Got to give him credit.

By 1997, I was a year older and wiser. The Yankees again were in the playoffs, but I kept my cool. I still hated them, but I stayed out of the way and just watched in (relative) silence. The ALDS series with Cleveland was a dramatic one (with the Yankees losing a gut-wrenching Game 4 that would have won them the series on a bottom of the 9th game-winning hit), and the Indians won it in 5. Upon the last out, my friend got up from the couch, headed straight for the door and went for a very long "walk." It was then that I learned an extremely important lesson: Yankees fans suffer, too.

So in 1998, as the Yankees were dismantling what looked like a AA San Diego Padres club on their way to a World Series sweep, I was calm. After the last out, I called my friend to say "congratulations, that was a massacre." I was certainly noticing the one-sided nature of this "rivalry."

Fast-forward to 1999, Red Sox-Yankees in the ALCS. Here is where it got interesting...for the first time I was watching the latest chapter of the greatest rivalry in sports unfold with a Yankees fan in my inner circle. We choose to deal with it in an abrupt fashion: we didn't speak. By this time, we were living in different apartment buildings, so this radio silence was not too difficult to maintain. We kept separate, and the series was over quickly. The Yankees had the better team, and one phantom tag call was not going to sway the series. (But it was nice to see Clemens get shelled at Fenway in Game 3...if I could have picked the only game to win in the series, that would have been it.)

Our system for dealing with sports invading our friendship (avoiding each other) was one way to handle it. It was the easiest, least confrontational way--but interestingly enough, it was also the most stressful. It's not fun knowing you can't talk to a good friend, no matter what the reason. So I vowed to come up with a better system. But then 2003 happened, I was living in New York City, and it was Red Sox-Yankees again.

Being in grad school in New York meant I was bound to bump into some Yankees fans. And per my pattern, my best friend in the city was one of them. Again, we watched the ALCS from separate locations, but this time we did speak in between games. After the Sox came all the way back to beat Oakland in the ALDS, I foolishly thought this had to be their year. And the series with the Yankees did not disappoint, complete with player vs. old man bullfights, bullpen pitchers threatening fans and twists and turns galore. In Game 7 we were cruising, Clemens was going to be the loser again. And then Grady Little leaves in Pedro, Aaron Boone connects on a high, motionless knuckleball. Series over.

I didn't punch a wall, but I was upset to say the least. I walked home from the bar where I was watching the game, Red Sox hat pulled hard over my eyes. The traffic in New York means you get the chance to people-watch while waiting in the gridlock...and these people wasted no opportunity to tear me apart as I sulked past their car. They were in their element, really letting me have it, and all I could do was just keep walking and take it. It was brutal.

I had nothing to say to my Yankees fan friends. I just tried to pretend like it didn't happen. I crossed my arms and pouted. I hadn't learned my anything.

Then, the next season, 2004. Of course, it's Yankees-Red Sox again in the ALCS, but this time was a bit different. For one, my Yankees fan friends were not with me in New York, they had moved on to other places (though we still kept in touch regularly). And I had back surgery in October of that year, so I spent the majority of the ALCS in bed, recovering alone. So it was just me and the TV, and I watched history. Red Sox lose the first three (Game 3 in horrifically embarrassing fashion, 19-8), then win the next four in a row in an unprecedented heart-stopping thrill ride. I was beside myself, I couldn't even comprehend what had just happened. It was the greatest comeback in baseball playoff history, as well as the greatest collapse. It was life-altering.

Based on past history, I expected to not hear from my Yankees fan friends again until around Christmas. But the very next morning after Game 7, I received this email from my Yankees fan grad school friend:

Hats off to your team. I'm sorry it had to end this way, but your guys are the AL team with the spark I always saw in my boys. In the 7th inning, I've never seen fans so into a possible 8-3 comeback, be we are now the ones who remain heartbroken. Unlikely heroes win championships ... something that George has forgotten in the past 4 years. For the first time in my life I was carried from a bar with no booze in my system.
Last night I got a lot of phone calls. Some were for utter hatred for your city, fans and team. Most were an odd sense of relief - it almost feels as though an amazing weight has been lifted.
I'm sorry for not calling you this week but from games 1-3 I knew you didn't want to hear it, and I respect the same treatment you gave me for games 4-7. Every Sox fan that I've ever known has been a f*cked-up Mets-my-team-is-pathetic-so-lets-hate-and-blame-the-Yankees-for-not-being-the-worst-franchise-in-baseball-go-boston fan. Meeting you has made me repect you for the same, if not greater, passion we hold for the game.
As you enter the World Series I wish nothing but a monumental collapse by the Red Sox, but, if they do win, I know I'll be happy for you alone - my friend who I share a passion with across the line of the biggest rivalry in American sports history.
When I'm really upset, I write. Last night I came home, watched the 9th on sportsline.com and wrote this:

A great chapter in Yankee history is over. Like a prize fighter with a once-flawless record, the first blemish is always the hardest. The manner in which that blemish was acquired makes it all the more difficult to acknowledge. I have enjoyed a lifetime of impossible feats, extraordinary achievements and improbable dreams come true that no other team's fans can claim. Those pages are already written, and NOTHING can erase them. Although today's entry is dark, yesterday's is legendary. The weight of maintaining dominance is now lifted, and beautiful chapters are destined for tomorrow. It is hard not to thank God every day for making me a Yankee fan.

I write this email wearing my Yankee hat with pride and an honest tear in my eye. Please forgive me for retreating for the next few days or weeks into a world of baseball tragedy. Welcome to the winner's circle. Now, for the first time truly meaning it, I can say, "Bring on Boston." Enjoy the series (not too much). Once again, hats off.


I was amazed. In his moment of intense sports-related pain, he had immediately reached out to congratulate me. Of course, he made sure to remind me that he still wanted the Red Sox to lose, but even that was framed with a real sense of camaraderie (with me, if not with the Red Sox). I was very impressed, and he taught me a very important lesson. And none too soon.

In 2005 I met the woman that would become my wife. No, she wasn't a Yankees fan. But it was the next worst thing: she was a Lakers fan. And not only was I marrying a Lakers fan (and into her huge extended family of Lakers fans), but just to rub it in (it seemed), half of my Groomsmen were passionate fans of teams I hated. That was just the way it was, and I was at peace with it. Then came summer, 2008.

The Celtics-Lakers rivalry had largely been dormant for more than 20 years. The Celtics going to the Finals, let alone meeting the Lakers there, was a remote possibility in most Celtics fans minds. So when it set up that they would meet in the 2008 NBA Finals, my wife and I were forced to face the facts. We couldn't very well not speak for 2 weeks, our Brooklyn apartment was far too small for that. We had to come up with some ground rules...ground rules we will get to in a later post. In short, we made it. But not without some drama...