I lay my claim with the old guard. That staunch reserve of people who look out over a baseball field with an unreserved passion and contempt for that phrase, 'It's just a game.'
As Moneyball reminded us, how can you not be romantic about baseball? Yes, it's a game, but not just, not merely. Baseball is a unique relationship, a passion, a love affair with an ideal which, like all ideals, can never be reached, but unlike most hopes, can never be fully crushed either. Even Cubs fans, most of whom are far too young to know anybody who remembers anybody who remembers when the Cubbies won the World Series, know there's always a chance. Every spring brings the childishly hopeful thought, "Maybe this year."
I know the pain, I know the relentless antics of those other teams who strut their rings like it's mating season. But I also know that dreams come true. A Red Sox fan always knows.
And as a Red Sox fan, I know the meaning of heartbreak. You don't root for the Sox because they bring home rings, because they have consistency, because they ever bother to finish a season without half your guys on the injured list. No. You love the Sox because they're yours, and win or lose, they'll be at bat again with that enthralling hope of 'maybe this year.'
We Sox fans had a decent decade as the century began. After 86 years as "God's most pathetic creatures." It was justification for loving the Sox despite, well, everything. Yes, we had the smug knowledge that we'd made the Yankees everything they are today. Of course, an alarming number of people are still ignorant of that fact that the Yankees couldn't win a game until we sold them half of our World Series champions in 1919 (not to mention Fenway Park), without any profit to the Sox. We made ourselves-- baseball's first dynasty-- and then we made the Yankees. Bah. Well, when 2004 hit and the impossible happened, the wonder of observing history in action was almost worth those 86 cursed years.
But what does it matter? Every game was sold out pre-season before 2004, and that trend continues. Loving the Sox isn't really about winning more marbles or bragging rites. It's the romance. And, honestly, it's anchored in being able to return yearly to where it all happened. What would the Sox be without their ballpark? Everyone else, I guess.
Today is Fenway Park's 100th anniversary. Like the Red Sox themselves, it's existence really makes no sense. Despite fire and flood, wind and rain, Yankees, greed and the lure of shiny new things, Fenway remains, its underbelly ringing with the phantoms of the past. You can sit in the seat where Teddy set the record for farthest home run inside the park, touch the pole responsible for Fisk and the legend of Game Six, and walk on a field where every giant of the game has played over the last 100 years. It's a city in itself, with a mythology that has captivated fans throughout that century.
Other parks have their history, other sports have their legends, other baseball teams have their moments. But does any other team have such a disporportionate share of the impossible? When the Red Sox stink, when it's high time to walk away, when your dignity's been shorn and you wonder why you stay, you wait, you stand breathlessly in the decidedly Boston rain, hoping for that tarp to come off the field and two shivering little fans on the field to shout: Play ball! And you pray for another miracle. Because Jesus likes the Red Sox, and everyone knows that, and if you wait long enough, breathe through the pain, something legendary will take place if it takes 12 innings.
It is odd that the one park that remains in tact and in use belongs to the team with the greatest history. The Sox were the first dynasty of baseball, and the only team I know of in that history to literally scare of its National League rivals so badly that there was no World Series in 1905. They were the first World Series champs, the beginning for Babe Ruth, the team graced with Teddy Williams and Cy Young, and they continue to bring in players that will rightfully fill the pages of history. I mean, this is the home of the Red Sox. Yes, rich, yes, talented, and still! somehow the underdog. What's more American than that?
America's greatest pastime, now considerably weakened (except in Boston) has served people of every class and background through war, depression, strikes, race wars and riots. She reflects the failings, the triumphs, the battered and bruised history of the country who created her. She perseveres, through no fault of her own, foiling plots that should have demolished her long ago. Here's to the next 100 years.
"Genteel in its origins, proletarian in its development, egalitarian in its demands and appeal, effortless in its adaptation to nature, raucous, hard-nosed and glamorous as a profession, expanding with the country like fingers unfolding from a fist, images of lost past, ever-green reminder of America's promises, baseball fits America."
As Moneyball reminded us, how can you not be romantic about baseball? Yes, it's a game, but not just, not merely. Baseball is a unique relationship, a passion, a love affair with an ideal which, like all ideals, can never be reached, but unlike most hopes, can never be fully crushed either. Even Cubs fans, most of whom are far too young to know anybody who remembers anybody who remembers when the Cubbies won the World Series, know there's always a chance. Every spring brings the childishly hopeful thought, "Maybe this year."
I know the pain, I know the relentless antics of those other teams who strut their rings like it's mating season. But I also know that dreams come true. A Red Sox fan always knows.
And as a Red Sox fan, I know the meaning of heartbreak. You don't root for the Sox because they bring home rings, because they have consistency, because they ever bother to finish a season without half your guys on the injured list. No. You love the Sox because they're yours, and win or lose, they'll be at bat again with that enthralling hope of 'maybe this year.'
We Sox fans had a decent decade as the century began. After 86 years as "God's most pathetic creatures." It was justification for loving the Sox despite, well, everything. Yes, we had the smug knowledge that we'd made the Yankees everything they are today. Of course, an alarming number of people are still ignorant of that fact that the Yankees couldn't win a game until we sold them half of our World Series champions in 1919 (not to mention Fenway Park), without any profit to the Sox. We made ourselves-- baseball's first dynasty-- and then we made the Yankees. Bah. Well, when 2004 hit and the impossible happened, the wonder of observing history in action was almost worth those 86 cursed years.
But what does it matter? Every game was sold out pre-season before 2004, and that trend continues. Loving the Sox isn't really about winning more marbles or bragging rites. It's the romance. And, honestly, it's anchored in being able to return yearly to where it all happened. What would the Sox be without their ballpark? Everyone else, I guess.
Today is Fenway Park's 100th anniversary. Like the Red Sox themselves, it's existence really makes no sense. Despite fire and flood, wind and rain, Yankees, greed and the lure of shiny new things, Fenway remains, its underbelly ringing with the phantoms of the past. You can sit in the seat where Teddy set the record for farthest home run inside the park, touch the pole responsible for Fisk and the legend of Game Six, and walk on a field where every giant of the game has played over the last 100 years. It's a city in itself, with a mythology that has captivated fans throughout that century.
Other parks have their history, other sports have their legends, other baseball teams have their moments. But does any other team have such a disporportionate share of the impossible? When the Red Sox stink, when it's high time to walk away, when your dignity's been shorn and you wonder why you stay, you wait, you stand breathlessly in the decidedly Boston rain, hoping for that tarp to come off the field and two shivering little fans on the field to shout: Play ball! And you pray for another miracle. Because Jesus likes the Red Sox, and everyone knows that, and if you wait long enough, breathe through the pain, something legendary will take place if it takes 12 innings.
It is odd that the one park that remains in tact and in use belongs to the team with the greatest history. The Sox were the first dynasty of baseball, and the only team I know of in that history to literally scare of its National League rivals so badly that there was no World Series in 1905. They were the first World Series champs, the beginning for Babe Ruth, the team graced with Teddy Williams and Cy Young, and they continue to bring in players that will rightfully fill the pages of history. I mean, this is the home of the Red Sox. Yes, rich, yes, talented, and still! somehow the underdog. What's more American than that?
America's greatest pastime, now considerably weakened (except in Boston) has served people of every class and background through war, depression, strikes, race wars and riots. She reflects the failings, the triumphs, the battered and bruised history of the country who created her. She perseveres, through no fault of her own, foiling plots that should have demolished her long ago. Here's to the next 100 years.
"Genteel in its origins, proletarian in its development, egalitarian in its demands and appeal, effortless in its adaptation to nature, raucous, hard-nosed and glamorous as a profession, expanding with the country like fingers unfolding from a fist, images of lost past, ever-green reminder of America's promises, baseball fits America."
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