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But it is not New England, as I was reminded last Saturday. As we—I mean, the Red Sox—were embroiled in that crazy, fantastic five-game series with Oakland, our family of course went about our business wearing what Caroline, our five-year-old, calls "the B hats." We went to Caroline's soccer game in our B hats, to the mall in our B hats, and to the Stevenson's orchard in our B hats. At this last stop we picked out our Hallowe'en pumpkins, had some warm cider and bought some pies. It was all very bucolic, all very New Englandy. As we headed for the car so Daddy could get home in time to see if the Sox could possibly solve Tim Hudson, a kid wearing a BOSTON SUCKS T-shirt approached and, for my edification and that of my wife Lucille, Caroline and our three-year-old twins Jack and Mary Grace, reiterated verbally the sentiment of his shirt, adding, "And we're gonna kick your ass."
Yanks fans were cheering for us and we were cheering for the Yanks a week ago; everyone in both camps wanted this series, this year, with this cast of characters. The Bosox broke the all-time slugging percentage record of the 1927 Yankees this year, and old Fatass Clemens was in his last year of baseball, still throwing smoke. The Sox' new owners come right out and called the Yankees the Evil Empire, and King George, who may or may not know unhinged when he sees it, speculated that these gentlemen now in charge of the Boston franchise might be unhinged. The Yanks and Sox battled, sometimes epically, 19 times this year. The Yanks won 10, the Sox 9, and the Sox dominated all statistical categories.
This would be good.
I have very few talents beyond the ordinary, but possess a relatively keen ability to have tickets to postseason athletic events attach themselves to me for face value whenever I want them to. They are not always for good seats, but they are, as we say, "in the ballpark." This was the case when I attended all seven games of the 1986 World Series (and that's quite enough said about that) and it was the case last week when I suddenly found myself in possession of 2 for Game 1, 4 for 2, 4 for 4, 2 each for 5, 6 and 7. That left me wanting only for Game 3, the monumentally hyped shootout in Fenway involving Pedro and the Rocket. For that, I would get credentialed—another little trick of the trade I have acquired in my maturity.
A credential comes with two responsibilities, neither of which I particularly welcome. The first is that one must, to express it bluntly, put a lid on it. There is No Cheering In the Press Box, and this is always fine by me, except when it comes to Yanks-Sox. I'd rather root, but there you have it.
Also, a credential usually means you're working. So, burdened by guilt, I went to my friends at TIME.com and asked if they wanted some blather, thumb-sucking and navel-gazing from and about the ALCS. To my dismay, they said sure, and so here we are.
As you can see, this travelogue through the series is certainly the most laconic and least . . what? coherent? useful? ... of the many accounts of this year's Red Sox-Yankees wars. Yet I stubbornly refrain at this point from putting forth the usual writer's beg: bear with me. I don't think wasting electronic space is in any way comparable to wasting paper, which is, after all, a thin slice of tree. So bear with me or don't. If you choose to . . .
Well, here we go.
My wife suggested I might ask my buddy Mike to accompany me to Game One, but I couldn't do it. Mike, one of my dearest friends, is what I consider the world's worst kind of fan. He grew up in Manchester, New Hampshire, and attended the same New England college that I did. He landed in New York City about the same time I did (circa 1980), having taken a job with the public defenders office out in Brooklyn. It was, maybe, 1984 or '85 when I bumped into Mike while jogging in Central Park. We did some catching up over the course of two or three miles. I learned on that summer's day that Mike had come to love all things New York—I was very happy for him—then learned that this extended even to his having become, good God, a Yankees fan. I was appalled at the time; I remain appalled. For Game One, I needed a fellow diehard Red Sox sufferer by my side, and so this would be Jane, a former colleague and fellow native of Massachusetts who, also, had seen seven in '86. (It might have been my wife, but she's a seventh-game kind of fan.)
After work, we took the D train north to the Bronx and as we emerged from the subway station the sky above us exploded with unearthly thunder. That's an overwrought description, but, really, Jane and I almost dove to the sidewalk, our post-9/11 instincts kicking in, when that boom was issued. What had happened was, the F-14 fighter planes that would, in one half-second, fly low over the stadium as part of the Game One opening ceremonies had just whooshed directly over our heads. Now we were good and jittery and ready for baseball action.
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