The Day After
by Kevin Fitzpatrick
People all over the Boston Area and expatriate fans around the world are getting groggily out of bed this morning, including me. Let me start by saying I am not really a huge baseball fan. I don’t live and die with the team from Spring training through the Summer and, God-willing, into Autumn. I don’t debate coaching decisions made in June with co-workers. That being made clear, what do I feel this morning, October 17, 2003, the first day of “wait til next season” season?
Disbelief? Not really. Dismay? A little.
Who am I trying to kid. I am dismayed, disenchanted, depressed, and for lack of any better “D” words, angry. Am I angry at the Red Sox? No, not really. Although I would like to offer the gift of a vocabulary word to one special player:
Hubris (hyü-bris)
Function: noun
Definition: exaggerated pride or self-confidence.
When you feel that your “A” game is gone, but figure you can beat those guys with whatever you have left, please read the above and then watch a tape of the 8th inning, the inning where hope evaporated for Boston fans. Even the blindest optimist started to squirm uncomfortably in his seat when the Yanks tied the score in the 8th. Only 1 at-bat to score and then the Yanks get a chance to answer. Momentum has shifted and you are struggling against a rip-tide. Instead of a leisurely swim, you are now fighting for your life. Those dreaded words from the announcers booth: “The Sox are only five outs away from the World Series…”( where had I heard that before.. it was so familiar…oh yes, the Cubs Game 6) and I actually said “oh no” out loud.
Hubris. A certain legendary major league pitcher needs to have that word tattooed on the inside of his wrist; on a place where he gets to see it every time he puts a ball in his glove.
But I digress, I was talking about anger. While I will admit to some minor annoyance at our Boston boys, I am not really angry with them. Oh, sure, the booming offense that got them to the post-season was certainly late in arriving. And the players conduct in Game 3 was just plain childish. It was an embarrassment to the players, the fans, the coaches… everyone. Am I angry about it? No, not really. It’s idiotic to shower a child with gifts and praise, allowing them to do whatever they wish, whenever they wish and then act shocked when they throw a tantrum. “Is it possible little Timmy is (*gasp*) SPOILED???!!”
No, my anger is at myself. Right up until the 6th inning of last night’s lesson in humility, I actually Believed.
I Believed (yes, that’s a capital ‘B’) they had a shot. Not just a long shot either, but a pretty good chance. Oh, I didn’t actually TELL anybody that. As a matter of fact, my comments after the game 5 loss at Fenway were pretty consistent. “There’s no way they can take 2 away from the Yanks in the Bronx, no way they walk into the Series from here, they’re done…“ or some words to that effect. But even while I mouthed those words, I never truly believed it was over. I hoped my wife would ignore my ranting after Game 5 and turn on Game 6, even though I swore I wouldn’t watch it. Of course I would watch it. My excuse:” It’s like a train wreck… you just can’t seem to look away.” You now know my secret. I still held a faint hope that they could put something together to beat the Yanks almost superhuman defense. But an odd thing happened during Game 6; the Sox fed my withering optimism. Nomar broke his slump, and the offense showed up, fashionably late but looking impeccable.
I blame myself, not for the loss, but for becoming so involved, for letting this team with its history of heartbreak, with its “Curse” or with its just plain bad luck suck me in. Again.
Life goes on I guess. I will not be watching the World Series this year. What’s the point? Two teams I have no interest in slugging it out for the title? Yawn. There are other things to do. One good thing has come out of this devastating loss: I have had my Red Sox Cynic armor refurbished. All those cracks and dents have been repaired, and it is shiny and impregnable again. I just hope it doesn’t rust out in October again next year.