Optimism and the Red Sox

The three of us lie on the floor in front of the television. Jaimie, Max and I hip to hip underneath the blanket.  The date was October 25, 1986. I was 9 years old.  This was the day that I learned about disappointment.

What can one say about the love a child has for their baseball team? It is undying and unwavering and you never believe that you can be let down by 9 men in jersey pants. Baseball was a way of life in my family. It still is actually - it is the way my father and I begin and end all of our communications with each other. “Did you catch that walk-off from Big Papi last night?”  “Oh yeah, it was a beut!” “Don’t forget to root for our boys this weekend.” “Will do, Dad. Love you.” When I was born, my father had Sox tickets.  This team is such an ingrained part of my family, that when he asked my mother to “Please hurry up, I do not want to miss the game,” she did not get mad at him. Seriously.

I don’t think I really loved baseball until about half way through the season of 1986.  That was when things really started to pick up. I had, of course, worn all sorts of Red Sox clothing since I was a baby and had posters of the players up all over the room I shared with my little brother, Max.  After the all star break, I started to watch the games with Max and my Dad and my Mom. Before, I would be in the room while the games were on, but I would be reading or drawing or playing with my Barbie dolls.  I don’t even remember why I started actually watching the games.  Maybe, at nine, I could finally understand the slow sweet game. The boys of summer felt like my boys all of a sudden and I followed their every move. The choice of team was non-negotiable - I liked the Red Sox because that is what you did in my family, but I didn’t know I loved them until they broke my heart.

Lying on the floor, under that blanket, with my brother and my friend I felt longing and hope for the first time.  It was an ache in my belly, so deep that it felt fathomless. The moment when our poor old Billy Buckner let that ground ball flutter between his legs, was the moment when disappointment came alive.  I was no longer insulated from the devastation of wanting desperately and not getting.

You’d think I would be done with baseball forever.

But you would be wrong.  Because it was at this moment that I also learned about hope.  As my father comforted the tears of my brother and I, he gathered us in his arms and said “The Sox will break your heart. Every year they lose and I say to myself “I’m DONE.” But then the next season starts and they look so good and I get wrapped up in it all over again.  The thing about baseball kids, is well, there’s always next year.”

  At the end of every season, no matter the outcome, the Sox dust themselves off, maybe make a few trades or hire a new manager, and they always come back to the field ready for whatever comes over that plate. Loving the Red Sox is bitter-sweet.  But its worth every win and every loss because, no matter what “There’s always next year.”