Tuesday, October 26, 2004, 5:56pm
Tuesday, October 26, 2004, 5:56pm
I’ve sometimes equated watching the Red Sox playing in the World Series with having a case of the flu – the anxiety and tension will pass in less than a week, but in the meantime it is a draining experience. I never did feel that way when watching Larry Bird winning basketball championships or Adam Vinitieri kicking winning field goals two years out of three to win the Super Bowl.
The present moment intrudes with the entrance of new passengers aboard this second double-decker level. “They all have their computers on,” an older lady announces to no one in particular as she enters our cabin. Yet, upon my own inspection, passengers are mostly reading newspapers. There are a fair number of laptops no doubt, but paper still holds sway aboard the commuter rails and it seems that a glossy magazine story about easy money is what real money mangers want to be reading on their way home from a long day at the office.
For most people I suppose computers on a train still imply ‘work.’
William is still absent, but I can’t say that he never came aboard and I didn’t hang around the platform long enough this time to see the Pied Piper effect of passengers trailing in the wake of the all-knowing. This back end of the train is William’s normal turf, so I’ll see who checks my pass tonight and call that my official answer for tonight.
Why do I feel so anxious about the Red Sox? Perhaps it was watching Yaz – Carl Yastzremski – making the last out of the 1967, 1975, and 1978 seasons. Or maybe it was watching the Sox come within a single strike of World Series victory three times in the sixth game of the 1986 World Series against the Mets. Or maybe it was growing up near a city crushed by the famous running of the great Enos Slaughter, who scored a run for St. Louis Cardinal to defeat the Sox in game six of the 1946 Series, a series when the greater Ted Williams batted a measly two hits for every chances in ten.
I could also say that it has something to do with the Yankees who, for nearly a century, out-spend the Sox and everyone else to acquire the better players and in many years usurped the whole American Baseball League. In fact, if not for the newer playoff format the Red Sox never would have met the Yankees last week for a chance to win the pennant on the field.
In the process the Yankees were humiliated and with this comes a great deal of satisfaction since those entitled by their wealth or traditional success should be humiliated from time to time for everyone’s good (including their own) and it is a good thing to celebrate when this happens.
Yet I am not at ease one bit even with the Yankee franchise a smoldering heap for the moment. The Red Sox lead the World Series two games to none and yet I can not relax for a second either. It is like the flu indeed. I can treat the symptoms with rest and vitamins, though nothing I do changes the underlying disease, and the only real solution is to wait the thing out to see what happens.
This is clearly no way to enjoy a baseball game, but having sworn never to watch this team again on many occasions, I can allow my old fanaticism to rise from the grave only just so far. I have learned my lessons well – the disease of doubt is far less painful than death by utter disappointment. Holding back this way is the bargain I have made, even though it likely spoils the full enjoyment of any final winning should that come to pass.
Tonight Pedro Martinez finally gets to pitch in the World Series. If he’s on his game, there won’t be too many anxious moments, and if not, then there’s always the computer network in the house that needs to be rewired. As a Red Sox fan I always have a backup plan like this, and when I ask “who’s pitching” it’s as much to estimate the potential for free time as anything about the game itself.
In the darkness outdoors we’ve just crossed over a river of headlights interpreted to represent the approximate outlines of Route 128. Occasional street lamps flash past my window but otherwise the brighter lights inside this cabin dominate my view until we pass a brightly-lit car dealerships in Wellesley. I wonder if those dealerships somehow equate sales potential with turning night into day.
Once more darkness paints the night and I am left to ponder my location again – Natick possibly, given how the tracks here are worse than anywhere else and how we barrel through at 65mph – tossing and rattling the whole train. Lights now reflect from the crystalline waters of Lake Cochituate in the same spot where evening water-skiers only recently zoomed in broad daylight. Then the train slows as we drift towards West Natick Station. The usual crowd queues up, and as the train slides to a hissing stop, the mass exodus begins.
