Dear
Boston friends,
I
was going to put this little piece in the Frog Hospital newsletter, but I
realized most readers wouldn't get it or be interested. I thought that maybe
some friends of mine in Boston would get it, and I am lucky to have nine Boston
friends on my mailing list. Please read it and let me know what you
think. It's too short I know, but this is the Internet and it has to be short,
as I have learned. The challenge is to explain death and baseball in under 500
words. I could go to 1,000 words or more -- maybe.
The
1986 World Series
Buckner
bobbled the ball on this key play in the 1986 World Series. The Mets won the
game because of that error. It was the 6th game. The Mets went on to win the
seventh game and became the champions. I had only to mention this to my
Bostonian classmate John Moore when I saw him at the reunion last year. His
face winced with pain. "Don't tell me about 1986, don't say it."
It
was the choke of all time. The choke of all chokes. It was one of the most
tragic moments in my life. And I wasn't even in Boston. In fact, I was driving
an old Buick across the country from Texas to Washington State during that
October, passing through Los Angeles, listening to the World Series on the
radio when this happened -- when Buckner let the ball roll between his legs and
the Mets won the game because of that error. For some reason I identified with
the Red Sox that year and hated the Mets. That's just what happened. I loved
the Red Sox. I wanted them to win. And they were only one out away from victory
when the doom of New England came knocking on the door.
I
realized later that the fateful moment of 1986 was tied to my age. I had turned
40 that year. I turned 40 and I saw Bill Buckner bobble the ball and I knew I
was going to die. Death. It was going to happen with a certainty. When didn't
matter. But I could no longer kid myself. All through my childhood and youth, I
thought I might be the exception and live forever. No more. In 1986 I came to
know that my doom was foretold. I want to thank the Boston Red Sox for helping
me to realize that tragic necessity.
From John
Thanks
Fred. That was a lovely anecdote. That event seemed to be the
distillation of the Curse of the Bambino .My long-suffering father, who
was born the year after the Red Sox last World Series triumph in 1918, finally
saw another in 2004 at age 85. Thanks for the memories.
From Harvey
I understand the urge
to connect sports to existential things, but feel this is too short, needs some
filling out.
Also, for what it's
worth, though I was living in Boston I was doing so as a New Yorker — in short,
a Yankee fan. I would say the Red Sox had two great things over the course of
their career — Ted Williams and The Curse. One is gone forever, not necessarily
the other.
From Fred
You
understand! And it needs to be longer. I was not a Red Sox fan at the time. I
was living near Houston in the autumn of 1986 and the Astros were hot that
year, so I joined in the enthusiasm. The Astros were up against the Mets for
the playoffs. I spent a very pleasant all-night vigil in the Astrodome parking lot
in order to get tickets to the playoff games. The Mets came to town for the
games and I hated them, I couldn't help it. Especially the catcher Gary Carter.
His joyful grin drove me nuts. But I couldn't hate Darryl Strawberry, he was
too beautiful......... So if I tell the whole story, it comes to thousands of
words...... But I would be breaking a long-standing rule at Frog Hospital
-- no baseball stories, not ever, not even once....... too sentimental and
long-winded, like the time I saw a game at Busch Stadium in 1983. They have a
statue of Stan Musial at the entrance in his famous stance ..... well thanks
for your interest, take care ..
From
Ted
We are all doomed I agree yet sometimes its ugly and sometimes
it quite & peaceful. He got the ugly side.
My Mom passed in April at 99 3/4's after dementia eat her body
away over 3 1/2 years. That was ugly too yet not nationally known like
Bruckner.
Cheers Fred. Glad all goes well 4 u.
ted
|
From Fred
Sorry
to hear about your mom. You had good times with her in Palm Springs.
From Dan
Nice piece, but... a little confusing...you heard it on radio, and
then you say you saw it... I guess on the eternal TV replays? I loved the
point that it gave you the sense of mortality. I assume it was more than sheer
dread... but also a modicum of mature wisdom.
I was a die-hard Mets fan growing up. It warped my whole life,
making me so afraid of losing I didn't play the game of life with enough
courage.
I remember crying in 1962, when I was 12, in my backyard tool
shed... when the Mets were inches away from finally winning a game only to lose
in the bottom of the 9th with a multi-run gopherball.. STILL EASILY THE WORST
RECORD IN BASEBALL HISTORY that year, at 40-120. (The next year they only
managed 51 wins against 111 loses.) Then, after the pennant win of 1973, I
wasn't a baseball fan at all. I guess I had more exciting things on my mind in
the sensational sexy tumultuous and cinema and music-rich 1970s. But in
1986, suddenly, I realized, that I was officially a Red Sox fan. I had
become a Bostonian. I just found myself rooting for the Sox! I saw game 6 from
a Boston bar, after reviewing a jazz show for the Herald at Jordan Hall. When
Buckner missed the grounder, all of a sudden there were a few wild cheers
erupting from a few college kids at the center of the bar! I was rather
astonished these young Mets fans from NY had the nerve to exhibit wild joy at
this tragic moment in a Boston bar. But... I was very impressed no fights
erupted that night. I don't even remember any jeering and hissing. (I think we
Sox fans might've been too shocked to exhibit any vituperative brio. But it
also seemed like good sportsmanship. )
|
From Fred
Thanks
for your comments and your memories. I grew up in Chicago with a complicated
relation to the Cubs and the White Sox.
From
Dan
I did not mean to say the Mets alone
made me a less than courageous and adventurous person. Parents not getting me
prepared for the competition of society and career was a bigger part. There
were other factors, too. But you're mentioning the Buckner influence on your
feelings of death made me ponder the Mets' possible influence on my childhood.
I quit being a Yankee fan to go with the Mets at age 12 because the Mets were
the return of National League baseball in NY, My father's favorite team was the
National league NY Giants. So being a Mets fan and a baseball fanatic for
a while was an obvious attempt to get closer to my father. And baseball did
give us something to talk fluidly about.
From Fred
Baseball
is an important metaphor. My youth was troubled by losing. I could be a Cubs
fan and enjoy finishing in last place because we were the nice guys. Or I could
be a White Sox fan and come in second place, year after year, to the Yankees.
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