Witnessing History

There is no joy in Boston; the mighty Nation has struck out.

Full disclosure: I am not a baseball fan. I played one year of Little League when I was six. You would have spotted me immediately, the one in right field, drifting off in his own little world to alleviate the boredom. My father could only hang his head in shame. When I was ten, my grandfather took me to a game at Fenway. A diehard fan, he tried to kindle the spirit within me, but only managed to water the seed of Boston losing. For twenty-five years, that was the only game I'd ever seen, the only one I ever needed to. Sure, I'd watch Boston in the playoffs, expecting heartbreak or worse. Until 2004, I wasn't disappointed.

Karen, on the other hand, is a dyed in wool fan. In high school, she and her friend used to score Red Sox games off the radio. Obviously, she grew up in a small town in western Mass. where there wasn't much else to do when the grass wasn't growing and there wasn't paint to dry. She crochets during games on TV now, while I am forced to watch or abandon them and read. When she travels, she tunes into games she wouldn't ordinarily see; she doesn't care who's playing.

When St. Petersburg expanded with the Devil Rays, she dragged me to a few games. I couldn't even tell you who they played. The Reds? The Royals? The Orioles? After a game we went to last year, I said to her, I think I'd only go back to see the Rays play Boston. When we saw the opening game this year, I amended that. Did I say when the Rays play Boston? I meant when the Rays play Boston in the playoffs. I figured that was a safe bet that would hold me for a hundred years.

So how did I end up at game 7 of the ALCS? It pays to have friends. Or, in my case, to have married someone who does.

Yesterday started with plans for the day, cooking in the morning, reading and napping in the afternoon. I needed a haircut. Had I known what was coming, it would have been a mohawk. At least a back-hawk in my case. In the evening, we planned to watch both of Tampa Bay's games, the Rays and the Bucs, football and baseball, picture in picture, in head to head competition across the dial. The only decision was which one to watch on the small screen and which one on the smaller.

Then, the call came from our friend and neighbor up the road. She started life as a Brewers fan, so we were somewhat kindred spirits. Though we haven't quite convinced her to embrace her inner Buccaneer as yet. That's a work in progress. (And now I know I will never see another ticket in my life, even to a minor league game in Guatemala). She scored tickets through the lottery, and had some extras. Would we like to go? Let me pass the phone to Karen, who proceeded to beat me about the head and shoulders for not immediately saying, YES!

First thing I did was call my aunt in Braintree. She's an old Boston Braves fan, so had been rooting for the Rays from the onset, even before the All-Star break, even when we went to Boston for the final, regular series. When I told her we were going to the game, the first thing she asked was if I had gotten her tickets. I'm convinced that had I told I had four, she and her husband would have been at Logan lining up a flight as soon as a cab could have gotten them there. But, alas, there were only two. She anointed me her good luck charm and sent me out to win.

The next thing we did was head out to Sports Authority and buy some Rays paraphernalia. Karen had converted her loyalties to the Devil Rays when they first appeared. Until this year, she'd had the luxury of rooting for both teams, except when they met, and even then she could hedge her bets. But the only marker she had was an original Devil Rays pin. So she bought us a couple caps, just to make our loyalties clear. And for those who think she might be a fair weather fan, she listened to the early Rays games on the radio while crafting stained glass in the garage. And we actually have more to do down here than watch rust spread across our cars.

Did I mention I'm not a fan? Ok, that was before I saw the light, even if was only the blinding light of a baseball drifting toward light-banks ringing the catwalks in our dome. Now that I've entered the temple and been indoctrinated with the high mass, there's no turning back.

Driving toward stadium, we saw the signs for parking escalate like bids at an auction. $10, $15, do I hear $20? The official lots are full. Sold for $30 to the lot across the street. We passed them all by and parked where Karen works a mile out, and headed for the field. About halfway there, people started gathering like runoff from a hard rain that forms rivulets then a stream and finally a mighty river, some fifty thousand strong. The Sox were well supported but didn't outnumber the Rays fans for a change. Unlike the Fenway Faithful, the Rays fans were laid back, grilling, joking, milling about the parking lot. There was no real tension after the disaster of game 5, or the disappointment of game 6.

We met our friend outside the main gate. She inspected Karen closely for any evidence of red, however well hidden, ready to raise the price or scalp her ticket if she found even a hint of it except her hair. Blue shirt, blue jeans, Rays hat, Rays pin; she was clean. A quick exchange of cash for tickets and we were in. She had gotten two blocks of four seats. We wouldn't be together, she, her fiancée and another couple would be in one block, us and a couple we hadn't met in another, just outside the foul pole on the first base line, about 30 rows up, with a perfect view of the Rays' bullpen.

We got to our seats an hour early. The section was half empty. The Red Sox were at batting practice. When the groundskeepers pulled the screens when they finished, a chorus of boo's echoed around the stadium. Apparently, the Red Sox Nation had instructed the our fans on proper etiquette for greeting an opposing team. A cheer went up when Tampa Bay took the field for their final warm-ups. We watched our pitcher, Garza. He seemed relaxed, as though it was just another start. The outfielders looked unconcerned, not too loose and joking with the crowd, but not intimidated either. Confident, not cocky or cowed.

By eight, our section had filled. We looked at the people around us, all Rays fans, a good initial sign. The four of us started glancing around tentatively, trying to make those eye-contact connections with total strangers with whom you will spend the next four or five hours of your life. The man and his wife who was legally blind, the guy and his buddy completely into the game, the father and his teenage daughter directly in front of us, the woman with her husband and son on the other side of me, the older couple behind us. We were all uncertain at first, unsure whether our support of the Rays was enough to link us. Then the unifying factor appeared behind us.

No, not card carrying members of the Red Sox Nation, not the Fenway Faithful on a holiday from the arctic cold. These were a pair of uber-Rays fans, a cross between Braveheart and Bozo the Clown, blue and white face paint, neon blue wigs, white sunglasses, and horns, drunk as skunks pillaging the cider mash. Did I mention the horns? I can still hear them rattling my right eardrum. All game long, whomever was batting, us or them, whether appropriate or not, like off-key trumpeters at a Roman gladiatorial game.

They started by hitting on the forty year-old woman with her husband beside me as though she were twenty-five, ringing her neck in plastic flowers and telling her she'd been "lei'ed." "Was it as satisfying for you?" That was all it took. Our loose confederation was now a section, our collective attention directed at wishing those horns would silence and that pair would go away.

The stadium announcer asked us to make some noise as TV coverage began. The meter spiked to somewhere between an amplified guitar a foot away at full volume and a plane on an airport runway, all cheers and cowbells, clapping and horns. Ok, for that moment, we were glad to have the horns. The feeling wouldn't return until the end of the game. The stage was set, the curtain rising, the occupants of the erstwhile Thunderdome ready for a classic confrontation: Two teams enter, one team leaves.

Our enthusiasm was silenced in the first inning when Boston's second batter smacked a solo homerun into the crowd beyond the left field wall. The Red Sox fans couldn't resist standing up and waving the crowd to silence as though the outcome were pre-ordained, a move at least one of them would come regret several innings later. The homer was followed by a walk. It beginning to look like a long night. But we escaped the inning without any crooked numbers. At least there was solace in that.

For the first three innings, our batters looked much like they had the previous game, so focused on knocking one out of the park that they forgot everything starts with a base hit. Still, we slowly regained our exuberance, rising to our feet and cheering each time a Boston batter garnered a pair of strikes. I haven't done so much standing and sitting since the last time I was at a Catholic service. There was even some praying, though most of what I heard was for the guys behind us not to spill their beers or hurl. Those damned horns kept blaring, one in my left ear, one in my right. The rows in front of us kept glancing back with an combination of annoyance and pity. One guy tried to buy the horns off of them for a couple beers apiece. They thought about that one a moment, but declined. Another whispered they only had an inning or two left in them before one of them passed out. Midway through the third, one of the guys came crashing down between me and the woman next to me, fortunately without his beer. "I fell down," was all he could think to say as we levered him back up.

I just focused on my Zen, like Garza, concentrating on one pitch at a time. For a shaky start, he kept racking up the K's. One an inning, sometimes two. By the end of his night, nine were on the board.

Things turned our way in the fourth. Between innings, a Rays fan with a Boston accent came over and offered the smurf brothers a quick $20. All they had to do was go up one section to where a Boston fan was sitting by his "daughta" and blast them for a full inning. Someone else would come and show them exactly where. A Jackson flashed and quickly disappeared into one of the conspirator's blue pockets, then these two marched off like a Sousa band redone in plastic, men on a mission. Had we known it was that easy, we would have taken up a collection. Later we almost did.

Turns out that was probably the best $20 this guy ever spent. We kept one eye on the game, and the other on our reluctantly adopted cohorts. There they were, two sections back, right on the foul line, blazing away at a couple of red shirts, who at least initially seemed to take it well. Then the Rays started chipping at Boston. Iwamura singled, then Pena on a fielder's choice, sacrificing Iwamura instead of himself. But Longoria whacked a double into right, bring home our first run. We are all up and high-fiving, building the bonds of camaraderie with our neighbors. Boston hasn't had much to cheer about in a while.

The boys in blue and white keep earning their pay, blowing their horns through the entire fifth on spec. The Boston fans still seemed to be taking it well, chatting with them between innings. Then came the bottom of the fifth. Aybar singled, Baldelli drove him in. Two more on base and it looked like Boston's pitcher was breaking. Francona took a trip out to the mound, but thankfully left him in. He escaped the inning without further damage.

In the top of the sixth, we glance back toward the two-man horn section in time to see security swarming toward the Boston fans like a herd of angry bulls to a red cape. Who knows what happened, other than Boston started losing. One guy decides to take swing at the security guard. The St. Pete cop backing him up set a hand on security's shoulder and shakes his head. He makes a quick gesture to a monster in security blue one row down who distracts the Boston fan while the cop moves in. Next thing we see is red-shirt Boston emerge in handcuffs doing the walk of shame toward a far exit. His friend fades away with him. We relax, thinking our trumpeters have just scored prime seats for the duration. Apparently the Rays relaxed, too, with a lackluster sixth and a low pitch count retirement of the heart of our order. Not what we needed to continue Lester's slide.

Top of the seventh and our frat boys returned triumphantly, hovering in their seats briefly before taking a victory lap around the nearby sections. Garza starts fraying at the edges but gets out of the inning unscathed. Our mascots settle just as we come up to bat. Now people are shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. The guy in front of me who was betting they would fade in the fifth takes it back, saying they are thoroughbreds much to his surprise. With no Boston targets in sight, they start in on a Pittsburg Steelers shirt two rows down. We ignore them and pay attention to the task at hand. Aybar homers to left on a full count. Everyone rises to their feet. Cow bells are ringing, horns are blaring, people are screaming and chipping the railing paint as they pound anything handy against it like a drum.

The tensest moments come in the 8th. Boston up with one out, and Maddon is going through relief pitchers like a fan through a bag peanuts. They advance man after man. One of our would-be Bravehearts passes out and lands on the older couple behind us. They prop him back up one last time. We spend the inning on our feet, which turns into the remainder of the game. Boston loads the bases. It's looking like a repeat of Thursday night only with less of a cushion. The guys behind us start doing beer bongs through their horns. The girl in front of us gives up on standing and starts texting on her phone. But we get out of it, how I'll never know. That's when we get the inkling that winning is a possibility.

Mid-inning, and I look up to see 11:11 on the scoreboard clock. There's a free wish for you superstitious, baseball types. You know what I was thinking. Karen gets "lei'ed" from behind with blue plastic flowers in the form of an apology from one of our aspirant Viking twins for clocking her with his horn. This after the couple we were with had stolen the horn's bell briefly before giving it back "this time" as he blew it in her ear. By now, no one cares about their antics. We are on the brink of history and they are one of us, horns, obnoxiousness and all. Our batters do nothing to advance our cause.

It all comes down to Boston in the ninth. Everyone is on their feet, cheering every strike as though it were the final out. A lead-off walk does nothing to deter us. The Rays are relaxed, doing their jobs. Victory is in the air. One out accompanied by cheers and high-fives, then two. It begins to feel inevitable. A hit toward our second baseman who tags second and the place erupts. The red of Boston trickles out, bleeding toward the exits. We hang around cheering until a round of handshakes with some of our newfound friends who then head off to find cigars. When I turn to the older couple behind us, he high-fives me and says, "we survived them," pointing to where our face-painted pair had disappeared.

And our two mascots? He and his buddy were bragging all night that they have to be at work at seven a.m. I'm betting they are having a long, cruel morning. Though I bet they say it's worth it.

The walk back to the car was briefly tense when a Boston fan didn't know when to shut up, and one of our larger fans was just drunk enough to make him, held back only by his smaller friend steering him away. Not good losers, this Red Sox Nation. At the corner, the firemen are all outside by the engines waiting for what they know is coming. There are cruisers strobed in red and blue at every intersection. The mostly mildly celebratory crowd peels off in threes and fours toward their vehicles. Alone now, we pass a knot of Fenway Faithful hanging by their trucks, but they seem more interested in analysis and commiseration than in us. The last person we pass is a local woman walking toward us who spots our hats and starts a celebration, for both the Rays and the Bucs, who also won that night.

We make it back to the car without incident. At every red light on the way home we are serenaded by car horns and cow bells as St. Petersburg celebrates its first pennant and its first trip to the series.

Of all the playoff games to see, I think this was perhaps the best. We knew something would be decided, and yet had more potential victories to look forward to if we won rather than the mild tinge of regret that accompanies knowing that it's over even with a victory. We're all smiles this morning knowing we have more to come.

It's still hard to believe it was not the Yankees, not the Indians, but the Rays who ended the Red Sox's comeback streak. Ok, Boston fans, I know you remember the line from years of repetition. Repeat after me: Maybe next year.

I kid because I love. Any other year and we would say the same.

Who knew baseball could be so much fun.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III