Lost

Lost -a reading (on YouTube)

Some weeks seem so full of problems, plans and appointments piled one atop another day after day that when they are all resolved, I'm uncertain what to do next. I feel like a child searching for direction, striving toward a goal that he has lost sight of or never completely understood. I'm not sure if it's the pollen, the weather, or some other internal or external factor. The feeling just envelops me like a fog until my world becomes unclear and indistinct. I feel as though I'm still waiting, stuck circling in an endless holding pattern. The runway lights are visible but I never receive clearance to land.

On days like this, it is hard not to feel completely isolated and alone. I belong to no pack, embrace no herd, have no clan to call my own. I feel like a one-man play with no supporting cast, no Greek chorus to warn me of my folly, no social safety net to catch me if I fall. Instead of exploring new or undiscovered countries, I circle back along the fringes of familiar places, uncertain whether to stay or go.

On Sunday I had an unexpected visitor. A young, gray tiger came knocking at my front door. When he saw me through the window, he immediately started crying as if I had been remiss and left him out all night. It was cold outside that morning, at least for a cat born in Florida. I thought to offer him a little food, something to warm him a bit until the sun could take over. As soon as he heard the cabinet open, his ears perked. He sat up on his hind legs when he heard kibble rattle against the ceramic bowl.

When I joined him on the front porch, he was friendly but cautious. He had obviously been around people and knew what he was missing in regular meals and a warm bed. His fur, thick, rough and a little gritty, gave him away as spending most of his time outdoors. His white socks were just an off color of gray. He had scratches along his nose from defending his territory. He was comfortable at being petted, though somewhat skittish of any sudden movement. When he turned his attention to the bowl I set before him, I could see he was an unneutered male.

He dove into the dish like a man just rescued from a deserted island. He finished every morsel, sniffing along the ground for any crumb he'd left behind. When I retreated back inside after he'd eaten and washed, he sat staring at the front door, waiting for it to reopen, waiting for an invitation to follow me inside. After several minutes of disappointment, he trotted behind the house to stalk the top of the ditch in the now bright morning sun.

I don't know his story, don't know whether he was a stray abandoned by his owner, a wildling raised around people, or simply a semi-neglected pet forced to spend his life outside. He comes around some nights and cries at the back door as if surprised to find it closed. It's heartbreaking not to be able to open it and let him in. The other two just wouldn't understand.

Many days I know how he feels. I've been outside polite company for so long that I am cautious when the opportunity presents itself. But I haven't turned completely feral. Some instinct drives me back toward the door and longs to be allowed back inside, despite my uncertainty at what I might find within. Despite my reluctance to enter lest someone raise a hand to me again.

In that way, perhaps we are both lost, caught in the twilight between a shadowed world of solitude and self-reliance, and a brighter one of constant warmth and companionship. We beg at the door, accepting any scraps laid out before us. Perhaps, if we are friendly enough or gentle enough, if we purr loudly enough, someone will accept us and let us in. Or perhaps we are merely trying to convince ourselves that inside is where we belong.

So we linger beside the door, hesitating at the threshold when it opens. Afraid that if we enter we will become trapped inside, losing our identity or our independence. Afraid that such a prison within is worse than the one we've already constructed for ourselves without.

Gripped by indecision, we wait in the fog, gray and indistinct, until the sunlight burns through to warm our spirits, and we wander off to hunt or play alone.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

The Gift

The Gift - a reading (on YouTube)

I believe that everyone receives a gift, a talent or a passion they enjoy far more than anything they attempt. For the luckiest, it becomes their profession. For the rest, an avocation or maybe just a dream.

For me, my words are my gift. I'm not saying they are literary or masterful; the wall of rejections behind me says the best I can hope to be is competent or adequate.

Writing is an addiction that I can't stop myself from relapsing into. Thoughts and phrases echo through my mind until I jot them down. The compositions haunt me. They possess me in ordinary moments, walking, driving, watching television, showering. They stalk me into sleep and wake me in the night.

Some messages begin with a reflection that strikes me as significant, or an encounter from my memory that I'm still trying to sort out. It's not that I think my life is unique or even particularly special; it's just the only one I have to reflect on and discuss.

Other messages ignite my imagination with a spark that burns until all its fuel is spent. I record them like a court stenographer then read them back to myself, adjusting and readjusting each word and phrase until my mind is content. Sometimes that takes hours, sometimes days.

A few I play with like a child building sandcastles out of words just to see how they might sound piled one atop of the other. In some I am trying to capture scenes of light and shadow, the beauty that pierces my eye like an ice pick on the days when colors ache and make me want to cry. They emerge in migraine-muddled complexity with strange, almost Lovecraftian references, religious and mythological, the natural symbols that form the currents of my thoughts. Capturing them is almost meditative though I'm sure few people understand their meaning. They are an expression more than a communication.

Then there are the stories, the worlds I become immersed in as I allow myself to explore them. I drown in the character's experiences like an overdose of narcotics. I know their dreams and motivations better than I know my friends. I remember their histories and can feel the events that interrupt their lives. While I'm typing, I can see the places they travel through in vivid detail. When I listen, I can hear their conversation deep inside my head.

But many days, writing is like thinking through cold molasses. A headache pounds or doubts and distractions pile up until each thought becomes an exhausting weight and all I want to do is sleep. On such days, I am lucky to stay positive, lucky to keep shambling forward in something resembling progress. On such days, I have to embrace simple pleasures like remembering to breathe. I have to remind myself that each day is its own gift, its own experience added to the stockpile we call memory with no guarantee that another one will follow.

When I was fifteen, I learned to rappel. That summer, my Boy Scout troop was camped in the mountains of North Carolina. One day, our adult leaders took us over the ridge to the top of a sheer cliff face, maybe sixty feet up.

There, instructors taught us what we needed to know step by step: how to tie our own harness, how to attach the karabiner, how to grasp the rope with one hand and loop it behind our back, how to pull it tight across one hip as a brake, how to set our feet against the rock face. All very simple and exciting to fearless adolescents. After one instructor descended to the bottom in three or four quick leaps, the other asked, "Who's next?"

Like any group of boys, we stood around and shuffled our feet. All of us wanted the opportunity, but none of us want to be the first to make a mistake or look foolish. Since I was the senior juvenile leader at the time, I figured it was my responsibility to step forward. So I did.

The instructor checked my harness and hand positions then sent me to the edge. As with any new experience, the first step was the hardest, the one where you lean backwards over empty air then push off, trusting that everything you've learned is right. After a few tentative hops away from the wall, I jumped out farther and farther, leading to longer and longer drops. All too soon I was at the bottom staring back up, wanting to scramble up the path and take another turn.

But there wouldn't be time. My example was all it took for the line to form at the top of the cliff. Now everyone wanted to try.

While I was waiting for the next of my friends to arrive, I glanced down at my harness. The extra six inches of webbing feeding into the knot had shrunk to between one half and one quarter inch. One good pull and it looked like the knot would come undone completely. In fact it did when I gave it another strong tug. My blood still freezes when I think how close I came that day to a quick, unplanned descent onto the rocky platform where I stood.

I believe that everyone receives a gift. Remember to enjoy the gift today brings, whatever it may be, however hard you have to struggle to embrace it. You never know when the knot might come untied and all your plans will change.

© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Winter Solstice 2008

Today is the winter solstice. Last night marked the starting point of a ten-day transition to the beginning of a new year. For us it is a magical period when each moment seems to stretch and slow. It is a time of reflection and preparation, a time to celebrate and to relax.

On the morning of solstice eve, we wake to find our world obscured by fog. As we allow it to envelope us, whirlpools and eddies swirl around us, much like events of the previous year. Its tendrils caress our faces, weaving masks before our eyes, requiring us to rely on other senses. Its silver spell alternates between a blanket and a shroud, in some moments providing comfort through obscurity, in others an obstacle as we stumble our way through it by feel. Mostly, the fog acts as a veil, concealing what lies before us until we are ready to confront it. In that way, it acts a blessing.

In the translucent air, lily pads float on a glassy lake as unrippled as a pan of mercury reflecting a silver sky. Only the narrow trails behind mallards and marsh hens allow us to distinguish the water from the fog. A thin veil of marsh gnats dance in elaborate figure eights like faeries practicing school figures as they celebrate the air.

Cobwebs form strands of tinsel and dew bejeweled garlands that drape across the cypresses and red cedars, visitors in our home from previous winters that we have set free to take root in the wild for others to enjoy. As we approach, they rise like sentinels from the fog, emerging like monuments on a battlefield, reminders of our past glories and the comrades that we've lost. Upon closer examination, individual pearls of dew transpose the scene behind them, reflecting an upside down world come to rest upon its head.

After a time, the fog rises into a looming cloud in a transition as stark and steady as a gray curtain ascending, an airy barrier between clarity below and obscurity above, with only low hills and shallow valleys providing any topography between the two.

As the day grays, the fog drifts into an overcast of hammered pewter. While we prepare for dusk, distant angels of snow arrive with messages that tickle our noses, reminding us to laugh. Even our elders remember how they once had fun and are delighted to share their antics with us like the children they once were.

By twilight, a high wall of clouds rings the horizon, a seemingly insurmountable rampart. But the sun glints through a chink in its mortar like a brilliant candle blazing behind a keyhole, waiting only for us to peer inside.

On our journey home, an infrequent friend gives us an infrequent greeting, reminding us of another who recently was lost. Were we to strike a candle for every missing friend tonight, we would swim in yellow light. Beyond the windows, we erect a barrier of candles to barricade our minds against the pensive mood that begins to settle as this longest night descends. Tiny lanterns provide a beacon through the darkness as a revitalized mist seeks to infiltrate our musical celebration with melancholy, with marginal success. We leave a single sentry flickering to watch over us as we sleep.

The first day of the winter dawns with the sun capturing the barest shadow of yesterday's fog in its misty rays before they eventually burn away. With clearer eyes, we brew the mead that we hope will decant the light and magic we feel as gift to share with our fellow travelers as we stumble down the road together.

No matter how dark or obscure today might seem, we know tomorrow will dawn a little brighter as we are slowly reborn into a new cycle. Yesterday's fog was like a faerie mist bearing the gift of forgetfulness to everything it touched, unchaining us from the previous year's remembered pain. For a few days, we are light and free. The past is set aside as we focus on the future, until it, too, transitions to a memory as another cycle burns away.

As always, no matter how dim your previous day or evening, I hope your Solstice will be warm and bright.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Expectations

I get the feeling some people are expecting me to say something this morning. That somehow I will be able to capture the historic nature of last night in a way that they cannot.

I hesitate to try. Nothing I say about the election can live up to those expectations. I can bring it no greater meaning than my own.

After the polls closed on the West Coast last night, a friend of mine from high school called me. He was excited that the networks had officially declared the election for Obama. After we had talked for a few minutes, I asked him what his mother, who had died a few years ago, would have thought. He told me that growing up, she used to tell him that while he could do almost anything he wanted to do in this country, he would never be President. Because he was black. I think she would have been tickled to see this day, though perhaps not for the reason you might think.

This was a woman who taught me the meaning of being colorblind. She adopted each of her son's friends as her own. She cared for us, nurtured us. She helped us work through our problems. She protected us, at least where she could. She didn't care about our backgrounds or heritage or skin tones; her son's judgment of our character was good enough for her. She was the village auntie who wouldn't hesitate to set us straight in her own gentle but authoritative way.

I think what she might have been most pleased with out of this election was that for the vast majority of Americans it was not a referendum on race. For most of us, it was about policy, about character, about outlook and direction, whether our candidate won or lost. Race was incidental. As it should be. For that, I think she would have been most proud.

Don't be fooled by the pundits and experts this morning citing how this demographic or that voted by percentages. People are not monolithic, not by gender, not by religion, not by skin tone, no more than by the color of their hair or eyes. The experience of having certain qualities changes us; they don't define us in absolutes. If you don't believe that, have a conversation with a redhead or two some time. Or an Abenaki. Or a Jew. Each has a different perspective on what it meant to grow up in this country, some of which was directly shaped by how they were treated and perceived.

My aunt, who had a double-shot of my splash of native blood, used to get hassled at the beach back in the '50's and 60's because people thought she wasn't white. That experience changed her, just as hearing her retell it years later changed me. She always wanted me to be proud of that sliver of my background. My grandfather wouldn't talk about it, because of his father's and grandfather's experiences I'm told. He lived in New England, not Selma, but his society's expectations still changed him.

As my own changed me. The friend I spoke with last night was once told by my high school girlfriend's parents not to come around alone to see her, at least not to the front door. They were concerned with what the neighbors might think. One member of my own family used to joke that my dark complexion came from all that "nigger blood" in me. This was acceptable behavior at the time. This wasn't segregationist or backwoods Florida. This was an educated suburb in the early '80's, a stone's throw from the Cape. Canaveral, not Cod.

Though they still make me angry sometimes, those memories belong to the past now, not the present. I think we can finally say we've moved on.

Do we have different expectations of this President-elect than of any one previous? I hope not. He is a man, not an icon. He will certainly make mistakes. And we, as a nation, will continue to stumble forward, hopefully toward a better future, for our children or our grandchildren, if not always for ourselves.

Cleo, if you are looking on this morning, I hope you are smiling. For myself, I am content that we have redefined at least one expectation in this country. Though I can see from some of the returns last night that on a number of other issues, we, as a nation, still have a long, hard path ahead.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Samhain 2008

Samhain. Nos Calan Graeaf. Summer's end. The first of winter's eve. The sun descends and the shadows move. Aflame, a chariot disappears beyond the horizon. A pale reflection of her departed brother, the huntress rules the night. Will we pack or prey?

Each day, we play different roles, sometimes changing by the hour. Magician, lover, warrior, king. Ingénue, vixen, amazon, priestess. Father, husband, son. Mother, maiden, crone. Each of us longs to be someone else at times, covets another's life. We wish to pack our cars and move away, to start again, only younger and wiser. Instead, we continue drinking at the masquerade, the music and clinking of glasses covering the agony stalking beyond the safety of our walls.

Tonight, we throw open the gates and pry away the mask. Stringers of adhesive cling to the emptiness we call our face. Peering behind it, we find our subconscious has become an ossuary filled with bones sorted and stacked by function. Deep within the catacombs, we are confronted by a wall of skulls. Dead end. No one gets out of here alive.

We build a bonfire and scribe our names to stones that we cast within to see who will come up missing in the morning. We pacify the tailor lest his silver needle weave a spell within our clothes. We ward ourselves with roses and crushed ivy. Prophetic dreams visit us in the silence of the night.

The deadliest gifts come in small and tidy packages, wrapped prettily with silver bows. Inside the most innocent of children, the bete noire lurks, eager to possess them. Each year, they run the streets in gangs, trapping us within our homes. We bribe them with foolish consistency lest they hobgoblin our distracted minds.

We scare ourselves because we want to be scared. Like a movie whose ending we can predict, or a game that children play, it teaches us and reminds us. Don't look behind every door. Don't wander through the maze alone. Fear the branches scratching at the window. Fear the shadows scurrying across the floor.

Tomorrow, we light the candles in remembrance our hallowed dead. Tonight, we fear the mischief of lesser souls until we know they are safely tucked away.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

The Die is Cast

Or should I say the ballot? By ten thirty this morning, Karen and I had arrived at the early voting station near where she works downtown. About thirty people were in line outside. Maybe another fifteen standing inside the door. And five more waiting for one of the two dozen privacy booths to open up.

There was a good mix of people in line, older, younger, men, women, mildly affluent and working class, all chatting together amicably, their only concern that someone else might cut in line. There was a security guard directing us, and poll workers counting us into the building. There was at least one family represented by three generations, the youngest not quite old enough to vote. Or read. Or hold the pen. Or really do much more than smile at all of us funny looking people and drool. She was a very cute baby out with her mother and grandmother for her first electoral experience. Always good to see them started young even if they won't remember.

Oh, since we're in Florida, perhaps some of you were looking for a different set of demographics? Let's just say that in line I felt like the shirt of a tuxedo attending a formal dinner, by which I mean as an ensemble we all looked good.

The line moved steadily. After they checked my ID, I felt like that dream where I'm back in school again taking a standardized test. Here's your black pen. Don't drop it, don't lose it, don't eat it. Don't take it with you. Here's a sheet to mark your answers. Fill in the bubble completely. Only color inside the lines. If you make a mistake, raise your hand to request a new paper. Don't open your booklet until you're standing in the voting booth. No talking. Keep your eyes on your own test. When you're finished, run it through the scanner to tally your final grade. If everything checks, you are free to go. You should receive your results in just under two weeks.

The only difference was they encouraged us to bring a crib sheet, like an open book SAT. Just beyond the Neutral Zone at the entrance a young woman representing one of the major parties was handing out a substitute in case you forgot your own.

There was an older man in front of me with a discernable eastern European accent. When asked at the registration desk whether he wanted his next ballot mailed to him, he replied firmly, "I don't believe in that. I would rather come down here and spend my time to make sure everything goes right." Everyone smiled at his answer, the poll workers and the patrons. On his way out, the party rep tried to hand him a "good government team" cheat sheet which he casually waved away saying he had already voted, "Only for the main man." "Oh, which one?" Whisper, whisper, mumble. "Oh, great! High five."

We had stickers in hand before eleven, twenty-five minutes tops, line and all. Karen and I made a morning of it, casting our ballots then going out to her favorite downtown deli where we compared notes over sandwiches. We had reached similar conclusions on most of the issues. On one or two, we cancelled each other out. Several local races were contests between incompetence and inexperience. Hard to know which way to lean there, toward the devil you know or the demon you don't. Either one could steal your lunch.

The Supervisor of Elections says we're on track for twenty-five thousand early voters at a paltry three locations. Counties with half our population have double that number of sites. Another hundred and seventy thousand citizens have requested mail-in ballots. Seventy thousand of those have already been returned. That out of six hundred and fifty thousand registered voters broken almost evenly between Democrats and Republicans with a quarter sitting it out in other parties. Historically, we have turnouts like our November highs, hovering near the upper seventies to low eighties. I'm curious whether we see a mini-heat wave this year.

Nothing left for us now but to sit back and enjoy the game. For those of you who know my politics and agree, I encourage you to come out and support my choices. For those who disagree, I encourage you to come out and nullify my vote. For those who are unsure where I stand, swing by the house; from there it should be obvious. Or the more clever among you can puzzle something out of this message.

Remember, it doesn't matter if you see politics like an organized sport or like a crapshoot lottery: you can't win if you don't play. So, get out there and vote. And best of luck to you and your candidates. I think we'll all need it soon.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

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