Sox Diary (Part 2): For Papa

When I was a little kid I spent the bulk of my time at my grandparent's house, which is where my Dad ran our dairy farm. And that is where I used to watch Red Sox games. It was a time before cable, and all of the Sox games were on channel 38 from Boston.

My grandfather was the hardest worker I've ever known. He'd put in a full week at the lumber yard, and then would come home and work until nightfall on the farm -- milking cows, repairing fences, fixing tractors, or whatever else it took. He was a man who expected dinner on the table at 5:30, after which he'd go out for a few more hours to feed and milk the heiffers with my dad, and when he'd come in inevitably I'd be watching the Sox.

He always said the same thing. My grandfather was a salty old New Englander. He said exactly what he felt. Always. (That's where I got it from, folks). And every time he'd come in, see me watching the game, worshipful of my heroes in doubleknits, and he'd say a variation on the same thing:"Jesus Christ, these goddamned sonofabitchin' dummies always lose." Of course then he'd always sit down in his recliner and he'd watch the game with me. When they'd win, I'd get some variation on"Well, those dummies got it right this time." When things didn’t go well,"I told you, those goddamnedsonofabitchin dummies would lose."

But not so deep below the surface he always wanted them to win. (He said the same thing when the Pats were on. Or the Bruins. Or the Celtics. Or, to be honest, when I was playing football for the Newport High School Tigers. The man was an equal opportunity curmudgeon.)

God, I loved my grandfather.

Then after I had graduated from college and had also gotten my MA, I won a fellowship to South Africa. My biggest worry was that something would happen to Papa, and I would not be there for him. I made it through most of the year, and it happened. The heart that had not failed him when he had a massive heart attack when I was in high school got to him when he tried to bring his beloved dog Goldie to be put away. He died putting Goldie in the van. By the time I would have gotten back to the States, Papa would have already been buried, so I stayed in South Africa, and it broke my heart.

So now I think of him. Oh, I can imagine the string of profanities he would have strung together when the Sox fell down 0-3 to the hated Yankees. (Papa was, it can be said, no fan of anything related to the very idea of New York). But he would have known that I was watching. And he would have chided me (if by" chided" we mean calling me a goddamnedsonovabitchindummy) for believing. But he'd have watched too. Because underneath it all he believed. He wanted to believe. He just did not want anyone to know it.

We won tonight, Papa. We won. I have cried almost all night. I'm a goddamnedsonovabitchindummy. But they finally did it.

They finally did it.