Sox Diary (Part 3): The Game
It is still difficult even to discuss the game rationally. The Sox took an almost immediate lead when Damon led off the game with a solo home run to right field. By the third inning, after a Trot Nixon double (he had a hell of a game, a hall of a series) drove in two runs, it was 3-0. That was it. That was the score that would bring the first World Championship to Boston in 86 years (the last one was 1918, in case the media was unsuccessful at bludgeoning you with that info the last two years). The reason that score could hold up was because Derek Lowe had yet another lights out performance. The guy who was so erratic that Tito left him out of the rotation to start the Anaheim series ended up getting the win in all three clinching victories in the postseason. Methinks Mr. Lowe earned himself a lot of money in the last three weeks. In any case, lowe was masterful matching the outings by Pedro and Schill by going 7 innings, giving up three hits, and allowing no earned runs. (Between the three of them, in this World Series sweep, Schilling, Pedro, and lowe pitched twenty innings of shutout baseball.) At one point he retired 13 straight Cardinals. Arroyo, Embree, and Foulke closed it out, with Arroyo allowing a walk to the second batter he faced before Embree shut the door in the 8th. In the ninth Foulke came out, gave up a single up the middle to Pujols, one of only two Cardinals (Larry Walker being the other) who rose to the occasion of the World Series. He induced a fly ball to Gabe Kaplar, who had taken over for Trot in right field. One out. He then struck out Jim Edmonds. Two out. The Red Sox were one out away from that elusive prize.
One out away. That is a phrase that has haunted and tortured and vexed us since game 6 in 1986. We were one out away then, too. But this is not that team. I’ll never forget the play that ended this game, this series, this season, that drought. Edgar Renteria, a truly talented player who I had seen when he played for the Marlins’ Triple A affiliate in Charlotte, the Knights, when I lived in the Queen City, bounced a tapper back to Foulke, who took a few steps, soft-tossed it underhanded to Doug Mientkiewitz, who secured the ball, made sure he was on the bag, and then let loose with a scream and a jump. We swept the Cardinals to win the World Series. We never trailed for even a half an inning in the entire series, something previously accomplished by only three other teams, the 1989 A’s, the 1966 Orioles, and the 1964 Dodgers (not for nothing, but that last one came against the Yanks, by the way).
And finally I got to see it. The Red Sox mobbed the field after the last game of the season. There were no horrific errors. There were no last inning rallies. There were no boneheaded manager’s decisions. There were no reasons for recriminations. There was just pure, unadulterated joy. Foulke jumped into ‘Tek’s arms, the guys mobbed the field, the Sox fans in attendance (who at times drowned out the vaunted Cards fans just as they had the cro-magnons in the Bronx and the brie-eaters in Anaheim. In all three cities, “Let’s Go Red Sox!” cheers were audible throughout the games.) went crazy with joy. I’d waited my entire life for this scene, and it was all that I had hoped.
As for me? It is hard to describe what it was like. I watched almost all of the playoff games alone or with a select number of friends. Last night I watched the game alone at home, except for when my friend and colleague Jaime stopped by for an inning or so at the mid-point of the game. I wanted it that way. As I learned when I nearly got thrown out of Vette’s, people around here could not understand what it meant to me. I did now want to be drunk, and I wanted the moment, when it came, to be mine, at least for a few minutes. I allowed the tears to stream down my cheeks. I stood and watched them celebrate. I let out a shout or a yelp or a barbaric yawp. I basked. I opened a bottle of champagne. I savored that moment. I’ve said it before as a sort of idle speculation, and I can confirm it now: It might seem, to those who don’t, can’t, or won’t understand what this means, sad or pathetic, but that might have been the most purely happy I have ever been in my life. And if you do understand, you know exactly what I mean, what it means.
And then the phone calls started coming. And in between my cell phone ringing (“Take Me Out to the Ball Game” is my ring tone, natch) I made calls. I talked to my dad, my Stepfather, my Mom’s answering machine, my buddy Josh. Rob and I did our usual conversations every half inning during the game, and we agreed that we’d talk later, which we did, after everyone had gotten to us who wanted to in the wake of the game.
I was basically up all night. It wasn’t crazy or chaotic. I did not have to wake anyone up to bail me out of jail. I did not run naked through the streets of Odessa. I did not go to the university and let out a Tarzanian scream. I did a lot of crying. I did a lot of smiling. I did a lot of remembering. I did a lot of laughing. And I smiled and I cried and I remembered and I laughed, I laughed and remembered and smiled and cried. I did get a couple of restive hours of sleep, but once I woke up it was more of the same. I’ve been on campus all day, worthless as all get-out, enjoying the visits from colleagues and students and people I swear I’ve never seen before, responding to emails, reading everything I can get my hands on.
I’m still not ready to talk about what it all means. I’m still walking on clouds. I’m still enjoying the idea of the 2004 World Champion Boston Red Sox. They won. We won. We did it. We believed. We deserve this.