Monday, September 11, 2006
No Run Left in Sox: A Post-Curse Postscript
August closed as it generally does in Red Sox Nation — with bad news. There's always something, from phenom Tony Conigliaro getting beaned (and sidelined) by Angels pitcher Jack Hamilton's spitter in 1967, to the first-place fadeaway of 1978.
To live in New England during the Dog Days is to lick new wounds while revisiting old ones. The tradition is handed down with the same integrity as the Boston accent and the love of lobster rolls. Having spent this summer on Martha's Vineyard, I experienced the annual agony firsthand.
What about 2004, you say? The lifting of the supposed "Curse of the Bambino." The great healing. Exuberant players waving from the Duck Boats. Save that image. It is that memory that allows Red Sox Nation to endure the palpitations of team leader David Ortiz and the diagnosis of lymphatic cancer for 22-year-old rookie hurler Jon Lester. The prevailing philosophy is, "As long as they won one in my lifetime."
That the hated Yankees have benefited from the Sox swoon comes with the AL East territory. Just how long did Sox rooters think a team with Alex Rodriguez, Derek Jeter, Bobby Abreu, Mike Mussina, Randy Johnson, and Johnny "The Traitor" Damon would falter? Now, whether fans care or not, they can pretend not to.
The World Series sweep of 2004, preceded by the sudden demolition of said Yankees, provides the faithful with what they deem as eternal bragging rights fraught with words such as "Schilling," "Papi," and "choked." For one shining moment, the proverbial shoe was on the other foot (that being the bloodied one of gutsy pitcher Curt Schilling).
Many principal players in that drama are gone. Dave Roberts. Johnny Damon. Pedro Martinez. Still, the "Cowboy Up" gain all but erases the current pain. Jason Varitek on the disabled list? No worries, the Pats look good in the preseason. Yanks on a tear? Not a problem, we showed 'em two years ago.
One must remember that Boston is a city rooted in tragedy. The Cocoanut Grove Fire of 1942. The Brink's Job. The Strangler. The Kennedy's. The Nanny Murder. Not to mention the important stuff, like 1946 (World Series loss to Cards, Ted Williams fails to produce in clutch), 1967 (Impossible Dream, World Series berth — we'd have won if Tony Conigliaro hadn't gotten beaned in August), 1975 (we wuz robbed — that was interference between Ed Armbrister and Pudge Fisk ... b'sdies, Jim Rice was out with a broken leg), 1978 (Bucky #!*%!* Dent), and 1986 (Billy Buck at first base).
Mourning is an art form here — ever hear of an Irish wake?
Alas, there is not the need to win that existed before 2004. Make no mistake, the Red Sox are still huge. Ninth-inning at-bats freeze taverns and restaurants in utter silence, and pitching changes are analyzed by rooters with a complexity of probability that dwarfs anything taking place at MIT.
The pride is there — one sees far more Red Sox t-shirts and caps worn on the streets than before 2004 (when many felt giving their heart too generously to the Old Towne Team risked the fact that they would break it). But the erasure of the Curse has become the salve that heals all wounds, a flashback to better days. Bill Buckner, all is forgiven.