The Shroud of Schilling

From the Archive:

November 5, 2004

Last week we deified Curt Schilling for his miraculous and heroic performances against the Yankees and Cardinals. This week Curt was deifying the deity and stumping on his tattered ankle for Bush. Curt fears no hitter, but he fears god. Good for him?
Curt is quick to point to his finding god (yet he supports for pres. a man who couldn't find...) as a turning point in his career, a source of energy and motivation for his transcending his earthly constraints. Thanking the doctors seemed an afterthought, despite their having invented a new procedure in order for him to pitch.

Is our joy tarnished by Curt's beliefs? Can we no longer root for a religious Bush-supporting nut?

I really haven't had favorite players since I was a kid. This is one of the reasons why. As soon as one looks at a player as anything other than the sum of his past statistics, and as a disposition for future ones, we're screwed. What if he's a wife beater? What if he doesn't believe in dinosaurs? What if he's an anti-Semite? What if he wouldn't sign my ball? What if he honked his car horn at me and gave me the finger?

What we have to keep in mind is that these people, as ballplayers, are not people. They are baseball automatons. They are probably all jerks, they all picked on you in high school, they stole your girl because they were jocks, they spit on your loyalty and adoration for a few extra bucks that they will never need.

This does not lessen my joy. I learned long ago to think of the players as cogs, exactly as valuable as they facilitate the functioning of the machine, the team.

I've said before that 'most of the philosophers I like are dead. All of the baseball players I like are on the same team.'

You see, I use different criteria for the two. Not only are they all on the same team, but once they're not on the team, they can go fuck themselves (although for some reason I think I’ll always be fond of daubach.)

Viewing it this way makes one less inclined for hero-worship, and perhaps takes some of the fun out of pride and vicarious living. But I know I don't want to hang out with these players. I don't even want their memorabilia- manny's bat, the jock shilling wore at his first communion, or the condom for which Nomar thanked beautiful.

Athletes sometimes take it personally when fans boo. They sometimes don't get it that just because they were cheered before, they should always be. But of course we don't cheer them, we cheer their performance. Nomar was never able to distinguish Nomar the person from Nomar the player, and so was irrevocably hurt when he was deemed replaceable. A disposition for future statistics is replaceable.

Why are athletes republicans? Simple. They believe that hard work equals success. They don’t see why if they could do it, why can’t everyone? Everyone can’t because everyone is not equally talented. Some people have no talent, and some people have talent but can’t succeed because larger forces are too overwhelming, such that no amount of work can garner success. Josh Gibson had all the talent in the world, but that larger force of segregation prevented him from succeeding. It is very easy for the athlete to forget how special they are, and that ‘special’ only makes sense in contrast to those who are not. Liberals, quite simply, believe the government should help out the less fortunate, not hang them out to dry like a bloody sock.

As has been often mentioned, why don’t athletes who praise and thank god when they win, blame god when they lose? ‘That bitch ass Jesus made me drop that popup.’ Perhaps Bill Buckner’s a Satan worshipper. As I’ve noted before, God’s all time winning percentage seems to be .500

On the other hand, athletes do seem to realize their luck- their skills are ‘god given.’ It’s just very easy for them to translate that into a god given preference for them, that they are divinely special. And for those that are not, it is because God has seen fit for them to be mediocre and poor. And why should a government step in and try to reverse god’s plan?

Blasphemy!

75 mph of pure goodness

From the Archive:

June 2004

Step right up! Come on in! Yes, folks, its that time of year…

See everyone’s favorite mustachioed philosopher/pitcher baffle the bats of Boston’s best brooding bumptious batsmen!

See the lanky right-hander crush the competition, amaze the opposition, foil his foes with his freezing, fascinating fatalistic fastball, twirling twelve-to-six curveballs, slippery slashing sliders, slick, slicing sluicing slurves, and chortling changeups!

See the sophomore sensation earn his doctorate in strikeouts as he battles Brighton, maligns Medford, conquers Cambridge, beats Brookline, assails Allston, and strangles and sodomizes Somerville!

Hear the whiffs as foes futilely flail at “Doc” Goldwater’s deceptive deliveries!

Taste the delicious dogs that, uh, you bring from home!

Feel the excitement, that, uh, comes from seeing amateur baseball played in a public park!

Yes, friends, come see exciting Yawkey League action this summer. The Yawkey League has been ranked the 9th best amateur league in the country by the National Semi-Pro Baseball Association. It’s perennial champion, Somerville Alibrandis, has been ranked the 15th best team in the country by the NSPBA.

The annual All-Star game is held at none other than Fenway Park, home of that other baseball team from Beantown! Come stuff the ballot box!

See childhood dreams realized!

So come on down, and watch me play! Tickets are free! In fact, they don’t exist!

You can follow all the action, get schedules, and field directions at yawkeybaseball.com. Look for me and my stats on my team’s page- the Brighton T’s Pub Mariners.

Too lazy for all that? Why not catch a game on the boob tube- Yawkey League games are often televised on Comcast Channel 8 in Boston.

Don’t have cable or a car or legs, you cheap lazy bastard? Find the results in the sports section of the Boston Herald and Boston Globe (we’re right there next to golf, horseracing and the WNBA)

So come find out what Sandy Koufax, Gabe Kapler and me have in common. Already know? Then see me in tight pants, with a funny old-fashioned mustache, trying to beat a bunch of Italians and Irishmen!

What could be more fun? Wait, don’t answer that.

Spiderbase, Spiderbase

From the Archive:

May 2004

Major League Baseball has announced that it will have “Spider Man 2” logos ON the bases during some games in June. Of course, this is beyond disgusting. But am I surprised? Of course not. Is this any different than anything else in this country, soon to be called Pepsi Presents The United Airlines United State Street Bank States of Comerica American Airlines America? MLB already resembles the first 15 pages of any major magazine.

I’m sure you’re all expecting from me some harangue or diatribe on the purity of baseball, on why this outrage is particularly nauseating, given what baseball is, and that I’ll just blame the money hungry fat-cat owners who don’t care about why people are fans and for exploiting their need and love for sports. Well, you’re wrong. You know who I blame? You- (well, not you, my well regarded friendsters)- the stupid American consumer. Not because of the environment, or exploited overseas labor, or fat kids eating fat chips in their fat schools, or any of that stuff. Simply because people are idiots, and they don’t care about quality.
It’s your fault that advertising works at all. Why do we need campaign finance reform? I’ll tell you why. Because those stupid fucking ads approved of by George Bush’s pet monkey Bubbles actually work. If people weren’t swayed by those ads, it wouldn’t fucking matter who had the most money to spend on them. If people made their choices about who is going to rule the world based on some semblance of rational criteria, commercials and staying on message and kissing crack babies would be moot. They actually had to stop playing all Schwarzenneger movies during the campaign, because he was getting too much, and therefore unfair, publicity. Stupid fucking people would actually watch Jingle all the Way or Twins and say, gee, that guy sure should decide whether resident aliens should receive welfare, or what to do with a sagging trillion dollar economy, or whatnot.

But that is not just a brief aside. All of it is your fault, for being so damn stupid. I don’t blame basball, or Arnie. Its not their fault that advertising works. It’s yours. Now, I’m no anti-capitalist. I like I-Pods, taco bell, and medicine as much as anyone. But you don’t need to give that up, for there is a simple way to defeat just the evil part of the machine. Wanna know how? Buy CVS brand shampoo and conditioner instead of Pert. Ever read the label? It has the same fucking chemicals. Not doing so is indicative of how superficial and label and status oriented all the stupid fuckers are. And then you can also have full, lustrous hair just like mine, enriched with pro-vitamins or lithium serum or whatever the fuck they put in there to make your hair addicted to it so you have to shampoo all the time.

So it’s not insulting to the game to have Spiderman on the bases. It’s insulting to you. Because they will spend billions of dollars just to have their stupid logo for their stupid movie on a base, because they know it’ll make you want to watch the movie, because they know you’re an idiot, and then Tobey Macguire can have his secret homosexual affair in a further away more guarded clandestine setting instead of my truly enjoying the one thing that I cherish above all else on this stupid planet. And it’s not Pedro’s fault, its not Bud Selig’s or Scott Boras’ fault. Its not even George Bush’s fault, or Andrew Carnegie’s, or Adam Smith’s, or Bill Gates’, or Condaleeza Rice’s, or Howard Stern’s, or Jerry Falwell’s, or Marilyn Manson’s, or South Park’s, or Michael Moore’s, or the NRA’s, FCC’s, CIA’s, OPEC’s, NATO’s or Bin Laden’s, or George Steinbrenner’s or Janet Jackson’s boobie’s. It’s yours, you stupid lazy shitheaded American consumers. Fuck you for ruining my game. Seriously, fuck you.

Identity Lost?

From the Archive:

October 29, 2004:
[Thoughts following the World Series Victory, the first for the Sox since 1918]

Do we regret it yet? Were we not careful what we wished for? By closing a window, have we opened a door... to hell? By trading Nomar and winning, have we opened a Cabrera's Box?

Many seem to think so. All this loss of identity and soul business, well, it's hard to deny that there is some amount of truth to it. But what may be more painful is the realization of the meaninglessness. Once the elation is gone, what is there still? Well, bills to pay, sickness to avoid, earlies to get up at.

Is that the painful part, the realization that we are not really the Red sox, despite our intimate and self-suspending attachment? The tenuous collective has dissolved yet again into individuals, who are back to trying and failing, and ultimately dying alone?

Geez, let's not get so dramatic here.

But what do we expect? What should happen? What did we think would be different?

Here's one proposal, from Pam Belluck of the New York Times: "Many wonder whether fans will turn into unseemly braggarts, in particular taking the opportunity to lord it over Yankees fans as payback for years of pinstriped abuse." (10/29/04)

You know, that ain't so bad. I think I can live with that. As someone who has been on the receiving end of beer missiles whose hate content could not be watered down by even the sleaziest Yankee stadium profit monger, I could sure use some ammo of my own.

I've been walking around Manhattan wearing my 2004 World Series champions t-shirt, staring at everyone to see if they notice it. It's great. Tonight, I’m attending a Halloween party. What am I wearing? My 2004 world series champions t-shirt. Not just because I’ve waited all my life to have one, and so I just don't feel like taking it off (which I don't), but because what could be scarier to a Yankees fan than a red sox championship?

But is that the point? If so, why watch the games in the safely homogeneous atmosphere of New England, why not come storming down I-95 and burn cars in New York?

Our problems run deeper.

We fancy our rivalry as the greatest in sports. That requires it to transcend regionalism, to attract and captivate those with no strong allegiance (like most Yankees fans).

Harvey Araton, NY Times (10/28/04) writes:"As a national entity, this team will not have the same cachet, after it is upgraded from perennial sad sack to parade-worthy supreme Sox. And in the long run, this cannot be a boon to baseball's broad appeal. Particularly at a time when baseball has been dealing with the sniff of steroid-related scandal, we have seen the tremendous promotional value of the everlasting loser these last two seasons... What will next years ALCS look like to America if it happens to match a Yankees payroll exceeding $200 million against defending world champions from Boston? What will the Red Sox represent now that they are no longer the networks' hope for another good cry? Fenway will always be cozy and charming but how can it be the same without its ghosts? No longer cursed, the Red Sox will be revealed as they truly are, one of the more blessed big-league franchises, with deep flowing revenue streams and, like the Yankees, an ever-changing cast of well-heeled mercenaries."

Jonah Goldwater, then columnist for hotmail.com, wrote on 10/10/04:
http://soxlosophy.blogspot.com/2008/06/on-identity-lost-for-tourists.html

If nothing else, my claim that this cachet crap is for outsiders was corroborated by Araton. All that lovable loser shit, that's for tourists.

Let me refer to a neat dichotomy introduced by my father- that of roles and rules.

The rules are the difference between soccer and baseball. They are each self-contained systems. Roles are played for someone else- they are not thus self-contained.

The red sox played a role for the viewing public that they can no longer play. In this Araton is correct. But you know who else can? Anyone, in any sport or scenario you can think of. It doesn't matter who it is, but what their role is. Anyone can play Hamlet. The public can move on to the next lovable loser underdog in golf or soccer or some goddam reality show or horseracing. What doesn't matter in any of these situations is what rules they are playing by. So to that extent, Araton is again correct that this is bad for baseball's broad appeal.

But why should we have to bear the burden of loserdom? Go find someone else. I'm not martyring myself so bandwagon idiots in Idaho feel like tuning into fox instead of learning to read or voting for Bush. Let's be American, and say that that's somebody else's job. Roles are played for someone else. The bigwigs don't care who plays the role for them, they're just worried that there won't be anyone else to play it. But that's the bigwigs' and Idaho’s problem. I care who plays the role, because it’s me. And I don't want to play that losers role for someone else, not anymore, not ever. What do I get in return? Nothing. I'm no martyr.

And if you don't like it, and you want to make me, why don't you go and beat my team?!!

And if this role stuff is so captivating, why don't I care about reality shows or soccer of fucking horseracing? Because they are not baseball! If some stupid soccer team hadn't won the golden shin guard or the cherished Pennzoil addidas jersey or whatever the hell they win, in 86 years, and they were playing the bloated offensive juggernaut who scored a mind boggling 2 goals a game to set the all time record, I wouldn't watch. The roles aren't intrinsically interesting, the rules are.

Its not the existential anguish that we're stuck with. Its not losing cachet. Its not that something has changed and we can never have it again. Its not even all this Calvinist hooey, that complacency drivel that tells us to work real hard for no worldly gain, because gain is sin, and now we've gained so now we're confused.

What everyone is worrying about is that now we're stuck with baseball. But if that's not interesting to you, you can go fuck off, because you're not a real fan. I'm a red sox fan because I’m from Boston, yes, but I’m a red sox fan because I’m a baseball fan first, because baseball is the greatest thing ever.

It's a shame that the game can't sell itself, and that the story lines are required, rather than providing an exciting supplement to the game itself. But if you just want story lines, watch a goddam soap opera. Go see who the real boss is on that twist ending on that big fat obnoxious sadistic voyeuristic culture boss show.

The saga is over. The climax was even anti-climactic. We are now in epilogue. Of course, we'll do all we can to springboard it into a sequel. But we all know that the sequel is always inferior.

After having finally told the story, and having lived through it, we are changed. There was a moral, and an inspirational one at that. And we do get to stick it to the Yankee fans, and we do get to see if we can do it again, and see whether the Yankees will take it away from us like they did to Brooklyn in '56, just one year after the Dodgers finally beat the Yanks in '55, or how the Empire got back at the rebels just one movie after they blew up the death star. Stories abound, thankfully, for surely it is more fun that way.

But now we really find out something fundamental about ourselves. And that's whether we like baseball.

Pitchers and catchers report in 15 weeks.

Go Sox

2004 ALCS Finale: Everything Was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt

From the Archive:

October 22, 2004: Accounts and Experiences of the ALCS; Sox win Series 4-3, advance to World Series for first time since 1986 (“Everything was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt”)

It was an absolute joy to read the New York papers this morning. Saturated with phrases such as 'most humiliating loss ever,' 'colossal collapse,' 'choke artists,' permanent stain on the Yankee record', 'curse reversed with reverse sweep,' boy, was that ever satisfying.

There’s so much to talk about I don't even know where to begin. So I think I’ll just talk about the whole thing.

I stayed up all night last night. I had to teach at 8 this morning, and there was no way I was sleeping. I took the subway home from Brooklyn, and talked smack about the Yankees with the various sox fans I met on the train. Loud.

I got home and devoured every article online I could, I watched the highlights over and over. I want this shit burned into my memory, I want every sight and stat and fact and feeling indelibly marked in my mind.

So on no sleep, I wander on down to jimbo's hamburger palace at 6 this morning, and spent a wonderfully pleasant hour, casually eating french fries and bacon, drinking coffee, with my hands on a fresh new copy of the day's New York post. As usual, I’m the only white guy in the place, and along with my bacon, french fries and sadistic pleasure in the humiliation of the Yankees, I get to listen in to some great stories about Negro league baseball and owing money to bookies, the hot topics with the senior citizen crowd at jimbos.

I caught the subway to queens, giddy with grease and greatness. New York is beautifully quiet in the morning, all the more so when you like where you're going and everyone else is miserable, and the Yankees just lost and you can even see a frown on the buildings, collapsing on the weight of their shackled, impotent pride.

I got to class early, because I hadn't done the reading that I was supposed to lecture on. Thursdays class goes for 2 hours and 15 minutes, and I spent that whole time talking about James and Sartre on freedom. I think I did a good job, considering I don't really know about them and I hadn't really done the reading.

At one point, I asked something of the class, and got a response 'because the Yankees lost.' a couple of students with whom I’ve talked about baseball (in the context, initially, of metaphysical continuity- what makes something the same over time is interestingly illustrated by turnover on baseball teams), and they didn't know I was a sox fan. I couldn't contain my grin, laughing at these teenage Hispanic kids from the Bronx and queens. So I stop talking about Sartre and existential despair, because, frankly, I think that's one thing I don't have to worry about on this morning, and I told them they don't want to know where I grew up, because that might sidetrack the lecture. 'You’re not from Boston, are you professor?' they asked aghast, the first glimmer that perhaps I was indoctrinating and not teaching, planting evil seeds in their malleable little heads. 'Oh yes,' I responded, grinning like a Cheshire cat on nitrous. 'You’re not just a bandwagon fan?' a student named Carlos Gonzalez asked, still hoping that it just couldn't be, and that a weak moral character in regards to allegiance would be better than a strong devotion to evil, to which I responded, while a Ms. Lopez waited patiently to ask a question about Sartre, 'you name the year, I’ll give you the starting lineup... so when Sartre says 'existence precedes essence, the view that he is attacking is...'

What fun. What fun.

But let's go back a bit in our journey, for as we know, it wasn't all kibbles n bits.

I attended game 1. About the 6th inning, I remarked, 'y'know, I think the highlight of this game was when Damon struck out leading off.' this was my first day back to the stadium since Grady’s choice, and I couldn't make a peep. Mussina’s throwing a fucking perfect game, and if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, schilling's fucking toasting Christopher reeve out on the mound.
But as the sox got their first hit, and then their first run, and then varitek hit the dong to make it 8-5, I started to stand, then yell, then represent. That’s when the peanuts came a'flyin. To indicate my disregard to such an onslaught, I turned around and made sarcastic boo hoo motions, rubbing my eyes and acting as if they hurt. Then I’d turn back towards the field and give everyone behind me the finger. Well, two of them.

So, of course, more peanuts.

A peanut got caught in my collar, so I picked up it up and did my best Damon-throwing impression back at them, effeminately throwing the peanut about 2 feet, and then giving them the finger.

Ire was raised.

And so about this time, Ortiz hits a triple to make it 8-7. I scream as loud as I can, 'MVP, MVP!!', to which the carefully worded and logically impeccable response, 'shut the fuck up you Boston faggot' was delivered. More peanuts. etc. I, of course, turned around, (and remember, this is in the tier of Yankee stadium, where people are towering above you) and screamed up at everyone "MVP, MVP!", even louder than before.

So, of course, Rivera comes in, and Millar pops out. And that's when smack, right in the back of the head, a full beer. I’m drenched. Some of the falloff gets a Yankee fan in front of me, who had requested earlier that they stop throwing peanuts. He, unbeknownst to me at the moment, leaves his seat to go get the cops. Knownst to me was that I turned around, and in a rage, yelled 'who the fuck threw that?' and when no one answered, I screamed, at maximal ire, 'you fucking pussies! You throw beer at me when my back is turned, and now you're not man enough to admit who threw it?! You’re a bunch of fucking pussies, all of you, a bunch of pussies!' Not knowing the culprit, I made eye contact with as many suspects as I could, all of whom were bigger than me, and I called them pussies, and gestured for them to come down and fight.

You know why they didn't? Because they're pussies. And that's a good thing. You know why I smelled worse than usual? I was covered in beer.

And I had so many zingers lined up. Earlier, before operation peanut turned into a genuine beer conflict, someone had yelled at me, when I turned around, 'nice hair.' so I retorted 'nice job'. I had so many directions I wanted to go if they took the bait. 'I can tell by looking at you that you hate your job.' or, if they had asked me what I did I was going to say 'it doesn’t matter, we're not hiring janitors.' And after launching the 7 dollar beer, I wanted to say, 'I hope your food stamps pay for that,' or, 'you've wasted all that money, now I’ll have to pay your mom extra to clean my toilets.'

Going to Yankee stadium is no fun. I’ve now been there 3 times, 3 alcs games vs. the sox. Games 2 and 7 last year, game 1 this year. You know, it's no fun.

God, I wish I was there last night.

Game 2 simply sucked. I don't know if I can ever forgive Pedro for that daddy comment. Whatever infinitesimal leverage we have when arguing with Yankees fans was completely ripped away when he said that. And to hear them ridicule our hall of famer like that was a stab in the heart. The fact that I paraded around the streets of Brooklyn chanting 'who's your daddy' last night, at the top of my voice, did do something to assuage that. At the time, however, that was a mere daydream.

Game 3 sure seemed like a must win at the time. All day long, I was doing great work. In my spare time, I’ve been working on this paper that's not for class, but I’m hoping is my first published paper. Its up to about 50 pages, and I think its good. I was having great insights, making great progress, feeling really good about myself, and then 8 o’clock rolls around. Time to get my heart stepped on and kicked in the balls. Fantastic. I’m supposed to stop my brain in the middle of its actualization and revert to primitive tribal emotions, only to be destroyed and humiliated? 19-8? Are you fucking kidding me?

As a result, I guess I kind of bailed. I admit it. It just didn't seem fair that I should stop all this great progress I was making, work that was uniquely my own, and emotionally submit to a situation over which I had no control. I had to block it out, I just had to.

So I watched game 4 under my blanket with the sound off. Not hearing the silence of fenway, not hearing Joe Buck call another Yankee hit, somehow made it less real. I don't know if this is because of the auditory associations I have with Yankee stadium, or because with the sound off it just looks like another game, without the postseason roar of communal lust. I wasn't going to let them steal another night of brain from me, so I tried to comfort myself by reading a treatise on the unreality of matter during the game, naturally, in order to convince myself that this wasn't real, and it didn't matter. Although I picked up a few more expository moves, the self-delusion proved stronger yet again. It was real, and it mattered. Oh, it mattered.

The contingencies were felt. In game 1, I believe, we had the tying runs on base, with Bill Mueller up. He hit a ball sharply up the middle, and Rivera made the stab and started the 1-6-3 DP, game over. This time, game 4, Roberts steals, and Mueller again hits it up the middle, this time just by the frantic grab of Rivera. Tie game. And we won that one.

Game 5 I actually had to miss some of. I had a class presentation to do. So I watched the beginning of the game at a bar by school, ducked out with the score 2-1 us, gave my presentation, spontaneously snapped off a remarkably witty and biting zinger at the expense of the most influential philosopher of this generation, who is a prof at my school, and bolted out of class, and back to the bar.

We’re down 4-2, now in the 7th. A bunch of asshole corporos are being idiots and talking shit, not knowing who's pitching or what positions various players play, yet feeling superior and deserving nonetheless. After a sox strikeout, they yell 'sit down', and pump their fists. So finally, when senor October comes through yet again, in the 14th, we start screaming and I yell 'sit down' in the direction of those stupid motherfuckers. One of them, dressed in his corporo gear, starts towards me, screaming drunkenly that they were going to kick our asses, that we're a bunch of losers, that the red sox suck, that Boston sucks. So I cut in and say 'yeah, I know, and I suck too, I really suck. Your job is better than mine, you have a nicer shirt than I do.' he's taken off guard, and noticing that I’m wearing a turtleneck and a (not-baseball) cap, says 'well, you have a cap, and. you're a beatnik!' I laugh, and yell, 'you're a suit!' so he yells that the Yankees are better, and so I say, 'c'mon, suit, market it at me. Hey, it's human resources calling... you suck!' I wanted to say 'don't fight, you'll lose your 401K', but he's busy being restrained by his friends, and I’m trying to figure out whether I should dodge or punch first. I remained content to chant "MVP" for senor October.

What is there to say about game 6? Words cannot express how amazing schilling was. Although I will note that before they reversed the a-rod cheated call, I thought I was going to vomit. It would have been tying run on second, 1 out, with Sheffield and Matsui coming up. Not that those fuckers actually could hit when it counted.

A-rod is a cheater and a choker, a 25 million dollar player whose teams get better when he leaves, and worse when he arrives. Fuck that motherfucker.

Which of course brings us to last night.

The Sox had runners on 1st and second, and the hitter chopped one foul up the third base line. A-rod made the play, and in case it was fair, went to tag third- but rather than stepping on the bag, he hit it with his glove. I yelled "why don't you knock the bag away, you fucking cheater!"

The sox actually did it. I’m still looking for the Yankees, because they didn't even show up to game 7. They didn't even make a game of it. It was over in the second inning.

We spilled out onto the streets, chanting 'Yankees suck', because now it’s true, and 'who's your daddy'. Dismayed and lost Yankee fans looked at us pathetically, although a couple thought to yell. 'Go back to Boston', which was met with the gleeful rejoinder 'oh, we'll go back to Boston... for the world series!'

As we're parading down the street, chanting 'who's your daddy?', and 'go play golf!', and getting cheers from apartment windows and honks from motorists, a girl comes running up to us, flailing violently, kicked drew in the balls and punched me in the face. She’s a spoiled bitch like the rest of them. I laughed at her. It was funny, after all.

Will someone make a t-shirt: 'I went to Yankee stadium and all I got was this a.l. pennant'?

And to cap it off, as I was stepping out the door of the bar to go home, I turned back in and screamed 'Yankees suck, Yankees suck!' everyone joined in, naturally, and I walked out of the bar, with that brand new truth ringing in my ears.

I’m not going to try and describe the feelings. I think we all experienced joy and vindication and pride and, well, everything good. We suffered, we earned, we accomplished, we didn't choke, and we humiliated the Yankees. We showed them what its like. The rivalry is forever changed. We’ve wiped away all those 26 rings, because something happened that's never happened in baseball history, a choke that even the red sox never managed, and it was the Yankees, collapsing in unprecedented and remarkable fashion, at the hands of the red sox. They can 1918 us all they want, but they can never, never undo what happened this year.

Who’s your fucking daddy now, you stupid motherfuckers! We went into your house and pissed on your rug, and their ain't nothin you can do about it. Who’s the red sox now? How do you like it?

Ahh, sweet, sweet victory. Unexpected, impossible, miraculous, gritty, amazing victory.

All the insults, the yelling, the abuse, the fights, the having to risk my neck with all these drunk idiots to stick up for my team, the constant looking out of the corner of my eye for projectiles and fists, I don't like this stuff. I try to glam it up in my storytelling, but I wish they would all fuck off. And now they will. We win. They lose.

I want to buy t-shirts. T-shirts commemorate. And now Yankee fans can go commiserate.

Oh yeah, and fuck themselves.

2004 ALCS Game 6: A New Hope

From the Archive:

October 20, 2004:

[Hope for Game 7 ALCS; Series tied 3-3 after the Sox were down 3-0]

Just got the word of the day from good ol Webster’s.

The Word of the Day for October 20 is:

oblivion \uh-BLIV-ee-un\ noun
1 : the state of forgetting or having forgotten or of being
unaware or unconscious
2 : the condition or state of being forgotten or unknown

Boy, is that appropriate. The past is irrelevant.

If, and of course this is a very big 'if', if the sox pull this out, those 26 rings will mean nothing. The slate will be wiped clean. History erased. We will never hear taunting from a Yankee fan again. Ever. If the sox pull this out, this will be the biggest, most colossal postseason collapse in sports history. Not even the red sox have ever blown a 3-0 lead; this is not only entirely unique for any team, but for it to happen to the new York Yankees, "the greatest franchise in sports history", against those cursed red sox, well, hell truly will have frozen over.

If we can forget the past, the ghosts, and well, our red sox ness, and win this one game... life as we know it...

Please, please, win this one game.

And please, please let me see the look on steinbrenners face if they do. And all the rest of those stupid fuckers.

Oh yeah. A-rod is a fucking cheater and that play was a disgrace, plain and simple. He should be suspended.

Unsubscribe?

October 11, 2004:

[someone requested to ‘unsubscribe’ to the Sox fan email list]

Unsubscribe? There’s no unsubscribing. This is the first circle of hell. And you're in it. We Sox fans have had to put up with Yankee bullshit for too long, we've been kicked around and downtrodden and exploited for too long, and you spoiled Yankee fans have had such a fucking cakewalk, with no suffering. Well, now you're paying for your life of indulgence and plenty, thinking you deserve all that winning by some divine ordinance, never having to work for it, telling us that losing is just our lot in life, that we should accept it because of who we are, that we're better suited for losing, that its our nature, and that you the Yankees, are simply the winners, well now you're paying for your lack of humility and sacrifice, your unchecked imperialistic expansionism, your slave-owner who spends at the expense of the equilibrium of the environment, the only thing he's not paying is heed to the destruction his greed fosters, the lives that he tramples and destroys simply to fulfill his apocryphal delusions of grandeur, his yearning for expansion and control at the expense of all else, justifying it under the cruel credo of social Darwinism your godless materialism will be punished, oh yes. Its time for the meek to inherit the earth, the Sox are uniting, and there shall be a glorious uprising, throwing off the shackles of our Yankee oppressors, the cruel dogs with their smug assurance in their right to greed and spoils. This revolution will be televised, oh yes, Tuesday, 8pm on fox.

On Identity Lost- for tourists.

From the Archive:

October 10, 2004:

But what if the sox win the World Series? Won’t you lose your identity, your cachet? What happens to the Jews when the messiah comes- do they become Christian?

Bullshit. That identity, cachet crap is all for tourists. No sox fan revels in failure and disappointment. That’s just a marketing angle for outsiders, for foreigners looking in and trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. We want to win, dammit. And we want it now.

Consider an example. 'Hey there Berlin, why do you want that wall coming down? You’re the only city that is half communist and half capitalist, you are the very center of the cold war, a fault line in the greatest power struggle the world has ever known. Wouldn’t you lose that identity and cachet if they took the wall down?'

So of course the answer is fuck no, take the fucking wall down, and fuck you, we're winning this son of a bitch. You and your media cronies who want to drum up marketable interest and cast the sox and their fans as having these sellable characteristics like a fucking brochure to tour Berlin can all go fuck themselves.

We’re going to fuck y'all up, we're going to do it hard and fast, we're going to put that piece up your ass and pull the trigger until it goes click. You can have your media fantasy of the cursed losers. I want a winning fucking ball club, the kind that takes names.

And yeah, it wouldn't be meaningful without the past being exactly what it was. That’s why (among a zillion other reasons) I’m not a Yankees fan, just like tearing down the wall wouldn’t be meaningful if it didn't represent what it represents. But that doesn't mean we don't want that fucking wall down right fucking now, and that doesn't win we don't want to fucking win it all, right now.
We’re tearing down the wall of sox oppression and discrimination, and we'll be prosecuting war criminals and creating a black market and unstable currencies as we do so, and no one can stop us, because we're the fucking best.

If you smell... what the sox... are cookin’!

2004 ALCS Preview: Pray-Per-View

From the Archive:

October 10, 2004: On the Upcoming ALCS vs. the Yankees

[Please ignore the Messianic imagery. It was a very exciting time, if you recall. also, I really had a lousy time at Yankee Stadium a year earlier, during a certain game 7. see http://soxlosophy.blogspot.com/2008/06/2003-alcs-game-7-non-je-ne-regrette.html ]

Well, it's happening. And frankly, I don't think I can take it. It’s hard to imagine anything more exhilarating and trying than last year. From Pedro tossing Zimmer, to nelson and Garcia fighting landscapers, to Grady little and broken bat doubles, the gamut was run. But that was just a prelude. And I simply do not think I can take it.

Over the next week and a half, my screams will be heard, guttural howls emanating from places my soul doesn't even know about, in response to every pitch, ever sign shook off, every step shaded up the middle, every last little contingency that will forever change the face of the earth, and life as we know it.

I fully expect to be struck down by a Yankee fan at some point this week, when the angry mob hears me speak one too many truths, and out of hatred and fear of self- realization, must destroy me before I force them to look inside themselves, to see the evil burning within.

This week will be a true test of faith and devotion, one that'll make Job's treatment look like a manicure. A sox loss would be absolutely devastating. If they lose, I just don't know if I could bounce back. I will be suffering heart attack after heart attack, nervous breakdown after nervous breakdown, all week. Any and all ties to the outside world will be severed, I will be completely at the mercy of the epic battle god has seen fit to subject me to, for purposes of deeming me worthy.

I truly believe that we have the better team, and that we should, and deserve to, win. But then, Job didn't deserve what he got. And that was kind of the point. But his suffering was supposed to be rewarded, not merely a sadistic punishment. We are now at the point of judgment, at the point where for all time, suffering and loss are rewarded with eternal righteousness, and the sweet sweet reward. If we lose, I might very well be crushed, my suffering will have been in vain.

This has to be the year- we've never been in a better position. I simply cannot take more Yankee smugness, more favoritism from the proactive Satan against a complacent and negligent god, more evil in the world.

We humbly await your judgment.

I’m reminded of the 'problem of evil.' the problem runs, quite simply, as follows. Assume there is evil in the world. Is god willing to prevent evil, but unable? Then god is impotent. Is god able to prevent evil, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.

But the problem will be eradicated if we win. Because evil will be vanquished, and the long-suffering Israelites, awaiting their messiah, will be vindicated. We will not have suffered in vain.

We humbly await.

In my philosophy, I do not believe in substance, or objects. But now there is one object which concerns me greatly. And that is curt schilling's right ankle. We disposed of the literal and figurative Achilles heel of the red sox, Nomar "thanks beautiful" Garciaparra. But this problem has resurfaced, has been instantiated in another bit of human, all too human, too too sullied flesh. Curt’s ankle, the very fulcrum from which all his power and leverage is derived, is weak. He must muster superhuman strength, to spontaneously generate energy from within, to transcend the physical limitations of his mortality.

We humbly await.

Pedro must continue to find within the great temple a source of oil, though appearing to have run out, that will last for 8 wins, that will combust at 95 miles per hour.

Baruch atah Adonai, elohaynu melech ha-olum, biray piree ha-fastball

We humbly await.

Bronson cornroyo must continue his David cone impression, throwing backdoor sliders and curves with impunity against the evil minions. He must stand bravely, he cannot waver.

The red sox are our army, protecting our fragile Nation's gates against the onslaught of cold oppressive Yankee fascism. Our freedom and fun loving protectors must persevere against the bitter robotic efficiency of the Yankee death machine. They wish to impose their anti-individualist and plutocratic dogma on our democratic, creative and expressive team. They are Sparta, we are Athens. We must defeat their martial empire. The Yankees represent brutal tyranny. The red sox humanistic democracy. The future of the world is at stake.

It had to come down to this. That much was destiny. But for destiny to mean anything, it must guarantee the just future, one in which suffering is eliminated, and faith rewarded. We know that time is near; otherwise, the end is nigh.

We humbly await.

2004 ALDS Game 3: Team Loyalty as Religious Commitment

From the Archive:

October 10, 2004:

[The following was written as an apology for watching Game 3 of the ALDS (Sox win series 3-0) instead of attending my friend Ian's birthday party.]

Firstly, I thought I had explained that I wouldn't be joining the birthday party until the game was over. If this was unclear, then I certainly apologize. If the very fact that I’d make such a decision is the issue, then let me elaborate.

Looking at such an issue 'objectively', one sees clearly a different sort of obligation (not in the 'dammit I have something to do' sense, but more in the category of 'moral duty', the morality of which makes the performance of the act both good and, for lack of a better word, enjoyable) between the acts of being a spectator and honoring a friend.

The main two differences, as I see it on the 'cost/benefit analysis', pertain to consequences of failing to live up to the obligation. With the former, no party is injured by the failure to be a spectator- the red sox will do fine without me- and secondly, that no possible punitive measures could be taken for failing to live up to the obligation- I won't get fired or in trouble for not watching the game. Whereas for the latter, the friend, clearly there may be an insulted party. And one is certainly inclined to think that the feelings of a real person would take precedence over the symbolic icons I have an allegiance to on TV.

I think the only way I can explain this to someone who does not have the feelings of allegiance and passion for a sports team is by relating it to religion. If you were having a party that I should be at, but it happens on, say, Yom kippor, and I can't leave my home until sundown, when Yom kippor is over, and I say I can't go, it would be very easy for the atheist (you) to say 'god will get on fine without you- you don't need to be there to honor him,' and second, 'since there is no god, there is no punitive action foreseeable against you for failing to honor this obligation.' this is contrasted with the hurt feelings of the person who's party isn't being attended. To the atheist, the obstinate insistence on remaining at home might seem both insulting and irrational. And I am inclined to agree. All I can say in this regard is that I simply have to honor my religious commitment.

To make this analogy stick, certainly I must cite precedent, if not already known, of my skipping everything else in order to watch important sox games. Just this week I skipped my Tuesday afternoon class, as the game was on. This, of course, is to the potential detriment of my grade. On Wednesday night, the game didn't end until after 2 am, and I had to teach class at 8am. So I taught on less than two hours sleep, to the immediate detriment of the students, who had an unintelligible professor that day, and to myself, who was too tired to do any serious work for the rest of the day.

Just thinking about this further, one must confront the idea of more drastic conflicts- would I skip somebody's wedding to watch a red sox game in April? Of course not. I skipped many of the games this year for various reasons (although I never like doing it). Sometimes you just have to drive on Saturday. But not on Yom kippor. The red sox in the playoffs is my high holidays, an event far more rare than annual, and one to me that is always fragile and in doubt and bound to end in horrific tragedy at any moment, and moreover, the end goal of which is something that generations of people have died having been denied the allegedly sublime satisfaction of experiencing.

Where I grew up half the kids couldn't show up for soccer practice on Saturdays. Some teams didn't even have games on Saturdays because of Shabbat. Logistically, one has to take such obligations into account. A further difficulty of yesterday was that the game went especially long, and then into extra innings- it’s as if sunset suddenly came over an hour late, thereby further interfering.

So basically, my obligation to the red sox in this regard is basically religious in nature, and the resultant obligations are upheld to the exclusion of all else. I have demonstratively risked both health and general welfare time and time again, particularly in New York, for my beliefs. I would hope, in general, that this is understood about me, such that people are not offended by my actions, just as I hope you would not be offended if someone couldn't go to dinner because it was Yom kippor. As you know, I went to Brooklyn to watch the game just so that I could be a part of your birthday dinner- otherwise I would have stayed uptown.

… I want to make sure that you hold no grudge against me vis a vis my actions towards you, but rather simply judge me to be an insane person with totally misplaced values. I can live with that.

2004 ALDS Game 1: On Human Freedom

From the Archive:

(Upon reading this again, I can't say I stand behind many of the statements. Though I would stand behind them if they'd hide me from the embarassment they cause. Oh, the ironing.)

October 6, 2004:

Thoughts inspired by Game 1, ALDS; Sox v. Angels, Sox up 1-0

If the process doesn't matter, the result doesn't matter. With whether this is a cliché, truism, or motivational aphorism, I am not concerned. The truth of it, however, is quite relevant to our current situation with those monkey-humpers in California.

Would it be satisfactory to learn, upon waking from a coma three weeks from now, that the Red Sox had won the World Series? Or would you rather have been there all along, absorbed in every pitch? Frankly, I'd rather have been so absorbed and have the Sox lose, than to awake three weeks from now to see that they'd won.

What people don't realize is that probabilities are determinate. It is usually thought that if something is only probable, and not certain, that it is indeterminate. Not so. You see, if something is going to happen, say, 60 % of the time, it is a determinate fact of the matter that it will happen 60 % of the time. To accept a formula that predicts such a value is to be committed to the determinacy of the formula- what it says will happen will happen.

When we watch baseball over the course of a season, we are well aware of the determinacy of probabilities. For instance, back in March, I (and Dave and Marc) picked the Sox to win 98 games this year. They won 98 games. When a computer simulation of such scenarios are run, the various numbers act as causal determinants, and hence determine an outcome, the variances of which are also quantifiably known.

Contingency, on the other hand, is the essence of life. The emotional force of the philosophical conflict between free will and determinism is the one between fate and chance, law and freedom, predictability and spontaneity. Imagining what could have been, or what could be, is essential to our concepts of ourselves, and our place in our minds, society, and the universe at large.

No one wants to be a statistic. Corporations, cognizant of such a fact about their demographic audience, peddle their elixirs with individualist labels, conveniently offering the public an opportunity to express their true selves by associating themselves with a particular cola. They know that a certain percentage of people will feel that way.

Insurance companies know that x number of people will have certain kinds of accidents. This formula is deterministic. If it weren't, they wouldn't profit. Same with Vegas, same with everything.

Probabilities are determinate because the various underlying causal factors all cancel out. They can be ignored. But they are still there, and we mustn’t forget that.

So the trick to transcending such determinacy is actually embracing the underlying causal factors. This sounds counterintuitive, because we think freedom is opposed to causality, which is associated with determinism.

But where a vast number of opposing dynamic causal forces are intertwined, these vast numbers of random fluctuations left out of statistical formulations, is just where our most important concept emerges- contingency.

You see, causality is the basis of contingency. Statistical determinism works just because it ignores the contingencies of the actual causal factors- why anyone actually has an accident, or why any one person rather than another feels like obeying his thirst or just doing it.

It is by embracing the multitude of conflicting causal forces, by being awash in the pushes and pulls of millions of directions, that creates contingency, and from there, freedom. It is the only kind of freedom we may have.

Which brings us back to the playoffs. We could run the numbers and probably get the outcome that the sox beat the angels. But here I will embrace a cliché, a truism; games are not played on paper. Should they be? Of course not. Because what this truism really means is that we are ready and willing and wanting to embrace the contingencies that are left out of the determinate formula which will tell us ahead of time who will win.

And when that formula is determining, the result is determined. But how we get there- the process- is exactly that nexus of contingent factors, those which are ignored by the formula, which are the very events of our lives, the events that could have gone either way, the wishes and regrets and triumphs that we strive for, the accidents we might or might not have had, the poker we might or might not have won, the accepting and challenging of deterministic forces along the way as it suits our demeanors and interests, corporate or otherwise.

So when I watch a playoff game, I see the beautiful contingencies of human life all encapsulated in the wonderfully asymmetrical expanse of the outfield, roughly circumscribing the symmetrical order of the infield. I do not talk about next year’s free agents. I do not talk about my life. For in my life, I will never experience such freedom, the freedom from the determining forces of universe. A half-centimeter on the bat, one burst seam on a ball, a fleeting glare from a compact mirror in the stands, a split second on the bases, such infinitesimal discrepancies in initial conditions solidify and branch off into an infinity of diverse futures. Each event in baseball does this; each event is recorded and contributes irrevocably to these diverse futures.

If a mediocre player gets lucky and performs above his ability, we must not say that he couldn’t do that again if given the chance, because it is just the point- that he did it here, did it now. There is no such thing as luck in this context. Luck is relative to a deterministic formula. In the context of the playoffs where statistical determinism falters and shows its true colors, there is no such basis for comparison. To want to see if he could do it again is just to ask whether he could be more of a robot, designed to automatically respond identically each time, to be more controlled by deterministic mechanism. But he is a human. It is a new day, they say. Throw the statistics out the window, they say. And with good cause. There is no past determining now. There is a totally indeterminate, open future, in the strongest sense.

Remember, determinism only makes sense when a given past state necessarily yields a future one. We thus have freedom only to the extent that we are absorbed in the contingencies of the present moment, a point of view from which the past is immaterial, and hence plays no role and exerts no influence, and where we entertain no thoughts of any future that constrains the limitless possibilities from where we stand.

Sure, we could find out the result. Just go in a coma and then read the paper. But the only reason we should care about the result is in the process, the how we get there. To experience the process, and really, truly feel the freedom of contingency against the overarching and domineering background of determinacy that we feel all the time, I take no calls, and I chit no chat, during a playoff game. I want to watch every pitch, pick up every little chance fluctuation that leaves its indelible mark on the game, and on the future. I don’t want to just read the box score. I don’t want to just glance around and catch a few moments of the game while I chat, as if it was just more stylish hipster scenery. If Damon's chopper had the slightest difference in its spin, does Figgins double pump and throw wildly home, leading to 5 unearned runs? Does Schilling's having a large lead as a result alter his pitch sequences to Anaheim hitters, so that he can save his real good, tricky stuff for when he might need a surprise in a potential game 5? This is what I want to know. This, more importantly, is what I want to feel. I want to feel the infinite contingencies, each resulting from the myriad of opposing causal forces that can usually be ignored for the sake of living a life of order, predictability, and profit. I want to totally suspend disbelief, and believe instead that life could be so open, so full of possibility. The game is a beautiful abstraction in this respect. To think about the future, or the past, or anything else is to totally destroy the illusion, and for me, the primary reason for caring at all. Why should I care who wins if I am not personally involved, through my aesthetic loss of self and my identification with not just the people, or even the players, but rather the dynamic interaction of the events themselves? I mean, its just sports, right? Who cares? And why should we care about next year’s free agents? If we don't care about right now, the very present moment, without another thought in the world, why would we care who's on the team next year? We should be living for this, and living through this. If I were at the ballpark I could ignore the commercials, and watch the players roll grounders between innings. Does someone’s arm hurt? Is there some animosity between teammates? Every little bit of information I can glean becomes immensely important, these wonderful little contingencies that matter just now, in this little closed system of bare dynamics, where human freedom is expressed most truly, as against the grain of the oppressive determinism of law, morality, finances and biological function.

As the hippies like to say, live in the now, man. That's right, gentle hippies. For it is only now, and not before, and not later, that we are free.
Be that as it may, we mustn’t forget values. Value is what directs our looking forward, the division between being acting and being acted on, and what gives us purpose rather than a mark for attendance at the scene. So when I embrace this present, I do so with the hope that indeed it is structured in certain ways, and not in others; the ways that I value. And the value of a Red Sox World Series is, as the corporations have learned by intensive market research, priceless.

they bunt in heaven too

From the Archive:

October 5, 2004: On “Field of Dreams”

Speaking of the briefest of appearances, and not counting virtual particle creation/annihilation, perhaps you'll recall doc moonlight graham, the elderly incarnation of whom was portrayed by Burt Lancaster in field of dreams.

All that doc graham regrets in his life of being a Samaritan is not getting an at bat in the big leagues, after coming so close. It is incumbent on ray (Kevin costner) to ease his pain. So magically the ghost of moonlight graham appears as his young self, on the side of the highway, prepared to get that one at bat. After winking at the pitcher and receiving a fastball at the noggin, doc graham lines out to right, for a sacrifice fly that drives in a run.

After accomplishing his goal, ray's daughter falls off the bleachers and chokes on her hot dog. She will die, but doc graham steps off the field, thereby foregoing his eternal future as a ballplayer, in order to become the doctor who can save the girl, and does so.

Doc graham ironically enough never actually got his at bat. A sacrifice fly, you see, is not an at bat. Fittingly, however, is that in so doing, he advanced the cause of his team through sacrifice. And appropriately, he does not receive credit for an at bat, which he will now never achieve; just as Socrates facilitates knowledge in others, but has none of his own, so too must the doctor simply facilitate the process, and sacrifice his own personal desires and goals to play the role of life-saver, at all hours and at all costs, which includes ensuring that a runner scores from third with less than 2 outs. Moonlight graham is permanently a facilitator, never at true participant, and will remain so in perpetuity.

But what is more important, for my purposes, is that the rules of baseball transcend the material world and apply to the fantastical world of ghosts. Even eternal immutable substances only get three strikes, and sacrifice flies still don't count as at bats.

Even where physics no longer reigns, sabermetrics ordains.

And ghost don't cheat. Neither should you.

2003 ALCS Game 7- Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

From the Archive: October 17, 2003:

[After Game 7 ALCS v. Yankees; Sox lose series 4-3, after blowing a 5-2 lead in the 8th inning, and eventually losing in the 11th on an Aaron Boone home run.]

Well, things don't always go as planned. Or in some cases, things are planned to go the way you don't want.

But you know, I'm lucky. Because for 7 1/3 innings, I owned that fucking place. Yankee stadium. Or at least the vicinity around the top tier, section B, row N, seat number 9. For 7 1/3, I got to see the look on those stupid fucking Yankees' fans faces. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I abused them. And they couldn't do anything.

Sure, I was hit in the head and drenched with a few beers. Yes, I was pegged with a bunch of peanuts. But none of those assholes could even own up. After Pedro breezed through another inning, and having grown tired of the mocking "we want Pedro" chant, I switched it up to "throw more beer!, throw more beer!". Did anyone do so? No. Of course not. Because the Yankee fans are cowards. I don't know who threw those beers. But they knew who I was. I was the guy who for 7 1/3 innings owned that fucking place. I was the one with the balls to put myself on the line, because I've suffered, and I was earning that victory.

Every time Soriano waved at another pitch, I hollered "overrated" over and over again. Jeter whiffs "hey, nice cut, Mr. November." Giambi pops out; "you need the deodorant ads, because you stink!" After starting another "lets go red sox" chant, an infuriated Sopranos looking Yankee fan offered for me to come down and fight him. I've never so casually nodded no and given the finger at the same time. His buddy did a nice job of restraining him. I don't know what stopped the other bunch of guys who offered to fight me. Probably being pussies, I guess.

My throat is sore, and my head hurts, and there is beer in my hair and clothes. But for 7 1/3, it was euphoric. There was nothing better. I was in their house pissing on their rug and they just had to shut the fuck up.

And yes, I did notice that we lost. But if we had won, it wouldn't have lasted forever. Maybe the Yankees would have won next year. This way it didn't last a year, but for those 7 1/3 innings, I was the winner. They were the losers. I stood up at Yankee stadium and yelled at the top of my lungs for 2 hours. I told Roger to get his fat ass in a rocking chair, and for Bernie to join him. I told Bernie that it was odd that he could be both washed up, and stink (although few got that one.) I got to call the Yankee fans sore losers, and the fucking pussies wouldn't even admit who threw beer and peanuts. (I guess when you drop out of school in 9th grade you miss out on the spitball phase.)

The damn Yankees fans don't suffer. They don't earn what they get, and they don't deserve it. So I made goddam fucking sure that they suffered as much as possible. In the end, we didn't win, but I'm used to that. We never win. But I knew that for those 7 1/3 innings, all those suckers who paid all that money to be at the game, well, I was making their lives a living fucking hell. I made damn sure that every Yankee fan within earshot, and boy do I have a loud voice, was regretting that they got off their fat asses in the first place to come to that game.

I'm sure by now they've forgotten all about me. But I won't forget the look on their faces. The anger. The rage, all directed at me, the guy who was getting what he earned, but what those assholes thought was theirs for no fucking reason at all. So fuck them. I know that I ruined their fucking night, at least for a couple of hours. And sure, I can get a kick out of responding to "Pedro sucks" chants with "he makes 17 million dollars. So what does that make you?", but it doesn't normally affect anyone. But tonight, for those 7 1/3, those fucking Yankee fans, well, they truly sucked.

So for those of you who weren't there, I'm sorry that you couldn't experience at least the fleeting sensation of triumph in the midst of all those stupid fuckers. But frankly, I don't want to tell you about what it was like leaving the stadium, or pushing through a crowd to find the subway, and all that. This I could have done without.

But that's all a bad dream. The reality, well, were those 7 1/3 innings, when the Red Sox were champions, and I was there.

Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

2003 ALDS Game 5 (knew it all along)

From the Archive:

October 07, 2003:
After Game 5 ALDS, Sox win series 3-2

(Knew It All Along)



Savor this moment. Are you savoring? I don't hear you savoring. This is great. This is what being a Sox fan is all about.
Right now, we have every reason in the world to believe that we can do it. Maybe we won't, maybe we will. (But we will). But right now is fucking sweet. They pulled it together, and hope is alive and kicking and fucking like a horse.

I have never been more drained. I am so fucking exhausted.

But the highest paid player finally acted like it. Boy, was Zito on the ropes. You could just see it. Every curve in the dirt. Fastballs up and out over the plate. And for a moment I thought he'd get away with it when Nomar popped up the 2-1 pitch. But we're all screaming for blood, shrieking 'he's on the ropes, he's on the ropes goddam it!!' it was there. 3 days rest doesn’t' work. And Manny fucking tagged that one like we need to study its behavior.



But now, well, we know what's ahead of us. And I cannot make fasting a habit, although certainly my suffering for martyrdom was effective in this case.

We knew it all along, we knew it all along.

I’m losing my hair, that's what. My god, this isn't even the real playoffs. 5 other people are missing their fingernails because I chewed em. (That’s 50 fingers) Christ, we have 8 more games to win. We’ve only won 3. Uggh, 8 more. My heart can't take it.

I haven't gotten anything done in a week. Oh wait, that's not true. I’ve experienced the pinnacle of hope, exhilaration and salvation, and what it means to be alive. But do I get paid for that?... no. (I’m not sure what I get paid for, if anything)

this is fun, ain't it?

2003 ALDS pre-Game 5

From the Archive:

October 06, 2003:

Before Game 5, ALDS, series tied 2-2 (in Game 4, David Ortiz hits the winning double, for his first hit of the series, off of eventual 2004 Sox Closer Keith Foulke.)

It’s Yom Kippor, or in English, the day of Kippor. (To the translation I give a C+). And I am fasting.

Why?, you ask. No, not for the big man upstairs, but I think it'll help the sox. I am atoning and suffering. And I shall be rewarded. I am a martyr.

Fuck yeah. I am one with this team. Me and a bunch of rednecks wear the same shirt, dammit. Ortiz has the best 1 for 17 ever. His batting average is .clutch, his slugging percentage is love and redemption.

Trot thanked the lord. Onward Christian soldier.

Some of these metaphors got to work out. It’s like that commercial with the workers on the bed with their boots.

I’m hungry and not making sense.

Tonight’s the night, and in the words of William Shakespeare,"bring on the yanks, those stupid ass licking fuckers!!

2003 ALDS, Game 2

From the Archive:

October 3, 2003:

After Game 2, ALDS- Sox down 0-2

[My Sox fan buddies begin to lose faith, on the verge of a sweep by the A’s, and insults are thrown around amongst the group]


We must stop this black on black crime, my brothas.

Listen.

Optimism is constantly turned over easy and spilled, fried into naiveté. This is our fate. These are the cards we are dealt. Nothing comes easy, and everything comes painfully. We are living in the age before Novocain, general anesthesia and the messiah. We primitives know not what will happen, but we know we must toil and suffer, toil and suffer, and maybe even suffer and toil.

Nobody’s Uncle Tom-ing on anyone here, and nobody's defecting neither. We’re building the Parthenon here people. If they told you it was clear sailing around the world to India, well, they were selling something. We’ll be lucky to make it to the West Indies alive.

Keep hope alive. I have a dream. If we are martyrs, so be it.

If you get dealt a lousy hand, bluff, double down or...

COWBOY THE FUCK UP!!!!!

2003 ALDS: Game 1

FROM THE ARCHIVE:

October 2, 2003

After Game 1, ALDS, Sox down 0-1 to A’s; Sox blow lead in 9th inning, lose in 11th when Ramon Hernandez drops a bases loaded bunt single for the GW RBI.

Its not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game. Or so many of us have been told. Why we should believe this is anyone's guess. Neither Leo Durocher nor Al Gore would agree with this well-worn maxim, and most likely Leon Trotsky and Al Bundy would contend otherwise as well.

But I am not going to take issue with this Sesame Street philosophy. Nor shall I take issue with the specifics of tonight's ballgame. I won't argue that in the playoffs one should go with the hot hand out of the bullpen, which in tonight's case was Mr. Timlin. I will steer clear of whether or not it always fails to walk the bases loaded. But what I do want to talk about is not how one plays the game, but how we watch the game.

I yell. I scream. I curse, I reverberate, I pontificate, I press real hard on my sinuses hoping that's how to keep my brain in my head. I order food I don't eat and I find camaraderie with those who wear a similar shirt.

And so does everyone. In a very important sense, we are all the same.

As you know, I study philosophy. (Although "study' might be a generous construal.) I am interested in the related concepts of continuity and identity. Some may think that the question of what makes something the same, or continuous, over time is irrelevant, or unanswerable, or illogical or even trivial.
But they told us, dammit, they told us that these were not our father's Red Sox. David Ortiz and Mueller and all the rest. "Who's the Babe?" has less rhetorical value that "who's the man?" But never has anyone looked more at home in a uniform than the Heroes from the Hub did tonight. They were the Red Sox. Game 1 of the division series is the least important of all playoff games. Yet there was scaffolding on my seat while a construction crew furiously extended the edge.

I am tired. And I mean that. It doesn't matter how much sleep I got last night, nor how much I will get tonight.

The soul. The soul is eternal, immutable, indivisible and some other things, too, I suppose. Testicles, on the other hand, are quite fragile, and really the opposite of the abovemention qualities. The soul has no need for testicles, as the latter are both the archives of evolution and the tray from which you may take or leave a penny, contributing to the dynamic nature of the community. The soul is something else entirely, and has no need to ensure its reproduction through history.

Tonight, though, my soul has balls, and it was kicked right in them. The heavenly choir of angels sang a truer soprano.

I'm not going to lie and say I knew that the A's would win. I didn't know. But I did know that the Red Sox made a definitive metaphysical statement. "We are the Red Sox", they blared. And more importantly, they let me know that I am a Red Sox fan.

I hate losing. I don't know why, and I don't care why. No insight would let me know that it is an attitude worth changing. All I know is that in am important regard, I am a functioning human being.

I can't imagine how I would feel in the World Series. This was Game One of the ALDS. They can still do it. Who knows?

But they are the Red Sox. I don't know why. It doesn't make sense. These guys are not related to Babe Ruth, or Bill Buckner. They may never have met. They may have .500 batting averages in the post season or may slug 1.000 against Barry Zito. But who cares?

All I know is that my throat is sore and I feel like I was shot in the gut with a cannon.

I watch the game not like I was out there on the field, but like I am sitting on a bar stool with other people wearing the same shirt. The shirt does not cover my soul, or my soul's balls, nor does it keep me warm.

But it does make me one of THEM, just like it does to the guys on the field. They are Red Sox, and so am I. And assuming we make it by the first round, we got a dozen of these to go.My soul needs to go jogging or something, to get into better shape.

Scott Sauerbeck for Freddy Sanchez you say?

Well, its finally happened. I've broken down and started a "blog." What's that you say? I don't need the scare-quotes? What's that you say? I don't need the hyphen in "scare-quotes"? What's that you say? Single quotation marks are used when mentioning a word? What's that you say? This imaginary-interlocutor-who-consistently-speaks-at-a-low-volume shtick is tiresome? Hmm...

Anywho, though I'm new to blogging, I'm fairly old to writing. As soon as I figger out this new fangled technology, I'll be posting my old material on philosophy and the Sox going back to at least 2003. So if you're interested in my prediction about how the Scott Sauerbeck trade will work out, stay tuned.