I watched the Red Sox win the 2007 World Series at a party in Phoenix, where the majority of the people there weren’t Red Sox fans or really baseball fans at all. What wound up happening was that, as the game went on, it became clear that I was tuning out the rest of the party and zeroing in on the TV with maniacal force. It was probably a little off-putting. I don’t think I cared.
In going to the party, I wanted to reclaim some of the feeling from 2004, where, after we made deadline in the newsroom, a coworker and I went out to a bar that was hopelessly overcrowded and hung out with close to 200 folks who couldn’t get inside. The Red Sox are such a regional presence and such a big part of so many lives that it felt right to turn the moment into a communal one.
Living 3,000 miles away, there was no way to replicate that, and I should have known better. I should have just stayed home, maybe made a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts to get a little New England-vibe in the desert, and enjoyed Jon Lester’s Game 4 start in Colorado. Continue reading
Daniel Bard, in better days.
A few days ago, a friend sent me a text that got me just about as depressed as a text about baseball can make me:
“Just heard Daniel Bard’s line in the Gulf Coast League. 6 batters faced, 5 BB, 4 SB, 2 WP. It’s over.”
It was more of the same on Saturday, when Bard, pitching in Lowell in the New York-Penn League, walked four in one inning with two strikeouts and a wild pitch.
And with that went just about any shred of hope I’d had that maybe Daniel Bard could regain his stranglehold on the Red Sox bullpen. That much was confirmed earlier, when the Red Sox, needing a spot on their 40-man roster, designated him for assignment. Continue reading
I spent a lot of my money on packs of baseball cards to get ones like this Greg Harris card in 1993.
Through a fortunate turn of events, I had amazing tickets for last night’s Red Sox-White Sox game at Fenway Park, a 7-2 win that saw Jake Peavy go seven innings for the win. In the ninth inning, Drake Britton, Boston’s young, flame-throwing lefty, came in for some work and closed out the game.
It was incredible to see him work up close. His deliver is one where he’s almost jumping out at the batter from the mound, a compact series of movements where he winds up punching the ball towards the plate. A couple of rising fastballs hit David Ross’ glove with an alarming pop. It was impressive, to say the least.
There were a couple of kids in the row next to us, and they were clearly enjoying themselves, running out on their own for hot dogs and happily tipping the vendors as they came through our section. Later, for whatever reason, I thought of myself at 10 or 11 and watching the Red Sox, and how different that experience probably was. Mostly because I’d hitched my wagon to the 1993 Red Sox, a group that finished 80-82, and if I’d had these same seats that year, I’d probably be watching Greg Harris mop up another 6-3 loss to Detroit or something. Continue reading