In the fall of 2004 I was teaching English in Warsaw, Poland, and following the Red Sox avidly as I have all my life. Because the games were in the middle of the night, I had to do my lesson plans, grab a few hours sleep, then go to an internet café to watch on MLB-TV. Remember early MLB-TV? The picture was grainy and low-res, and there were no commercials. The between-innings interludes were filled by a Super Mario Brothers clip that was maddening when you’d seen it hundreds of times.
The café was always crowded with young people spending the night playing video games. At first the old chap in the baseball cap with the B on it, occasionally cheering or groaning, was a curious presence to them, but as the post-season wore on they got used to me.
Late in Game Four of the ALCS my eruption turned some heads when Mueller singled home Roberts to tie the game, then they really gawked as I yelled and fist-pumped when Papi’s homer won it. But I little thought Boston would come all the way back. Then, thrillingly, they did. I think a lot of people were like me: I would have been satisfied with the ALCS win over the Yankees.
After the first two games of the World Series, which we won despite making FOUR errors in both games, I made up my mind our luck had finally turned for good. In preparation, I bought a big, expensive Cuban cigar. When Foulk tossed the ball to Mientkiewicz and the long drought was over, I was actually pretty controlled: no shouting, just a profound relief and satisfaction.
I bought beer for everybody in the internet café, went out and lit my Havana cigar, and puffed and strolled the pre-dawn streets of Warsaw, one of the myriad happy citizens of Red Sox Nation.
Later, in class, I tried to explain to my students how happy I was, how much it all meant to me. I don’t think it fully registered with them. The best analogy I could come up with was: Poland beats Germany to win the World Cup final. By now I’m sure they’ve all forgotten. But I haven’t, and never will.
I grew up in Maine; saw my first game at Fenway in 1953. My father lived his whole life without celebrating a Red Sox World Series championship. We shared it all, all those years: the dreary 50’s, the high of ’67 which foretokened better things to come, the excruciating losses in ’75, ’78, ’86 and 2003. How I wish we could have shared 2004 as well… (I’m a long-time lurker; this is my first post.)