Games 162 of the 2011 season defied any and all possible combination of words to quantify. One wishes John Updike were still alive with an itch in his knickers and could somehow have warmed a seat in each of the three stadiums that hosted the severance between summer and fall. The seasons changed, dramatically and with devastating abruptness for fans of the Red Sox and Braves. The collapse was a long way down, failure wrapping its callused fingers with slow, tight assurance. Yet the end came as a shock to fans, though one could feel it coming. The aftermath of each team’s respective collapse is being dealt with differently. Braves fans, as is their general nature, are far more somber and calculating. They point to key injuries to the starting rotation (top two starters), an over reliance on three young bullpen arms, and disappointing seasons from several key offensive cogs (Heyward, Prado, Chipper). There are some in search of a scapegoat: a passive manager, all of a sudden inclined toward risky, LaRussa-like behavior in the season’s final game. But for the most part, they are stomaching the ultimate failure of a team with high expectations but without the necessary components to fend off the superior St. Louis Cardinals.
In Boston, the aftermath is quite different. Red Sox fans want blood. And they want enough to refill the Fens. They want the heads of Terry Francona and Theo Epstein, the two men instrumental in delivering two Championships, run through on spikes like totems marking the path to Kurtz’s lair. There is nothing more despicable than the human capacity for hate. To argue one could take the Red Sox collapse with grace is ignorant. Those of us who love the game, and who love a team, put our hearts into the summer, our team being the vehicle that carries us through. The Red Sox have a history of spectacular failure, which has always made the team a favorite among literati. However, something has changed in Boston since they finally won the World Series in 2004, and again in 2007. The hope and expectation that ushers in every spring in Boston, drives every summer, and keeps the bones warm during the long winter, has been supplanted by entitlement, that scourge in life that infiltrates those that react poorly to success.
Following the signings of Crawford and Gonzalez this past offseason, the Red Sox were picked by almost everybody to win their third title in nine years; their fans not only demanded it, they somehow felt they were owed it. Failure wasn’t a possibility to them. Throughout the season, with the 2-10 start, the dominant middle months, and the fallout in September, they held firm to the ultimate inevitability of their 2011 World Championship. And then the stalwart Papelbon fell. And then three minutes later Longoria prevailed. And then what befalls 29 of the 30 teams every year happened: they failed in winning the last game of the season. Apparently somebody has to be blamed. So instead of allowing the collective to be held responsible, Boston fans immediately sharpened their knives and began searching for a throat to slash.
Nobody is owed anything in the game of baseball. Not the Chicago Cubs for their now 103 years of failure. Not the Yankees for all the promise of their previous greatness. And not even the Red Sox prior to 2004. Boston fans would do themselves a kindness by revisiting the great piece written by Bart Giamatti (a lifelong Sox fan). It will help them swallow the venom and once again indulge in “the playing of the game in the only place it will last, the enclosed green field of the mind”. Vitriol will not ease the pain of this historic collapse. Let your hearts be broken Boston. I know you remember how. |
| "I root for the Red Sox. The Horror. The HORROR!" |
No comments:
Post a Comment