Divine Manifestation #1
Check out Divine Manifestation #2.
Which is neither Ecstatic Vision #1 nor Ecstatic Vision #2.
This weekend’s Red Sox-Yankees series, as they all have this year, made me think of last year’s wonderful ALCS. If you don’t know what happened in it, enjoy the three aforementioned blog entries.
The beginning of this story of Divine Manifestation goes back to the year before last, to the 2003 ALCS. It also went to seven games, that one did. Game 7 was being played in the Bronx, but having gone to school near Boston and being a lifelong Mets fan, I was supporting the cause of the Red Sox as much as I could without selling out and pretending to have loved them forever. I was living in New Rochelle (about 3 hours from Boston) and had a car. I wanted to be in Boston in case the Red Sox did make it to the World Series, to have a decent future blog entry one day and also to see the celebration firsthand and drink a lot.
I ended up watching the game with several friends from college at a bar called the Pour House, which is on Boylston Street towards the center of Boston. The entire night was an exercise in patience and superstition. I made a point not to move if I didn’t have to, say anything unnecessary, nor think of anything up to and including the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. The Red Sox had made it Game 7; like hell if I was gonna let the karma police pull me over for a snide, sarcastic and otherwise meaningless comment. I was a guest. Chickens weren’t close to hatching and I wasn’t even looking in the basket to count how many damn eggs there were.
Okay: The Red Sox had a lead in the middle innings. I was deferring my small part in the celebration until later. I was sitting next to a friend of mine, a huge fan of the Red Sox, much more anxious than I could ever have been, who was tensely chatting with another in our group. Out of nowhere –- I’ve absolutely forgotten the exact phrase, and that’s if I ever knew it — my friend uttered a statement that sounded as if it placed physically disabled people in a negative light.
I don’t know how it happened, if it was a rejoinder or what, or what kind of conversation was going on. And make no mistake, she’s one of the nicest people around. In the end, hearing her own words, my friend became upset. With real concern: “Oh no, is God gonna be angry at me?”
And smartass me: “He might.” I tried not to kid all night, I really tried–
Now, I’m not going on the record saying either of us lost the ALCS for the Red Sox. A home run did that — an objective outcome, cause and effect. But with the Curse and all, I felt that karma was involved — I felt responsible in some way, as if any small thing could and did set it off and ruined the winter for all of New England.
However true those things are or were, silly or not, to see the disappointment that weighed on Boston’s fans that night was legitimately pitiful. Seriously.
CUT TO: October 2004.
Yankees-Red Sox again.
ALCS. I’d since moved to New York City and ditched the car, but still kept in touch with part of the Red Sox fanbase. So for the first game of the ALCS, I watched with another college buddy and Sox fan at a bar called the Park Avenue Country Club – it’s just a name.
When we got to the bar, we noticed that it was pretty much empty. And instead of having beer for dinner, we went over to a bar called McCormack’s for food and drinks, before planning on returning to the Park Avenue bar later.
I ate calamari and Shepherd’s Pie and a downed a couple of beers while watching Curt Schilling give the Yankees a sizeable lead and talking with my friend Steve. I told him the story I just told you – about the suspect comment, about the word “crippled,” about where I was the last time these two teams met in the postseason. We finished eating.
We were walking the few blocks to the first bar. In our way, on a corner with no streetlights, stood a shadowy man in a dark, dark outfit. We were walking pretty briskly, not to miss any more of the game than we’d have to. When the looming figure said, “Excuse me,” I kept on walking – I’m a humanitarian, but I don’t stop at night for any stranger, least of all when there’s postseason baseball being played.
Steve stopped. The man, whose dark outfit, under closer inspection, was a suit, asked me about my rush and I said it was baseball. He said not to worry, that he wanted to watch the game, too, but he couldn’t get off work – he was working – until he met his quota for donations.
So Steve asked, “What are you collecting for?”
And the man said, “Crippled veterans.”
And Steve asked, “How much do you need?”
“Ten dollars.”
Steve said, “Here’s twenty.”
Now, I’m not going on the record saying Steve ended up winning the World Series for the Red Sox. Clutch hitting and a bloody sock did that, helped along by a massive Yankee choke.
But, c’mon. What the hell was that?
Really.
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