My Father’s Red Sox
When I was eight years old my dad took me to my first Boston Red Sox game. It was a bone chilling night on October 24th, 2004, but we didn’t feel the cold at all.
It was Game 4 of the World Series, the Boston Red Sox vs the St. Louis Cardinals. The Sox hadn’t been to the World Series in 86 years. Dad said it was called “The Curse of the Bambino”. It started when the Red Sox traded Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees in 1918.
My dad had saved up his entire life so that he could be at a World Series Game.
Now here he was, at an elimination game, that would make the Boston Red Sox World Champions.
Walking into Fenway Park was a thrilling experience. Bostonians flew through the stadium, like they were running to first base. Buying everything they could get their hands on so that they owned a piece of history. My dad grabbed my hand and hustled me through the crowd. The smell of buttered popcorn wafted up my nose. We went down the steps into the fourth row directly across from third base. Those were the closest seats my dad ever had; I’d never seen him so happy.
The next thing I remembered was the bottom of the ninth.
The score was 3-3 with two out.
Then the music came on; Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Johnny Damon took a final swing of the bat and started walking up to the plate.
He raised his hand to the umpire to signal timeout. He then tapped his bat on both of his feet and dug his cleats into the tattered batter’s box.
There was an eerie hush in the stadium. The calm before the storm of mass disappointment or euphoria. 40,000 people standing, anticipating the importance of each pitch.
My dad held me in his arms so I could get a good view. “This is it” he said. “The end of the season.”
The Cardinals pitcher dug into the mound stared at Damon and readied himself. He drew his leg up, brought his arms down and threw a heat seeking fastball.
WHIZZ…. CRACK!!
The bat collided with the ball and launched itself into the chilled dark sky, going, going, GONE! over the 100ft green monster. The crowd erupted; joyous screams flew up into the night sky.
I looked to my left and saw my dad cry.
He had waited his whole life for this moment.
I felt so lucky that I got to share it with him.
He then looked at me and busted into that trademark wide grin, hoisting me over his shoulders.
As Johnny Damon rounded third base he glanced into the crowd and pointed right at my beaming face.
“That was for you kid” he said.
But it wasn’t for me.
It was for my dad.
Damon jogged to home plate, which was crowded by his teammates and jumped into the circle of Champions. The curse of the Bambino had been lifted.
My dad then lowered me until I was eye level with him. The sound of the crowd was louder than anything I had ever heard before. I could barely hear my dad as he shouted into my ear, “This is the memory I want you to always have of me, this moment with you.”
This is a memory we would have forever.
But forever never came.
October 25th, 2005.
The Sox lost 100 games that year. I thought it’d kill him before the cancer. It came fast and out of left field.
He was dying.
His energy waned but his spirit was never stronger. I could feel it.
It was just my dad and I in that room. He held out his hand and I grabbed it. Instinctively, I thought of that cold October night where we watched our team, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.
It was the final moment I knew I had with my loving dad.
