I have always enjoyed baseball. In the backyard of my childhood, the sandbox was first base, the tree was second, and the fence gate was third. In my infinite pre-teen wisdom, the back of my house was the outfield. It goes without saying that homeruns were terribly unpopular with my parents.
I remember sitting on the floor in my grandparents’ living room watching the Boston Red Sox in the World Series. My Bostonian grandfather mumbled something about this being The Year. I did not understand the significance until thirteen years later when I joined the die hard sect of Red Sox fans.
This spring, it looked like a chance at The Year had come again. The best record in baseball, a Derek Lowe no-hitter… Everything was goodness and light. Then, the All-Star break happened with its incredibly moving Ted Williams memorial ceremony, and things went downhill from there.
In mid-August a strike date was set for Aug. 30. Mets catcher Mike Piazza said that the players were baseball. I was appalled. Baseball existed before you, it exists now, and it will exist long after you are gone, Mike Piazza. New Yorkers. Gee whiz.
As the strike date drew near, the magical aura around Sox manager Grady Little faded. Nomar seemed to error every play. Every guy on the roster was either hurt or inexplicably slumping. At the same time, Red Sox team representative for the players’ union and center fielder Johnny Damon was on TV every night saying everything would be fine. I grumbled, and began to formulate a letter.
Dear Johnny, I began. I pressed delete. Dear Mr. Damon. Now he will know I am serious. Dear Mr. Damon, I hope you jerks do go on strike so I don’t have to watch you bums lose the rest of the season. Sincerely, your biggest fan, Elise.
My letter took many forms over the next few days. I never sent it, however, and soon Aug. 30 came and went, and there was no strike. And that night, the Red Sox won. They kicked Cleveland’s butt.
I wish though, that I had sent the letter. Mr. Damon could have read it, shared it with the team, and kept the momentum going after that win over Cleveland. But I did not, and likely the Red Sox will finish 90 games out of first place, and I will be sitting there with the rest of the die hards with tears in my beer crying, “Wait till next year!”
If you take anything away from this, I hope it is that you do send your letters when we make you mad. I hope you hit ‘send’ on the e-mail or ‘submit’ on the online form. I hope you stick that stamp or drop that letter in intercampus mail. It would be a shame for us here at The Free Press to never know, to never get the kick in the butt, or the World Series ring. Don’t wait till next year, and let the cycle begin again. This will be The Year.