Yankees' bats pound Sox fan's morale

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

He says it's over. Finished. Kaput. Never again. He says he's wasted enough of his time, energy and mind rearranging his life for them, thinking about them, cheering them on and defending them.

He says not any more. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not on your life.

He says this, of course, on a Friday morning, when the Red Sox are sleeping or working out or reading self-help books - doing whatever it is they do when they're not bobbling balls, leaving the bases loaded and breaking their fans' hearts.

Later - tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, all the way through to the middle of next season - my husband, of course, will be singing a different tune. Not exactly ``You've Gotta Have Heart,'' but close. He'll be proud. He'll be optimistic. He'll be right where he always is whenever the Red Sox play: in front of some, ANY, TV anticipating a win that will make the BIG win possible.

But every year, around this time, he has a kind of breakdown. Every year after some huge and unnecessary loss - ``I can't believe they blew it in the 13th. They were one pitch away from winning. One pitch!!'' - my man, who takes pride in going with the flow and rolling with punches, becomes, well, emotional.

He wakes up one morning after the Sox have disappointed him yet again (You'd think he'd be used to this.) And who knows why it's THIS particular morning, but there he is suddenly taking the whole thing personally. He trudges downstairs. He sighs. He picks up the newspaper. He slumps in a chair. He barely touches his coffee. And I say, ``They lost again, huh?''

``Two strikes and two outs in the 13th. One pitch away. I spent four hours watching that game. How many intelligent people do you think get caught up in some sport? None. Do you think Donald Trump wastes his time on baseball? Do you think the successful people in this world are fanatic sports fans?''

I see him silently considering the treasure trove of luxuries - hotels, yachts, airplanes, his own TV show - he's forfeited because of his addiction to the Red Sox.

He shakes his head. Emotion has trumped logic.

Then it starts, his yearly mantra. ``I was born in 1946. I was born in February in New York and in July I moved to Boston within a stone's throw of Fenway Park. And in October, Johnny Pesky held the ball for a precious few seconds as Enos Slaughter made his Mad Dash and scored the winning run for the St. Louis Cardinals. And Boston lost the World Series. And so the saga began.'' (This, my friends, is verbatim. Who could make up this stuff?)

``I went to my first game when I was 5. I have spent 53 years watching the Red Sox. I've rearranged my schedule to watch them play. I've changed my flights. I've feigned illness. I've skipped weddings. Not any more.''

``You've feigned illness? You mean you weren't really sick the night we were supposed to see `The Best of Gershwin'?''

He doesn't even hear me. ``You want to know what Wally Brine (WROR's DJ) said this morning?'' Usually this question (which he never gives me a chance to answer) is followed by one of Wally's ``Men from Maine'' jokes. I don't want to hear a ``Men from Maine'' joke, but my husband is clearly disheartened, so I do a little feigning myself.

But he is still talking sports. ``Wally said in his sports report that he's not fearful anymore. That he was disappointed by the Sox last night but that this morning he feels a certain calm and that maybe this is what death is like. That he's finally realized that the Yankees are good and they're lucky and that they have a certain destiny.''

``Are the Sox playing tonight?'' I ask my one and only.

``Yes,'' he says.

``Who?''

``Atlanta.''

``What time?''

``7 o'clock.''

Never mind all he says, I know exactly where, at 7 o’clock, I will find him find him.