World Series

I realized the importance of this event in the lobby of the Holiday Inn at 9:30pm on Saturday. The short man of Middle Eastern descent behind the counter smirked as I spoke. His thick, black eyebrows jumped up and down on his forehead.
“Sir, we have been booked solid for three days,” he said, with a thick accent.
“Well, is there anywhere that will have rooms?” I asked.
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight.”
“Not this close to the city.” There was the smirk again.
At the nearby Comfort Inn, the Days Inn and the Rodeo Inn we got the same response. It became obvious why tickets sold on e-bay for 3,500 dollars a pair. Settling for an overpriced single at the Hampton Inn, 45 minutes from the city, I cursed myself for not expecting this. It’s not every weekend that the Red Sox, after the most amazing American League Championship comeback in history, return to Fenway Park to play St. Louis in game one and two of the World Series.
By 11 o’clock I was driving with my girlfriend Hilary across the bridge into Boston; swerving through a throng of SUV’s. We hoped to catch the last few innings over a pint but traffic crawled like ants crawling to the nest. A Ford Excursion cut me off in typical Boston style. Who could blame him? Boston was electric with a passion comparable to how one imagines Berlin in the last few months of the ‘80’s. Alive with the kind of unified public support, achieved without force, that presidents, prime ministers, revolutionaries and priest alike anguish over how to create.
By midnight we were at the door of a pub named Trinity. As I gave the bouncer my five dollar cover charge there was a roaring cheer from inside. Boston had just won 11 – 9. The screams echoed off Trinity’s red brick walls and thundered into the streets. Blue and red Boston caps flew into the air. Girls in tight, red, Manny Ramirez t-shirts jumped into the arms of tall guys hollering to each other in thick Boston accents. One stumbling guy, with drink stains on his chest, started to chant: “Let’s go Red Sox!” The whole bar joined in: 50 fans screaming in unison with the passion of soldiers parading before battle.
I must confess; I’ve never been the biggest baseball fan. I’ll catch the last few post season games, but I wouldn’t miss dinner over them. Sipping my first beer at the bar, I felt out of place. I wished I could join the excitement, but was thinking about what I could have done with the 3,500 dollars from my tickets.
We spilled into the streets. Hilary and I followed her short, Bostonian friend Claudia, black hair drooping into her eyes, from bar to bar. It’s rare to see such a range of drunken men together in the road; aging from 20 to 55, financial consultants and plumber’s assistants. It was a craziness that with the defeat of the Yankees only days ago had lead to a police officer killing an Emerson College Student with a tear gas projectile.
The city buildings were draped in signs featuring slogans like ‘Keep the faith,’ ‘Go Sox,’ and ‘This is our year.”
“These people love their baseball,” I said.
Claudia snapped her head and looked me in the eye.
“They’re our boys,” she said with absolute sincerity.
Underdogs are always so passionate.
It’s hard to comprehend the commitment to unity a long suffering group of people can have. Imagine the devotion of 3rd century Christian martyrs in the face of Roman persecution, or the passion of the Islamic fundamentalist’s who hijacked four American Airlines flights in September of 2001. Living in the world of oil based central heating, ABC’s ‘Extreme Makeover’ and humanity’s first obesity epidemic, it can be hard to relate.
Hilary and I spent Sunday morning roaming through the city. The sky was bleak and it drizzled. Boston glowed in the streets.
A man in a grey suit and tie give a valet with a Red Sox t-shirt a hi-five as they exchanged keys to his Porsche. Gaelic music played in an upscale Irish pub called Solas while a couple in Polo dress shirts discussed the odds on tonight’s game over clam chowder. A crowd gathered in the Bean Town Pub to watch the Patriots game, sitting under the low cedar roof a large man with a “Yankee Hater” t-shirt huddled over a lightening pint glasses.
I was getting excited. In my pocket were tickets for seats five and six of section 27. Hilary bought me a Boston hat. I wore it into the street and blended with the crowd.
Two hours before the game we stopped at a hole in the wall bar named PJ Kilroys. There was no door and the dim lights did little against the dark walls. The air smelled of cigarettes and stale beer. I sat at the counter and ordered two beers.
This was the place to be: Wall to wall neon signs for ‘Miller Lite’ and ‘The King of Beers”, AC/DC was scratched into the bar top, ‘Big Buck Hunter’ the video game was idle in the corner, and the almost all male crowd knew each other by name. I was glad for my hat.
I asked a thin guy with a black eye what his prediction was.
“We’ll win.” He said. “I skipped a trip to Florida for this. We’ll win.”
A man in his ‘50’s with a large family party bought Hilary and me a round of beers and tipped the waitress heavily.
“Keep the faith,” he boomed with a loud Boston accent. We toasted to the word ‘victory.’
At seven, we made it to the game. I cheered until I couldn’t anymore. Boston won 6-2 easily, and we paid $5.50 a beer.
On the subway back to the hotel people slept with ‘Sox’ hats over their eyes. Two women discussed game three in St. Louis.
“I’ll use my mortgage money to get to St. Louis,” one said.
Pulling from the station a group of girls in the back carriage began to chant: “Let’s go Red Sox.” There was a stir through the people, as if the whole train was about to scream out in unison. It didn’t happen. If it had though, I would have undoubtedly joined the celebration.