Hey, you. Yeah. You – the chick with “COWBOY UP!!” written in her instant messenger profile in the blue and red font. The closest you’ve ever come to baseball was last week when you got to second base in JQA with that kid with clammy hands. Many people are going to be upset with you and other bandwagon jumpers this week, but not me. Welcome aboard, baby, and join me on the play-off train.
Whether you saw Games 3 and 4 at Fenway Park for free with a girl on your shoulders (like I did), or you watched them on TV to get close-ups of Johnny Damon, it no longer matters. You could be anywhere in the world right now, but you’re right here with me … and I appreciate that. You see, I was actually like you once.
I hated baseball when I was little. At age seven, my dad brought me to my first Red Sox game on Father’s day. To thank him, I fell asleep by the third inning, on his shoulders, and my Bubblicious ended up causing that bald spot on his head that never really grew back (Happy Father’s Day, Dad). My favorite parts of the day, which of course had absolutely nothing to do with the game itself, were “the weird man with green hair” in front of us on the T and the look on my dad’s face when I said that out loud. It was a great day with my favorite guy on the planet, but I probably would’ve been just as happy chilling in my sandbox. For years, my apathy toward the sport persisted … until three seasons ago.
Now, not only am I a lifetime member of Red Sox nation, I’m also a client. So here’s what I, and 10,000 of my closest friends here at the University of Massachusetts, love about the Red Sox:
– Like me in competition against any guy who can play guitar in a “chicks wanting us” contest, the Sox are always an underdog.
– My Remdawg pin – that I’ll be wearing all week. If you see me, rub it for good luck. It’s on my pants.
– Watching Manny play left field like the overweight kid in Little League with ADD.
– My beloved Souvenir Sluts (Jen, Kate, Lindsey, Moe, Rachel and Toni).
– Watching Pedro Martinez in the dugout when he’s not pitching -both with and without a headband.
– The ambiguously gay duo of Tim Wakefield and Doug Mirabelli. I’d like to see their lives taped and made into a reality show, with every aspect of daily life driven by Tim giving and Doug receiving. I see it now. Grocery shopping: Wakefield picks up the Chef Boyardee and throws it into the shopping cart pushed by Mirabelli. Household chores: Timmy sweeps and Doug holds the dustpan. They hardly need to speak, because they use signs for everything. And every episode ends with, “Night Timmy.” “Night Doug.” Lights out, cue music (“Somewhere Out There” from that Feivel movie), with each hopelessly staring at the ceiling wondering when the other’s going to make the first move.
– David Ortiz’s homerun swing, where he whips the bat around his head like a lasso.
– Triple-fisting $5.00 Miller Lights.
– My roommate John’s play-off beard.
– My autographed Marty Barrett card.
– People at Fenway waving at the jumbotron when they see they’re on TV, instead of at the actual camera.
– That I thought Trot Nixon was black for about two years. The only more extreme case of this was in 1996 when I found out that Bing Crosby was the whitest man to ever exist. Honorable mention goes to the lead singer of Blessed Union of Souls.
– That they’re not the (expletive)-ing Yankees.
– The owner of the Red Sox can’t be seen in cheesy Visa commercials … with a player who once dated Mariah Carey.
– Hugging and high-fiving random fat people at Fenway, without caring what STD’s you might pick up, because Billy Mueller just hit a home run.
– COWBOY UP.
– Knowing that putting on your beat-up, sweat-stained, broken-brimmed Red Sox hat can make you friends no matter where you go … even New York.
That about does it … except maybe: when 1918 becomes nothing more than a number that Roger Clemens can’t count up to.
