Being a Red Sox Fan
Imagine fishing a bass tournament during which you hook numerous 10 lb bass only to lose each one just before you can reach it with the net or haul it over the side of the boat. Or imagine that you are on the fly fishing trip of a lifetime. You have been planning the trip and saving the money for it the last 10 years. Everything has gone as planned right up until you begin to take your first cast. The scenery is gorgeous. The weather couldn’t be more perfect. Huge trout are rising to everything that floats by, even blades of grass and whole tree leaves. You really want to catch one. Just one for a quick photo. Please. On each cast a fish rises to the fly, and you proceed to lose each one in progressively more imaginative ways. The first simply breaks the tippet. The next straightens the hook. You take a deep breath, check your tippet, sharpen your hook, loosen the drag on your reel, and prepare for another cast. The third fish breaks off when your fly line catches on a button on your shirt during the fight, causing the drag not to slip. You strip down to boxers and prepare for another cast. The fourth fish jumps clear of the water, is grabbed by an eagle which then breaks your tippet by snagging it on a tree limb over your head as you watch it fly off, dumbfounded.
Or maybe you’re one of those fellows who has supposedly “evolved” in his/her sportsmanship to the point that you no can no longer bear to hook a fish at all. You live simply for the take. Well, imagine yourself in the same situation as the angler above, except you’re never able to get a rise from a trout at all. Every cast results in arrogant and discourteous refusals by multiple trout. You try every fly and every leader combination imagineable to no avail. Eventually you remove your wading boot and angrily project it toward a nearby trout, which promptly engulfs it. You get the picture.
That’s about what it’s like being a fan of the Boston Red Sox. The Red Sox have a special way of elevating your hopes only to then dash them in a most horrific and unbelieveable manner. They do this repeatedly for decades, and then suddenly, you are granted a few moments of such sublime baseball perfection that you begin to wonder, “Was it really all that bad before?” Within moments, it seems, the answer comes back, “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! It was all that bad and worse!”
The examples of greatness since 1918 are numerous: Ted Williams’ swing, Carlton Fisk’s home run, most of the 1986 post season, the brave comeback after the Boston Massacre of 1978, Dave Roberts’ stolen base, Big Papi’s many game-ending hits, Curt Schilling’s bloody sock, Pedro’s fastball. The 2004 post season was the greatest experience of my career as a baseball fan. Nothing could have been better than beating the Yankees after being down 3-0. After the World Series, the world was bathed in a surreal light. The present and future were ripe with promise. Charlie Brown really could kick the football. The rabbit really would get a bowlful of Trix.
Alas, it was but a momentary lapse. Some days I’m not even sure it happened, just like that one fishing trip every decade or so where everything comes together. You feel like a prodigy. Every cast is perfect. The fish are plentiful, but not easy. You’re just that good. The weather showers you with kindness. You always choose the right lure or fly. Looking back on trips like that, you have to ask if you’re memory is deceiving you. That’s how it’s been since 2004. During one stretch this season, the Red Sox played the most perfect baseball I’ve ever witnessed. They fielded with superhuman grace, the pitching was nigh unhittable, and the hitting was even better than normal. They won something like 21 of 23 games during this stretch. I don’t know if those numbers are right, but they’re close (lazy journalism I know, but this is more of a rant than real journalism). It was amazing. Finally, I thought, it’s our turn. We’re starting our own dynasty this time. It’s the Yankees’ turn to languish in mediocrity, always finding a way to lose in the end.
That little fantasy came crashing down two weekends ago at Fenway Park. During Boston Massacre II, the Sox were drubbed by the Yankees like nothing I’ve ever witnessed. The Yanks swept the 5-game series in humiliating fashion to effectively eliminate the Sox from post season contention, barring a collapse by both the Twins and White Sox or by the Yankees. Unlikely.
The funny thing is that I’m not too upset. It feels like home actually. I mean if the Red Sox became a perennial power house, then what would I complain about? The fishing? Oh, who am I fooling? Of course I’m upset! I’m so tired of the freaking Yankees! Some day….some day the Sox will rule, Charles will kick that football, and all the losers of the world will rejoice. Until then, at least there is hope that Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera will retire at some point. And don’t get me started about Johnny bleeping Damon…
Anyway, being a Red Sox fan lends a unique perspective to fishing. You realize that no matter how good things seem, disaster is, in all probability, just around the corner. There are at least a couple ways you can look at this. Either the Red Sox fisherman is better prepared for disappointment or he’s terribly gloomy. You’ll get comments like, “Sure, we’re catching 20 inch rainbows on these royal wulffs on pretty much every cast, but all that means is that everyone else is catching 30 inchers on every cast.” Or, “That lake over there looks to be full of bass, but I’m sure the truck will break down before we get there.” Disturbingly, these depressing predictions come true more often than not, lending credibility to the theory that Red Sox fans are cursed and not the team. Keep this in mind when choosing a fishing partner. My partners have suffered greatly. But every hundred years or so, they get to experience perfection. Tough choice.
By the way, if you’re wondering how a boy from North Alabama becomes a Red Sox fan, well, that’s a long story. Before the Braves moved to Atlanta, most everyone down this way was a Cardinals, Cubs, Yankees or Red Sox fan. At least that’s the way I’ve heard it. It didn’t really matter which team you chose. Just which ever team had the players you liked. My grandfather was born in 1918, the last time the Sox won the series before 2004. So he became a Red Sox fan. He passed on his love for the team to his sons. They all became Sox fans, and big fans of Ted Williams. To this day, one of my uncles is still a huge Boston fan. The others have mostly become Braves fans. I was a Braves fan as a child, mainly because most of my friends were. Interestingly, the first baseball I remember watching was of the 1986 World Series. I was fascinated with the bad luck of the losing team. During the early 2000s, I grew more and more interested in the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry. My cousin Michael has always been a huge Sox fan, and he and I talked a lot during this time. He got me interested in Red Sox history (by the way, the book above is the absolute best Red Sox history I’ve ever read, very good read for Sox fans). I guess I “decided” to be a Red Sox fan during 2002. The way I figured it, I was destined to be a Sox fan what with my legendary bad luck and all. I got my fiance hooked on the team, and we were absolutely devastated by Aaron Boone’s home run in 2003. Don’t know why I expected anything else. But during 2004, we were blown away! I was on a solo fishing trip in the Smokies for the first three games. I became really dejected, drinking rum and cokes alone in my hotel room watching the Yanks destroy the Sox yet again. Then Dave Roberts stole second in game four and the world changed. The Sox rolled off eight straight wins and took the World Series title on my birthday, October 27. My cousin Michael was present at the final game. It was sublime. Any way, things are back to normal now.
Tags: Boston, fly fishing, Red Sox, World Series, Yankess