the boys of October
The baseball playoffs are underway, and we aren't really rooting for any of the teams that are left. My friend over at Chris Sabo's Goggles is exponentially more upset than I am, but at least he doesn't have to worry about facing the Yankees anymore.
Being a Red Sox fan in Yankee territory is made worse considering that we didn't see the majority of these Yankee fans, say, 14 months ago. And when they're Giants fans as well, we envy the people who live several area codes away from the closest major sports team's stadium.
Our favorite local Irish tavern has become the football-watching headquarters of choice for my football-watching friends, each of whom support a different non-local team. People assume that my lovely wife and I are Patriots fans, which we're not, really, unless they're playing a team with a quarterback named Manning, or if they're playing the Giants or the Bears.
That's the thing -- our disdain of a football team is usually dictated by their fans. In Chicago, for example, everyone's a Bears fan as soon as it's clear the Cubs will stink it up again, which usually kicks in around the 4th of July. These are the type of people you've seen parodied with pinpoint accuracy on Saturday Night Live once upon a time, the kind of people who get excited about their team's success during pre-season, when the games don't count and their favorite players risk being injured for the season. Giants or Jets fans are just plain annoying.
So Sunday football gives me a reason to hang out with friends and drink (as if I need an excuse to drink). Because I've spent the majority of my happy hours at this particular place, I've gotten to know a few of the regulars, who know full well my baseball allegiance. It's always interesting for me to learn why they've picked a particular team to follow, if it's not one of the local teams. It was the same thing in Chicagoland; if they were in their early 20s and Yankee fans, it was because their first exposure to baseball was Derek Jeter (read: fairweather fan). But if they were Yankee fans closer to my age, and had lived in the Chicago area all their lives, I needed to know why. The best answer: "Dave Winfield and Don Mattingly." "You're excused," I said.
With the Red Sox plagued by injuries this year, they had to resort to using minor leaguers and a bunch of guys they found hanging around Sullivan Tire to field a team most games. And despite that deficiency, they did a hell of a job keeping pace with the rest of the AL East. So much so that when we made our annual trip to Fenway this year with my in-laws, with maybe ten games left to play in the season, they were still in contention for the playoffs. As has become custom, we made a day and a half of it, Pricelining a hotel a T-stop or so away from the park, meeting the in-laws at the Cask & Flagon, and enjoying a game in a place where every seat is a good seat (as long as you're not in the blazing sun or facing away from the action). Thus far, my lovely wife has yet to see the Red Sox lose, nor has she ever seen a game that didn't matter. This was a good one, Jon Lester shutting out the Blue Jays in a pretty fast outing. We even got to see the Fairfield CT Little League team (this year's New England champions in that World Series) get recognized in front of the Green Monster.
As an added bonus, we've found a bar near Fenway that's just a short walk past the Yawkey logjam, that doesn't get as crowded as the other cash cows in the area. This year we were rewarded two-fold: not only did they have a working pinball machine, but it was a Sopranos pinball machine, which we hadn't played since before we'd become acquainted with the show and could understand all the references.
So we feel the answer is simple if the Red Sox want to win a pennant next year. They need to give us a stipend so my wife can see every game; a hotel room would be nice too. We can take the money we've saved on tickets and lodging and use it on the pinball machine.
Being a Red Sox fan in Yankee territory is made worse considering that we didn't see the majority of these Yankee fans, say, 14 months ago. And when they're Giants fans as well, we envy the people who live several area codes away from the closest major sports team's stadium.
Our favorite local Irish tavern has become the football-watching headquarters of choice for my football-watching friends, each of whom support a different non-local team. People assume that my lovely wife and I are Patriots fans, which we're not, really, unless they're playing a team with a quarterback named Manning, or if they're playing the Giants or the Bears.
That's the thing -- our disdain of a football team is usually dictated by their fans. In Chicago, for example, everyone's a Bears fan as soon as it's clear the Cubs will stink it up again, which usually kicks in around the 4th of July. These are the type of people you've seen parodied with pinpoint accuracy on Saturday Night Live once upon a time, the kind of people who get excited about their team's success during pre-season, when the games don't count and their favorite players risk being injured for the season. Giants or Jets fans are just plain annoying.
So Sunday football gives me a reason to hang out with friends and drink (as if I need an excuse to drink). Because I've spent the majority of my happy hours at this particular place, I've gotten to know a few of the regulars, who know full well my baseball allegiance. It's always interesting for me to learn why they've picked a particular team to follow, if it's not one of the local teams. It was the same thing in Chicagoland; if they were in their early 20s and Yankee fans, it was because their first exposure to baseball was Derek Jeter (read: fairweather fan). But if they were Yankee fans closer to my age, and had lived in the Chicago area all their lives, I needed to know why. The best answer: "Dave Winfield and Don Mattingly." "You're excused," I said.
With the Red Sox plagued by injuries this year, they had to resort to using minor leaguers and a bunch of guys they found hanging around Sullivan Tire to field a team most games. And despite that deficiency, they did a hell of a job keeping pace with the rest of the AL East. So much so that when we made our annual trip to Fenway this year with my in-laws, with maybe ten games left to play in the season, they were still in contention for the playoffs. As has become custom, we made a day and a half of it, Pricelining a hotel a T-stop or so away from the park, meeting the in-laws at the Cask & Flagon, and enjoying a game in a place where every seat is a good seat (as long as you're not in the blazing sun or facing away from the action). Thus far, my lovely wife has yet to see the Red Sox lose, nor has she ever seen a game that didn't matter. This was a good one, Jon Lester shutting out the Blue Jays in a pretty fast outing. We even got to see the Fairfield CT Little League team (this year's New England champions in that World Series) get recognized in front of the Green Monster.
As an added bonus, we've found a bar near Fenway that's just a short walk past the Yawkey logjam, that doesn't get as crowded as the other cash cows in the area. This year we were rewarded two-fold: not only did they have a working pinball machine, but it was a Sopranos pinball machine, which we hadn't played since before we'd become acquainted with the show and could understand all the references.
So we feel the answer is simple if the Red Sox want to win a pennant next year. They need to give us a stipend so my wife can see every game; a hotel room would be nice too. We can take the money we've saved on tickets and lodging and use it on the pinball machine.