Anybody But the Yankees
A couple of weeks ago, when it was clear the Boston Red Sox were in such disarray that even a bridesmaid wild card berth wasn’t in the cards, my son Booker, like me a dedicated Sox fan, said he hoped the team lost every remaining game so they’d receive a higher draft pick next year. A 30-year-old who whooped with glee when Boston won the Series in 2004, Booker’s more practical than me. As the season wound down, I continued to report to our sunroom, switched on NESN, and followed almost every pitch, if only to root for the team’s young players and listen to Kevin Youkilis (who, to his credit, said the Sox’s performance this year was “unacceptable”) talk about chili dogs, margaritas, chicken wings and make fun of his “dad body.”
Last Sunday was the end of the regular season—all games started at 3:10—and I looked forward to Quinn Priester making his first start for the Sox (Boston won, 3-1, and avoided the ignominy of another last-place finish, winding up at 81-81, ahead of the Rays and Jays) and hearing the NESN crew ruefully recap the woeful defense all year, the shattered bullpen and streaky offense. Not news, but still there’s an intangible, to me at least, attraction in winding up the season and converting to Anybody But The Yankees mode. I like hearing the broadcasters pointing out the NESN cameramen and tech assistants, everybody all smiles, and saying “See you next year at Spring Training.” I don’t have much faith that Sox owner John Henry will retreat from his skinflint blueprint—taking lessons from the Pittsburgh Pirates—but maybe he’ll be persuaded to go all out and sign free agent Juan Soto (at the least, I hope Soto leaves the Yanks for the Mets), trade for two solid starting pitchers, and hire a new medical staff.
It reminds me of the 1970s, when, as a college student after the first semester’s final exam, I’d shake hands with buddies, hug or kiss gal pals, knowing I wouldn’t see any of them until the end of January, an eternity when you’re 18 or 19. Johns Hopkins, in addition to Christmas break, had an “Intersession” program, where students (grinds) could take an extra class or enjoy a “gap month.” My release from school in 1973 was on Christmas Eve—drew a short straw there—and Peter MacGuire gave me a lift to my mom’s home outside of Trenton. I was wary since at Thanksgiving I’d cracked up the Dodge sedan after drinking too many beers at a bar in Princeton, but a car’s just a car, and we had a swell time together before I left for a several-weeks trip to San Francisco and Los Angeles.
The next year, I went to Mexico City during Intersession, accompanied by Texan friends Mark and Jerry, and went nuts at the bullfights, behaving like soused gringos, rebuffing the hookers (after thinking about it) that lined up near our $2-a-night “hotel,” and, unlike my companions, didn’t get sick once. The story I wrote for the Hopkins News-Letter once publication resumed was called “Sara and the Aristocrat,” and to this day I don’t get the headline. No one else at the paper did either, but cripes, if wanton self-indulgence plagues almost all writers, better it’s in college than a more serious venue.
[Intermission: At one time, newspapers issued presidential endorsements shortly before the election. But The New York Times, whose news/opinion section is embarrassing window-dressing for its profitable digital “extras,” is out of ideas, and last Monday gave the grave nod to Kamala Harris, repeating the by-now-farcical claim that Trump would be a dictator. Never mind that creeps like John Kerry, bug-eyed, Dancing Machine Tim Walz and Hillary Clinton are openly calling for suppression of free speech; J6 is all that matters. “Kamala Harris is the only patriotic choice for president,” the editorial lectured. At the risk of coming off as a pill, but does the Times editorial board believe that anyone who votes for Trump, or doesn’t vote, isn’t a patriot? Usually, the Times propaganda doesn’t get under my skin, but this “patriotism” baloney was repulsive.]
I lucked out on Tuesday when a business associate of Booker invited us to the Orioles/Royals playoff game at Camden Yards, in an executive suite behind home plate no less. It was a riveting pitcher’s duel, Kansas City’s Cole Ragans besting the O’s Corbin Burnes 1-0. As noted above, I’ll root for any team that can vanquish the Yankees, but the cold bats of these two teams don’t give me much confidence that they’ll be up to the task. Maybe the Guardians, Crazy Tigers or the Mets. Booker and I had a terrific time, gabbing about baseball, mostly. I hate “classic” rock playing at ballgames, and told him I wished it was just organ music between innings. He said, as the Beastie Boys’ “Fight For Your Right” filleted my ears, “Dad, this song is almost 40 years old.” I gave him a grudging touché, and then asked if he wanted a “red hot.”
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023