Opening the Gift

In case you couldn't tell from the agonized throes of my last post, my least-favorite four-letter word is "wait".

One wonders how I ever survived being a Red Sox fan in the first place.

If I were sage and wise, I could say, "We waited 86 years. What's a few more hours?" Unfortunately, I am rather more impatient and foolhardy.

I got to hear some description yesterday of the opening ceremony, and heard some of the game, and when I was finally on my way home late last night after I was FINALLY (oh yes, pity me), FINALLY done working, I thought, "You know...maybe I'll watch it tomorrow."

Unfortunately, I was listening to Ted Serandis at the time, and people kept calling in to talk about their favorite parts of the ceremony, and after a while, it was like a big blockbuster movie you haven't gotten to see yet, and the longer you go without getting to see it, the more everyone keeps ruining it for you. By the time I got home, I put the tape in with grim determination and sat down to watch at least the ring ceremony.

I expected to cry. I did develop a lump in my throat that felt like my esophagus and windpipe were tied in a knot in there. My eyes did fill several times. But I think after crying before Heather's wedding, crying during Heather's wedding, crying during Heather's first dance with her new husband, crying during her dance with her father, crying after her wedding, crying when we left and crying Sunday night because I was so freakin' tired and how was I going to go to work yesterday, I may have been all cried out.

Some favorite moments:

The veterans walking with the rings across the field to James Taylor's gentle crooning of "America the Beautiful". I'm not normally a fan of James Taylor (and when the hell are they actually going to get Neil Diamond's ass over there to sing "Sweet Caroline" live? Please, for the love of God, before I die would be nice.), but for that particular moment the gentleness of his rendition was perfect, for the soft sunshine, for the majestic sight of camel-color desert-combat boots softly treading the outfield grass, for the roar of "USA! USA!" that blended into "Let's go Red Sox!" in a way that was movingly similar, the love of home, the love of country, the love of the men who serve us in uniform--in both kinds of uniform.

Johnny Pesky. Has there ever been anything more moving than Johnny Pesky standing on that red carpet, doffing his cap at the top step of the dugout? Right then, that man was not only legendary in himself but embodying, channeling every departed Red Sox in attendance. He was the avatar for all that had gone before, and okay, when I saw him, I might have let out a sob or two.

I loved the way Johnny Pesky walked down the line of players, saying something to each one of them. I loved the way he said, tenderly, "Okay, Mark." when he saw Bellhorn, and  Bellhorn enveloped him in the warmest hug. I loved the way he slapped Curt Leskanic on the arm and said gruffly, affectionately, "Leskanic, you son of a bitch."

I loved when Tedy Bruschi showed up to throw out the first pitch, looking somewhat enfeebled but otherwise still strapping and strong in his Francona jersey.

I hate to say it, but it was nice to have the Yankees there. It wouldn't have been right with anyone else, not just because we finally beat them, but because they're so connected with us. At the very beginning of last season, I wrote:

So when the Yankees come to town, boo and spit and curse as usual. Flip a few birds and chant "BAL-CO" when Giambi steps to the plate. But when you do it, know that it's because the New York Yankees are less our archenemies than our evil twin brothers. Because we hold one another up with all our venom even as we weigh each other down. Because together we form yin and yang and that's something beautiful, win or lose.

Because every story of enemies is also, at its root, a love story.

Yesterday, as I watched them stand in the dugout and politely applaud the ceremonies, for me, it was like an older brother that beat the crap out of us growing up now quietly standing and cheering for us at high school graduation.

But my ultimate favorite moment, at least aside from the ring ceremony, which I'll get to momentarily, was when Mariano Rivera was introduced. Every other Yankee from the massage therapist to Randy Johnson had been roundly booed, but as the PA announcer echoed, "Pitcher. Number forty-two. Mariano. Rivera," the boos faded, there was quiet, and then a cheer rose from the Fenway faithful, a good-natured, if sarcastic, appreciation for all the times he's blown it against our team. It might have been nasty, but it wasn't--it was truly a feel-good moment, and Rivera grinned and grinned, laughing back at the crowd. Even Randy Johnson cracked a smile.

Steve and I rewound the tape and watched that one part over and over. Something about it filled me to bursting with the warm fuzzies. I think it was that right then, as in many instances, Fenway seemed to work with one mind--all 35,000+ made the same joke at the same time. All 35,000+ were in direct and intimate--dare I say affectionate?--communication with one of the individuals on the field. And for a sweet few seconds, he smiled back.

Comments

[Iain]

Yes, yes, yes and yes. Respect to Mo and to our pinstriped, evil twin brothers.

[Boston Fan in Michigan]

//all 35,000+ made the same joke at the same time.//

Ah, there are the words. Thanks for finding 'em. :)

[SF]

Great post.