Chapter XXX: The Longest Time

Part 2: Losers

Chapter Thirty: The Longest Time

Thirty-year-old second baseman Jerry Remy hit zero home runs in 1983, tying him with the bat boy for fewest four-baggers in a season. Thus, Sox management fortuitously decided to make Marty Barrett the starting second baseman for the 1984 season, the season Mack Wynter never saw. Barrett's knees were four years younger than Remy's, he was a reliable contact hitter (only 25 strikeouts all year compared to 156 strikeouts by The Whiffmaster, Tony Armas), and was nearly flawless in the field. Barrett was just one of the improvements the Sox made in their quest for the elusive championship crown.

I know I'm skipping around again, but if I don't remind you about the 1984 season then nothing else will make sense. Besides, 1984 was the year Wham!, made up of Andrew Ridgely and George Michael released their moving Make it Big album. If you didn't know that already then you should stop reading right now and go buy the album and listen to it for about ten years before we can go any further. I can only do so much.

The 1984 Red Sox: With consistent hitting from Easler and All Stars Jim Rice and Tony Armas, it appeared the Red Sox had a good chance to break the sixty-six year long championship drought. Dewey had another great year again playing every game and leading the team in many hitting categories. Finally three players, Barrett, Boggs and Easler, hit over .300. Bill Buckner hit .278 with some clutch home runs. Sure he made 15 errors, but one could expect that from a 34 year old man. And when do errors ever make a difference in a game? Alas, another dismal year of pitching spelled a 86-76 finish for the Sox, 18 games behind the Tigers and one game behind the Yankees. Ugh. On September 14^th, the second week of 8^th grade, I got chased home from school by a kid wearing a “Disco Assassin” shirt, Twain, my cat, reappeared after two nights AWOL, and the Yankees beat the Sox 7-1, thus ensuring, as they had in 1980, that the Sox would not go to the playoffs.

Although 8^th grade demanded nearly all of my attention, I paid my respects as the season passed into legend. Relief pitcher Bob Stanley once again lost ten games. Without a pitcher who could close the door in the late innings, all the hitting in the world couldn't help them. The Sox needed someone like Tug McGraw to throw the Big Pitch, and I prayed they would find him.

It didn't help that Jack Morris and Kirk Gibson of the Detroit Tigers tore through the American League on their way to 104 regular season wins, a sweep of the Royals in the American League Championship and a 4 games to 1 World Series victory over Steve Garvey and the San Diego Padres. Cristo and I watched the Series on television as 8^th grade entered it's second month. Kurt was still in Pakistan, Mack was still in a box buried in the South Street Cemetery, America dominated the Summer Olympics again and the Red Sox had failed to enter the playoffs for the ninth straight season. The only thing new about the world was that Konstantin Chernenko would be the man to order the launch of Nuclear missiles on America's heartland instead of Yuri Andropov. Yippie!

In 8^th grade I started to notice the polka dot and neon fashions parading in and out of the Girl's bathroom door. I swallowed my tongue whenever I ran into Karen Simpson and got an erection approximately every fifteen seconds. Chrissy Jenkins was suddenly 100 times hotter than Cyndi Lauper and her layered neon skirts made paying attention in Geography class just about impossible. I hid behind doors to watch Rose McCorley straighten her crimped hair or re-tie the piece of mesh holding her ponytail together. The double layered party dress she wore was, I believed, the height of femininity. How could you not love someone who wore a “Wham! Rules” headband? Sadly, Darcy Devins had entered High School in 1984. I thought about how much she must have missed my warm presence in the cafeteria.

In other news, before the Halloween dance, Evan brought an enlightening magazine to school called “Pillow Talk” with explicit descriptions of step-fathers sleeping with their step-daughters and mothers who are irresistibly drawn to their second-cousins. Riveting stuff, I tell you. While reading a particularly saucy selection during Home Economics about a plumber and two horny sisters, I suddenly knew what I wanted to do with my life: Have Sex! I felt like Joseph Smith in the wilderness being handed gold tablets, except my tablets were made of glossy paper and instead of the foundations of the Mormon religion, a very lucky plumber named “Hank” was getting his pipes cleaned by “Amanda” and “Lil' Sis”. Alright, I guess it wasn't exactly like Joe Smith, but for a thirteen-year-old, it was pretty close. At least I had something to aim for once the Red Sox won the World Series.

The only question was how I would go from wearing my Ninja suit and running around town to actually going on a date with a girl and “Getting her off”. Napper Monahan bragged that he was “doing it” daily in the janitor's broom closet room, but when I asked him if he had any suggestions, he said, “Get a sex change and then become a lesbian.”

An interesting proposition, but I had no idea what he was talking about. Sex change? I didn't even change my underwear. Lesbian? Were they like the Elks club?

I'm afraid my 6^th period “Sex Education” class wasn't much help. I could learn more by reading Kelly's Frankie Goes to Hollywood T-shirts during assembly and then watching a Madonna video. The class handouts were notably inferior to Evan's “Pillow Talk” magazine. While “Pillow Talk” discussed everything I needed to know, the class treated sex like the spandex union suit delivered to the guy in The Great American Hero; there were wonderful possibilities, but the aliens had forgotten to include the directions. Seventy-year old “experts” were then required to teach what mankind had been able to figure out through trial and error and a close study of a scintillating story called “Step-mom takes a shower”. I will spare you the disturbing details of my own private trial and error, but I will say my deflowering included a torn page of “Pillow Talk”, a fake leather couch, and a jar of Crisco shortening.

Other highlights included the Red Sox acquisition of John McNamara, who replaced Ralph “Four time loser” Houk at the helm of the Sox and promised a new era of hope for 1985 even as Grandpa Ronald Reagan was reelected as president. While my brother wore out the Born in the USA album in his bedroom, Cristo and I listened to the Footloose soundtrack in the living room.

“Man, this is the best!” I said. “'Let's Hear it for the Boy' is my favorite song. What's yours?”

“'Holding Out for a Hero', of course,” said Cristo “You can't beat the scene where they play chicken on the tractors.”

“But the bad guy was stoned. That's why he lost.”

“Lori Singer's a babe times two.”

For you mathematicians, that equation would look something like this: Babe X 2 = Lori Singer. Her sexy red cowboy boots and heavy eyeliner were pure teen magic. I'm still moved to tears when she dances in the parking lot. Sarah Jessica Parker, on the other hand, reminds me of a walking Cabbage Patch Doll.

“Hey, look how hot Madonna is.”

I was referring to the “Like A Virgin” video which should have been titled, “Nothing like a Virgin”

“She's alright,” commented Cristo. “Tina Turner has better legs.”

I scoffed at this suggestion. Sure, Tina had some stems, but Madonna dripped sex. I could read 100 “Pillow Talk” magazines and not get turned on like with Madonna.

“Ya think McNamara is gonna bring home the gold? Ya Think Buckner can hit 30 home runs?”

“Definitely. This is the year, kid. Everything we've been waiting for is gonna happen this year. Then we'll be Freshman.”

“Perfect. The Sox will win and that means I can go after Darcy. She won't be able to resist me once the Sox win.”

“I couldn't resist your mom,” said Cristo as the “Relax” video by Frankie Goes To Hollywood came on.

“Have you seen this one yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. Are they saying what I think they're saying?”

“Ayup. I'm gonna tell Darcy to 'Relax, let's do it.' She's so hot. I was watching the Girls track meet the other day. Her and Rose were wearing spandex that was so tight!”

“Not as tight as your mom's Smurf. Hey, you wanna go to the mall? They have these posters of the ZZ Top girls at Spencers.”

“Naw, they probably sell those downtown at Newberrys.”

“I heard that place is closing,” said Cristo shaking his head. “All they sell is junk.”

We might have disagreed on some things, but there was no question this would be the year of the Boston Red Sox.

Did Ethiopians know it was Christmas? How was I supposed to know? All they had to do was look at the stupid calendar, and while we're on the subject, didn't they celebrate Kwanzaa in Ethiopia? As the '85 baseball season started, pop singers were claiming we were 1) the world, 2) the children, and 3) the ones to make a brighter day. That's a pretty tall order for a thirteen-year-old who wore a Red Sox bat tie and thought Prince and Madonna would make a good couple.

Whether Cristo and I were the world or not, we refused to believe we were going to enter High School with the Red Sox 18 games out of first place. There was just no way. It was our turn.

Or not.

Many questions presented themselves for the new baseball season: Would Wade Boggs be the first player to bat over .400 since 1946? Would Mike Easler repeat his excellent performance? Would Jackie Gutierrezz and Steve Lyons last in the Sox lineup? Would Ojeda manage to win more than 12 games? Would Bob Stanley lose another ten games as a reliever? Would Dwight Evans lead the team in strikeouts again? Would the New Coke formula be as satisfying as the original formula? Would William Schroeder's artificial heart last the summer? Would the new Soviet leader Mikhal Gorbachev vaporize America?

The summer was inevitably a let down as not only did Boggs not bat over .400 but he was the only starter on the Red Sox to hit over .300. The fact he hit .368 in 1985 didn't really matter when he was the only starter to hit over .300. As with Barrett, ball contact was the key to Boggs's success. He liked to wait until the last second and punch the ball through the left side of the infield with an inside-out swing. This swing didn't really work for whiffle ball, but I still found a way to fit it into my imaginary line up during summer games with JoJo, Cristo and Gordy Clutcher.

Cristo and I entered Bone Harbor Senior High School under auspicious skies. My hallway reunion with Darcy Devins did not unfold at all like I'd imagined over the summer. Where had the love gone? Then, on October 6, 1985, the final game of the season, the Red Sox lost at home to the Milwaukee Brewers 9-6. Dewey went 0-4 at the plate. This loss meant they finished the season at exactly .500, 81-81, for a fifth place finish, 18.5 games behind the Blue Jays. The next day my mother got remarried and moved to Colombia, South America.

The Toronto Blue Jays lost to the Royals in the American League Playoffs. The Royals then beat the Cardinals in the World Series. George Brett only had to wait 5 years for his ring, while Dewey had gone a decade without returning to the World Series. It was like every team except the Red Sox was regularly going to the World Series. What the hell? Why? I was wearing my Red Sox boxer shorts every day. I never took Dewey's hat off. I hadn't taken down Yaz's poster and had made room for posters of Roger Clemens and Oil Can Boyd and Dave Stapleton on my wall, which was now covered with four seasons of ballplayers like so many layers of leaves out at Ogden's Point. I did not pass in a single English 9 essay assignment without signing it “Red Sox Rule!” I hadn't relaxed for a moment in my belief that the Red Sox were winners, they were the best. So what was the problem? I had held up my end of the deal but was still ridiculed by Yankees fans. Why? Was it because Steve “Five home runs” Lyons started most of the season in centerfield? Or was it because the Sox still didn't have the solid pitching rotation they needed to beat teams like Toronto and New York? Oil Can Boyd, Bruce Hurst and Al Nipper were surviving but the Sox needed someone special. Roger Clemens went 7-5 in his second season but needed to lead the team to the next level.

Two things needed to happen for the Red Sox to win it in 1986. Roger Clemens needed to have the year of his life in '86 and the Sox needed to get a solid reliever in the bullpen. Steve Crawford and Bob Stanley just couldn't be counted on for a long year and then a post season of challenges. In November, the Red Sox took steps to make this a reality by trading Bob “9-11, 4.00 ERA” Ojeda to the New York Mets for their young reliever Calvin Schiraldi and some other prospects. I decided that if the Sox were willing to sacrifice a pitcher who had been around for five seasons then I was willing to do whatever it took to bring a World Championship to Boston. Our ultimate success would e a team effort.

We were 14 years old, with hardly a whisker on our chins, going to school with 18 year olds who grew pot in their closets and drove supercharged Cameros and Fieros. These giants kissed openly in the hallway and smoked in the parking lot outside the lunchroom. They listened to bands like Black Sabbath and thought Huey Lewis and Kenny Loggins were, “Limp dicks” while Cat Stevens's hippie, 'earth ethic' songs were unmentionably queer. I had to wear my Red Sox sweatshirt everyday if only to cover my flashy “We are the World” T-shirt.

The Patriots surprised everyone by winning a clutch game against Miami to go to Super Bowl XX. They were ultimately destroyed by the Chicago Bears but the Bears had only lost one game all year, so it was forgivable. I watched the game with Cristo as we munched on meatball subs. Cristo was also in Mr. Frost's Social Studies class when the Challenger Space Shuttle exploded on live television.

In the aftermath of watching a teacher from our own state evaporate on live television, I stood at the window overlooking the rear parking lot. Cristo was huddled in the corner with his coat over his head. Erin McCorley stood next to me.

“Are you alright, Oggy?”

I must have looked like I was in a trance because I was watching Rose, my Jr. High crush lover, walk between groups of kids eating corn chips and smoking cigarettes.

“Just look at that girl. Her ass is nicer than Sheen Eastons. What I wouldn't do to eat her Smurf.”

“Who are you talking about?” asked Erin with a frown.

I pointed at Rose. Her stylishly tight pin stripe jeans were rolled and tucked at the ankle and fit perfectly about four inches above her sneakers. Two pairs of tube socks filled the gap nicely. The shoulder pads in her leather jacket made her look like Walter Payton, but I didn't care. Her permed hair was no less than two feet above her forehead. When I read stories in “Pillow Talk” magazine, I always imagined the step-moms looking like Darcy Devins or Rose.

“That one. That doll in the leather jacket and the Duran Duran sweatshirt. Her name is Rose. She totally likes me since we met in Jr. High. I hear she runs track. I love her! She's just so fahking sexy that I can't stand it! Her tits have to be bigger than Madonna's and her ass is perfect. Erin, her ass is fahking perfect!”

I surrendered to the urge to lick and kiss the glass. Imagine my surprise when Erin said, “That's my twin sister, Oggy. Your talking about my twin sister.”

I'd not yet had the pleasure of visiting Erin's house, and was thus ignorant of his large family, including Rose McCorley, his twin sister, who, now that I knew, looked just like Erin except with breasts and a perm.

No amount of 'Spirit Week' pep rallies and Homecoming activities could distract me from the upcoming season. I wasn't even upset when Huggy didn't know who I had dressed up as on “Celebrity Dress up Day”

“Dwight Evans, of course. Why else would I have a big number twenty-four on my back?”

“But he isn't famous, Oggy. His batting average was worse than Steve Lyons's. Those bums couldn't win a championship if they were the only team in the league. Why didn't you dress up like Skip did?”

“Because I don't want to be Axl Rose. I want to be Dwight Evans. Besides, I don't have any black spandex. Look, who cares? This is almost as stupid as Backwards Day.”

“I wonder who told Cristo today was Camping Day? He came to school with a backpack and a canteen. What a dumb Greek loser. 'Look at me. I'm Cristo Patanikolous. I'm a big Greek loser who wears a backpack to school on Celebrity Day. Ooohh.'“

How could Dewey let me go through four years of high school with “Better Luck Next Year” as my motto? I wanted a world championship in 1986 or else I was going to do something drastic, like read my textbooks.

As a sophomore in High School, my star was on the rise. I had passed the stage where I spent half the day picking my books out of the toilet and drying them on a radiator. My torturous braces were about to come off to reveal a set of choppers that would've made Tom Cruise jealous. I was going to the Gym everyday to see Darcy and while I was there I figured I might as well exercise and play racquetball. This led to the unexpected development of lean muscles on my lanky frame. I had walked back and forth to school almost two hundred mornings and afternoons, and had mouthed the words to the pledge of allegiance almost as many times. That made me a patriot, right? In my freshman year I had blazed through Algebra I (Got an A), suffered through Beginning Drawing and Painting “What if I don't want to draw the still-life?” (D+), and had the unique experience of watching the Space Shuttle Challenger explode on television during the second semester of Introduction to Social Studies. “No, Ogden. Who manages the Boston Red Sox is not more important than who leads the Soviet Union .” (B). The spring arrived with every reason to believe the Sox would make a run at the title and I devoted myself to protecting my memory heavy Red Sox hat. Clemens was ready. Oil Can Boyd managed to stay out of jail. Schiraldi promised to extinguish any rally. Dewey's mustache had never looked finer.

In late April, a nuclear power plant exploded in the Ukraine, loading the jet stream with radioactive fallout. 100,000 people were expected to die. Maybe a million. In California, chemical suits sold out. People filled their bathtubs with uncontaminated water. The Sox were in the second week of their season and were only 8-8. Not another .500 year, I thought. How did Nipper pitch today? A 6-1 win over the Royals. Awesome! Uranium, Uberroth, the Ukraine, it was all the same to me. Just look at how Boggs is swinging the wood.

Three days later I came home from the railroad tracks, where I'd been fantasizing about undressing Chrissy Jenkins, and debated my Social Studies assignment: make a gas mask out of a paper bag? Not a chance. I turned on the television instead and learned, to my amazement, that Roger Clemens had just struck out Spike Owen of the Seattle Mariners for strikeout number 19. 19 strikeouts in a single game? Excuse me? There are only 27 outs in a game! Strking out 19 batters is harder for a pitcher to do than throw a perfect game. It doesn't even happen in Little League where pitcher domination is routine. I called Cristo for confirmation.

“Oggy! I've been calling you all day. He just tied the major league record for strikeouts in a game. Dewey hit a two-run shot. This is really the year. This is it!”

As Cristo spoke, Vic Voltaggio punched out the 20^th Seattle batter. Clemens had set the major league record for total domination over the other team. Cristo hollered into the phone.

“This is their year, buddy. Hey kid! This is it! You were right. This is their year!”

I was dancing on the ceiling from excitement and hormones. The clothes Chrissy and Darcy and Rose McCorley were wearing to High School gave me a 24 hour boner. Their sexy hair was either crimped like Stacey Q or else feathered a la Samantha Fox and frozen into place with shiny lacquer. Too sexy! A black leather miniskirt worn over torn fishnet stockings was my particular fashion fetish, along with the time-tested purple spandex worn under shark-attack shredded white jeans. In an attempt to keep up with the thread traditions, I wandered around Chess King at the Greenfields Mall but couldn't see myself in any of the checkered jackets or pastel turtlenecks. And wouldn't there be time enough to dress up after the Red Sox won? Sure. I preferred my nylon Red Sox warm up jacket, a sleeveless Duran Duran shirt, and my feather-soft button fly jeans. My father tried to help by giving me a skinny gray leather tie but wearing it with my short sleeve Red Sox polo shirt never elicited the desired effect from the Field Hockey team. And no one would believe me when I said I was trying to cultivate a 'George Michael' beard. Just as I got my first imitation red leather jacket with fifty zippers all over the arms, the things went out of style. Who could keep up with the changing tides of fashion? Not me. Only a month earlier it seemed Buddy had strutted around in his blood red leatherette jacket and now he wouldn't be caught dead in one.

“Hey, Michael Jackson,” He'd cry out in the crowded hallway. “Why don't you go set your hair on fire. Ha! I'm just kidding.”

Though the chances of getting Darcy to go to a Red Sox game with me dwindled every time she caught me dry humping her locker combination, I didn't even care. I didn't even care that I was not selected for Freshman Baseball at BHHS. It just meant I could dress up in my Ninja suit and stalk Chrissy Jenkins through the park or watch more Red Sox games at Fenway.

For the first time in six years I really felt that all the pieces were in place for The Big Win. Boggs was batting well again. Jim Rice was back on track. Dewey led the team with 26 home runs. Everyone seemed to be hitting well and Roger Clemens was having a year to remember. Even The Celtics tasted victory. They won a World Championship behind Bird, Parrish and McHale just before my Freshman year ended in June of '86. But the Celtics had been winning championships ever since I could remember. They were just one of those teams you could expect to win the championship or at least come close. It was no big deal. The Red Sox had been waiting since 1975 just to be in a World Series, and there weren't many people left alive who could remember their last World Championship in 1918.

After a summer where everything seemed to go right for the Sox, they clinched the division in September. For the first time since 1975 the Red Sox were the American League East Champions. Cristo and were sophomores and I was the most fanatical of Red Sox fans, determined to see the Red Sox win the World Series.

I spent three days in October camped on the street outside of Fenway Park to get tickets. Cristo came down to visit me with his parents and I could tell he was envious of my position in line. Out of about 20,000 people I was 112^th. I played whiffle ball in a nearby parking lot and ate fried chicken while I should have been going to English 10. This was living. What did school matter now that the Sox were going to win the World Series? It would be like I was part of the team and had contributed equally to their victory. I bet the teachers wouldn't even insist I turn in assignments. I would rule BHHS when the Sox won. Freshmen would bow down before my historic Red Sox jacket. My hat would be enshrined with the dusty trophies in the Athletic Department foyer with a simple plaque: “This Red Sox hat was worn Given to Ogden Bleacher by Dwight Evans with the Promise that The Red Sox would win the World Series. Dewey kept his promise on October 25^th, 1986. All hail Ogden.” Juniors and Seniors would become my best pals. Girls would line up in front of my locker to escort me to my next class nut I would keep my promise to love Darcy and Darcy only. The others would just have to suffer as I had for so many lonely years. Life would change in ways I had only dreamed about. Everything was possible.

Since I could only buy two playoff tickets, and since I was going to need a ride to the game, I decided to buy two tickets for the same game and let my dad take me. I could buy two tickets to a World Series game and watch the ALCS on television or else I could guarantee I'd see a game and buy two tickets for game one of the ALCS at Fenway Park. I decided to play it safe and get the ALCS tickets.

My father and I watched the Sox in Game One on October 7^th. Clemens got hit hard and early while the Sox bats were held to five hits in a complete game thrown by Mike Witt. The Sox lost 8-1. The next day the Sox rebounded in support of lefty Bruce Hurst and won 9-2. The Series was tied. In California, The Red Sox out hit the Angles 9-8 in Game Three despite pulling within one run in the top of the eighth inning. They lost 5-3 as former Pirates pitcher John Candelaria whipped the ball in like a sling shot, handcuffing Boggs and Buckner and Gedman. Game Four was crucial to my social status, and the behind Roger Clemens the Red Sox led the game 3-0 going into the bottom of the ninth inning. McNamara decided that Clemens could go the distance and then watched in horror as the Angles rallied for three runs to tie the game. In the bottom of the 11^th inning Schiraldi gave up the winning run and suddenly the Red Sox were down in the series three games to one, one loss from elimination and another long winter. But what about Dewey's promise? What about my dream of getting handjobs in the boys bathroom? What about my plans?

The ALCS had been a best of five series since it began in 1969 but in 1985 it was expanded to a best of seven. Otherwise the Red Sox would have been finished when Clemens and Schiraldi blew Game Four. .

64,000 fans went to Anaheim Stadium to watch their Angles clinch the American League Pennant. They had been the butt of the American League West since they had become a franchise in 1961. For twenty five years they had been waiting for anything, any ray of hope that their team could win. Now they were one victory away from going to the World Series to face either the Mets or the Houston Astros. And even if they didn't win in game five it was unlikely they would lose in game six and game seven. Cristo, me, and every other Sox fan had to hope for a miracle.

In the sixth inning of Game Five the Red Sox were clinging to a one run lead, thanks to a Rich Gedman two-run home run. Dave Henderson, the Sox center fielder who was a late inning replacement for Tony Armas, leaped up to Rob Grich of an extra base hit. Hendu caught the ball just as he slammed against the padded fence. Triumphantly, I threw my fists in the air. The inning was over! The Sox were going to...wait...the tip of Hendu's glove had slipped over the fence just as the impact forced him to let go of the ball. I watched as the lead slipped over the fence for a two-run home run. Angels 3, Sox 2. I went from ecstatic to epileptic in two seconds. Fortunately my hormones had prepared me for such wild mood swings. In Spanish I, for instance, I could go from utterly fast asleep to panting horny in under a minute. Just to make sure the Red Sox would need an incredible comeback, Bob Stanley replaced Bruce Hurst and promptly gave up two runs putting the Red Sox three runs behind with six outs left. It would take personal intervention by Jesus Christ himself for the Red Sox to win.

After a rally killing double play by Wade Boggs in the the top of the eighth inning, the Sox were suddenly down to their last three outs. Cristo and I watched from our separate living rooms as the '86 season was about to end as Bill Buckner came to the plate in the top of the Ninth inning.. I admired Buckner but there was no way he could start a three run rally after going 0-3 in the game. I watched only as a tribute to the Red Sox and the season we shared. It was my first taste of a post season and I was oddly at ease with the likely loss. There was always 1987. It had been a...wait...Buckner stroked a 2-1 single to centerfield. A thin ray of hope broke the October clouds over New England. Could it be? Dave Stapleton came in to pinch run for Buckner since no sensible manager would leave the old man on the base paths in the ninth inning of a must-win game. Naturally Jim Rice watched a called third strike for the first out of the inning. The clouds returned and a stiff wind attacked the Maple tree in our front yard. “Oh, well,” said my father. “There's always next...GET OUT!” On a 3-2 pitch Don Baylor had just slugged a two-run home run to bring the Red Sox within one run of tying the game. The October clouds parted again as my hero Dwight Evans came to the plate. This was it. This was the moment we had both been waiting for. This was when he would keep his promise made so long ago. “He's going to hit a home run, Dad. He promised he would win the World Series and here is his chance. Dewey gave me his hat and he promised.” As I cradled Dewey's hat, rethreaded, faded by sweat and tears and blood, worn, scrawled, beloved, Dewey popped out to third base for the second out. The clouds rushed into the vacuum. What about the promise? What about my hat? The Sox needed one run with the bottom of the order coming up. Rich Gedman was left in to face a lefty pitcher, Lucas, whose pitches seemed to come from first base. Gedman did not stand a chance. “Why doesn't McNamara pinch hit Marc Sullivan? Why leave a lefty to face a lefty? They'll never win.”

It was a hard lesson to learn. I knew what the right managerial move was yet could only watch as Gedman struck...wait! The clouds parted again, trembled with electricity. Gedman had been hit on the hand and awarded first base. Dave Henderson, the man who had given the Angels two runs with his catch/slam dunk came to the plate with two outs, the Red Sox down by one run and pitching ace Donnie Moore the new Angel pitcher. What did fate have in store for me? I couldn't tell anymore. Like smoke in a campfire, the future drifted in fits and starts toward an unknown destiny.

Donnie Moore clearly had Hendu fooled as he swung weakly and wildly at two offerings. Henderson, I was quick to remember, had been a member of the Seattle Mariners when only seven out of twenty seven of them didn't strike out against Roger Clemens. Don Baylor had already hit a two-run home run in the inning. Would rain finally fall on parched New England soil, could lighting strike twice?

Baseball legends are made on dark afternoons when all hope seems spent. They arise from unexpected shadows and pass into light, carried on the shoulders of little boys. The 2-2 pitch from Donnie Moore drifted low and away, at best a dribbler to first base. Dave Henderson could not hit a two out, two-run home run in the top of the ninth inning to give the Red Sox a one run lead. To ask for a home run would be youthful fancy; however, to hit a home run, would be...legendary.

Henderson leaped into the air as the ball sailed toward the left field wall. The left fielder ran back. The ball would either be caught or else clear the fence for a home run. Gedman rounded second base turning to see where the ball landed. Would the series continue or would the Sox season conclude? It was a moment as memorable as any in Red Sox history.

After Hendu's home run landed in the bleachers, the road into the future led to one clear destination: A World Series victory. All Bob Stanley had to do was get three outs in the bottom of the ninth. How hard could that be? Impossible. After giving up a lead off single and a sacrifice bunt, Stanley was replaced by Joe Sambito with a runner on second base. Could the lefty Sambito get the final two outs? Hardly. To spare Sox fans any suspense, Sambito gave up an RBI single to tie the game on his first pitch. Nice job. Steve Crawford replaced the exhausted Sambito and gave up a single to his first batter. Three Sox relievers, three singles, one run. Tie game. Season again in great jeopardy. Super job. Runners were on first and third with one out. A sacrifice fly or even a squeeze bunt would win the game and would put Baylor and Hendu's home runs permanently into the almost legendary category. Because the Angels only needed one run, Crawford intentionally walked Downing to load the bases and set up a force play at home. Crawford dug in and got DeCinces to fly out to shallow right field. Dewey's arm was already legendary so the runners had to play it safe and hold. The infield relaxed with two outs. The Angels needed a hit now but got a line drive back to Crawford who snagged it for the final out of the inning. Both teams went quietly in the tenth inning. Don Baylor was hit by a pitch to start the top of the 11^th inning. Would Dewey sacrifice bunt to keep his promise? No. Instead he stroked a single to center field sending Baylor to second base. Good old Rich Gedman tried to move the runners up a base and managed to get an infield single to load the bases with no outs for Dave Henderson, alternatively the goat and then the hero of the game. Which role would he choose this time? Hendu hit a sacrifice fly to center field that scored Baylor. Though the Sox failed to score another run they were again only three outs from an important victory to send the series back to Fenway. What pitcher would be able to deliver in this clutch situation?

Calvin Schiraldi was just about the only relief pitcher who hadn't pitched yet. He had been an effective reliever all year with nine saves. Here was his chance to prove himself on the big stage. Schiraldi struck out Wilfong and Schofield. Downing popped out to the defensive first baseman, Dave Stapleton to end the game. It was destiny. Dewey's promise was destined to become legend.

After the Red Sox handily won Game Six 10-4, and Game Seven 8-1 to become the American League Champions for the first time since 1975 I told myself I never should have doubted them. This was their year! Even though their opponents in the World Series, The New York Mets, had won 104 games during the regular season, everything pointed to a Red Sox victory.

Bruce Hurst and Roger Clemens pitched spectacularly in Game One and Two in New York, earning two important road victories. The previous year the Kansas City Royals had lost two games at home in the ALCS against Toronto but still won the series four games to three. Then in the World Series against St. Louis the Royals repeated the feat to earn a World Championship. Before that no other team in history had survived two opening loses at home in a seven game series. Maybe the Red Sox had 68 years of bitter defeat to battle against, but in 83 years only one team had beat the odds after losing two games at home. And with former Red Sox Bob “Please hit a home run off me” Ojeda pitching for the Mets in Game Three, I had good reason to believe the Sox might even sweep the Mets with four straight wins. The most games Ojeda won for the Sox was 12 and he often carried a 4+ ERA to go along with it. Little did I know that Ojeda had gone 18-5 for the Mets with an ERA of 2.57. He was like a different man when he wore a Mets uniform. His 9-11 days were over.

Game Three was played on the October, 21^st , the 11^th anniversary of Game Six of the 1975 World Series. Oil Can Boyd was as under-whelming as ever and gave up a home run to the very first batter in a four-run first inning while Ojeda , after losing so many games for the Red Sox in Fenway Park, threw five hit ball over seven innings and gave up just one run. The Sox lost 7-1.

“Where were you last year? What is this? Did you make a deal with the devil to snatch my dream away from me? Curse you!”

I called Cristo and yelled at him.

“Is this the same bastard who couldn't get a 1-2-3 inning if he were pitching against my Local 1947 Little League Team? Is it? What is going on, Sticky? Ojeda just made Dewey look like a blind Spaz Bunson. I can't believe what I am seeing. Ojeda pitched like a girl for five years at Fenway and in his first game back he looks like Cy Young. What gives, Cristo?”

“Calm down Oggy. It is just Game Three. They got lucky. The Sox are still up by one. Remember. Only one team has recovered from two home losses.”

“I'm not going to calm down. You calm down. You calm down! Dewey promised!”

“Maybe you should've bought a ticket for game three of the world series instead of game one of the ALCS. Maybe you're the reason they lost tonight.”

“Me? I was the one who skipped school to sleep in the pouring rain so I could get a ticket to the ALCS. I got them where they are. I'm the one who sacrificed. Me. What did you do?”

“Just relax. They'll win. The Nip is pitching tomorrow. He'll throw a no-hitter. Watch.”

“He'd better.”

Al Nipper lost Game Four by a score of 6-2 tying the series two games apiece with only one game left to play at Fenway. This meant the Red Sox could not win the Championship at home, something Cristo and I were hoping for. The sight of The Fenway Faithful rushing the field after the victory was something I would have treasured until my brain turned to jelly.

Game Five was played on Thursday, October 23, 1986. Why I even went to school is a mystery. I was decked out in every Red Sox article I owned, going so far as to tape a Red Sox bumper sticker to my back and carrying a felt Red Sox pennant through the halls. They had to win. Teachers and students held their hands out as I passed telling me, “We'll get 'em. Hurst'll come through. Tonight's the night. Bring 'em on.” I slapped hands and jogged in circles as my legs were moving non stop from nervous energy. My Earth Science teacher finally sent me outside to run laps on the track where I chanted, “Red Sox Rule. Red Sox Rule,” until I collapsed near the wooden bleachers. In clutch situations throughout their careers, Yaz, Ted Williams, Dewey, Roger Clemens had stayed calm, focused, motivated. I was reduced to a quivering bundle of possessed nerves, gibbering beneath the bleachers, clutching a weathered Red Sox hat in the shadows, too terrified to come out and watch the game and too obsessed to ignore it. The clinical term for what I had become is, “Disaster waiting to happen.” Any coach on the planet would have been able to say that I would never, under any circumstances, play in a clutch situation. My constitution was that of a ninety-year old woman surrounded by a pack of vampires. The smallest sound made my heart rumble like a bowling ball down the gutter. Even if I had agreed to have a total frontal lobotomy, the residual nervousness would have made playing under pressure impossible. Fortunately, it was Bruce Hurst on the mound instead of me.

The Red Sox never trailed and Bruce Hurst pitched a complete game to beat Dwight Gooden in Game five 4-2. This was it. Dewey was one win from keeping his promise. The Red Sox only needed to win one of the next two games in New York to break the 68 year drought and drown New England in victory champagne. I could hardly sit still in my Friday classes. I wrote “Red Sox World Champions” on my Trapper Keeper and traced the words until deep grooves formed in the cardboard. I even missed my appointment with Darcy's locker just so I could talk to Cristo near the second floor doors.

“They're gonna win, right? They're gonna win.”

“Oggy. Stop chewing on that pencil. Clemens is pitching. Ojeda isn't gonna pitch two gems in a row. No way. He'll fall back to his old form and the Sox will get fifteen hits off him. Remember his hanging curveball? Watch. I'll bet Jim Rice hits a three run home run in the first inning and they never look back.”

“What'd Dewey gonna do. Tell me. Tell me,” I chattered as I bounced off the lockers. A senior in a coveted letter jacket walked by and held his hand out. “Go Sox, Kid,” he said and I slapped his big palm. What an honor! I was like the mascot, but a Sox win on Saturday would mean instant induction onto the club. The senior slapped Cristo's back as he walked away.

“I'll catch you later, man,” I gabbered inanely.

“They'll win. Buckner's gonna break out of his slump.”

Buckner was 4-23 so far in the series batting in the three spot behind Boggs and Barrett. His bat had to come alive if the Sox were going to win.

“I hope you're right. I'll lose my mind if they don't win. I'm serious. I will never be the same. My hands won't stop shaking. My throat's been sore since game two. I can't pay attention. I'm losing my fahking mind, Sticky! What if they don't win?”

“Then they'll win on Sunday. Don't even talk about it, though. Dewey promised you they'd win. Think about Clemens striking out that pussy Strawberry for the final out. Visualize it. Do you see it?”

“All I see are Darcy's beautiful fun bags. Did you see what she was wearing today? Help me, Sticky.”

Cristo punched me in the stomach.

“Concentrate! Oggy, this is it. You can have all the girls you want after tomorrow night. Remember in Goonies when they got to the coin fountain and everyone wanted to get the quarters?”

“No,” I said as I involuntarily barked at a passing cheerleader.

“Well, this is just like that. We've got the quarters but we have to sacrifice them to go after the pirate's gold.”

I was never real good with symbolism, so I turned to the nearest locker and drove my head into the metal. Then Chrissy Jenkins strutted past me in spandex shorts covered with some kind of undergarment. I barked at her for no reason. Then I got an erection and had to cover it with my Red Sox banner. Jesus! What was happening to me? Was I turning into teen wolf?

“Just concentrate on the ball smacking Gedman's glove and Dewey running in from right field to jump on the pile, “ said Cristo. “Think about how good that will feel. That old bag Darcy doesn't compare to that.”

Cristo was right, of course, but I still had to hide in the boys locker room and perform the nine Kuji Kiri hypnotic hand movement to focus my Ninjitsu chi and ensure The Win. The Win was all I tried to focus on. My Earth Science teacher's lecture on the motion of waves was so much wind in the leafless trees. I had no idea what he was talking about. I only cared that by the end of the weekend I was going to know the answers to all my questions. Would the Red Sox win? Would Dewey remember his promise and publicly ask me to visit the Red Sox dugout after they won? Would Michael Jackson fully recover from having his head set on fire? Would Wang Chung become the next Beatles? Soon I would find out. I wanted to remember every detail so I made a note to record both the game on my VCR and to borrow Erin's big camcorder and record my own celebrations. I wanted to savor every delicious moment.

Game Six was played in Shea Stadium on prime time, Saturday, October 25, 1986. Roger Clemens, winner of 24 regular season games was on the mound for the Sox with Ojeda pitching for the Mets. I prayed with Cristo for another 20 strikeout performance but was answered with a excruciating nail-bitter. In the First inning Boggs singled and Dewey did his best to keep his promise by cranking an RBI double to center field. In the second inning, with Owen on first, Clemens was asked to bunt him over since pitchers are notoriously weak hitters. Getting a runner into scoring position with two outs is still a plus when the top of the line up is coming up. Clemens struck out attempting to bunt which made the fact that Boggs singled to right a bitter pill to swallow. The single would've scored Owen. But Barrett followed with a clutch, two-out RBI single to center field to give the Sox a 2-0 lead after two innings. Buckner hit a bullet to right field to end the inning.

The Mets tied it in the fifth on a Strawberry walk, a single by Knight followed by a Mookie Wilson single to right field. Dwight Evans was charged with a fielding error when he failed to glove the ball cleanly and Knight sped on to third base. This is a dubious call by the scorer when one considers the ball was hit hard, bounced strangely off the lip of the infield and was actually blocked by Evans's chest as Knight made the turn around second. This was not a routine single and Dewey did the right thing by ensuring it stayed in front of him. A rookie might've tried to side step it like a shortstop and gun Knight out at third, but Dewey was a 13 year veteran and knew which battles to pick. It was the fifth inning and his team was leading by one run. Why risk a serious error, like an inside the park home run to the speedy Wilson, by trying to pick the ball like an infielder when you can still give the ball back to your pitcher with only one run across? The play may have been scored an error but only a novice would fault Evans for what he accomplished. He kept the ball in front of him. Credit Knight for good base running on a tough ball to field cleanly. Furthermore, Dwight Evans was not one to make errors and had a .983 fielding percentage in the regular season, third among Sox starters behind sure-handed Catcher, Rich Gedman (.994) and one other player. Who was the second best fielder on the Boston Red Sox in 1986? With a near perfect .989 percentage, the reliable first baseman, Bill Buckner.

Following the game, Dewey probably could've had a talk with the official scorer and lobbied for a change, but there were more important things on Dewey's mind when this game ended.

With no outs and runners on first and third, Clemens buckled down and got pinch hitter Danny Heep to hit into a double play. Knight scored from third to tie the game but the Sox got out of the inning with their heads still high.

Though Bob Ojeda was pitching well he was replaced in the seventh inning by Roger McDowell. The Sox clawed for a run on a walk by Barrett, a ground out by Buckner, an Error by Ray Knight that put runners at first and third for Dwight Evans. Dewey delivered with a double play ball that the Mets infield couldn't turn into a double play. They got Evans at first but Rice remained at second and, more importantly, Barrett scored the go ahead run. Gedman followed with a clutch two out single to centerfield that had the lumbering Jim Rice challenging Dykstra's arm. The play was close as Rice collided with Mets catcher Gary Carter but he was out to end the inning.

Clemens set the Mets down 1-2-3 in the seventh and in the top of the eighth Hendu gotlaced a single and was sacrificed to second by Owen. Roger Clemens was scheduled to bat but with a one run lead late in the game and Clemens showing feeling a blister forming on on hisThe Rocket’s pitching hand, McNamara elected to pinch hit Mike Greenwell, for Clemens and had Calvin Schiraldi start warming up in the bullpen. Greenwell quietly struck out. With first base open, Boggs was walked. Barrett, an equal threat, was patient and also drew a walk. The situation was bases loaded. Southpaw Jesse Orosco replaced McDowell on the mound with one purpose: Strike out Bill Buckner. McNamara had often replaced Bill Buckner with Dave Stapleton in late innings and Mac was now faced with a decision. Would Buckner choose this moment to break out of his 4-27 slump against the side-winding, gas-throwing Orosco? Or would pinch hitting Don Baylor be a smarter decision since bringing in Dave Stapleton at first was imminent? Mac rolled the dice and let the 0-4 Buckner limp to the plate with every voice in New England hollering for a clean single to break the game open. Buckner put good wood on the bat but Dykstra made the catch and ended the inning.

Calvin Schiraldi was now asked to get six three outs. His regular season ERA was 1.41. He had a record of 4-2. His nine saves indicated that he was usually the set up man for Bob Stanley. The eighth inning was where Schiraldi had performed most and performed best. If he could hold the Mets off then Stanley could finish them in the ninth. SixThree more outs that required me to grit my teeth for each and every pitch.

Pinch hitter Mazilli led the inning off with a 1-2 single. Dykstra laid down a sacrifice bunt so good that Schiraldi failed to get Mazilli at second base and Dykstra was safe at first. Seeing what a good thing sacrifices are, Wally Backman followed with onea bunt of his own that moved runners to second and third with one out. Five outs away! With first base open, Schiraldi intentionally walked Hernandez to set up a double play that would bring the victory within grasp. Gary Carter stroked a sacrifice fly ball to Rice that not only scored Mazilli but was so deep it allowed Dykstra to tag up from second base and go to third. Strawberry made the final out of the inning. A bigger man would have credited the Mets for manufacturing a critical run. I, however, called them every name I could thing of and promised to piss on their graves.

The game was tied again going into the top of the ninth inning. whereDwight Evans managed to get on base but was erased by a Rich Gedman double play. The Mets threatened in the bottom of the ninth and should have won but for the bumbling bunting by Howard Johnson and Schiraldi's clutch pitching to Mazilli and Dykstra.

The scenario because became reminiscent of the last extra inning World Series Game Six played by the Red Sox. On October 21, 1975 Carlton Fisk had waved his way into baseball history by hitting a game winning home run in Game Six of the World Series. The Sox ultimately lost Game seven and the Series to the pesky Cincinnati Reds, but I was hoping for more late- inning magic, this time to win the whole series. My prayers were answered in the tenth inning as Dave Henderson, the star of ALCS Game Five against California, hit another miracle solo home run, this one off the Newsday sign in left field to give the Sox a one run lead. The spirit of New York was visibly shaken. As Vin Scully said, Shea Stadium was so quiet you could hear Kenmore Square. Don Baylor was preparing to bat for Schiraldi was on deck as the ball went out of the park. and McNamara had to immediately make a decision as to the strategy of the game. Let Baylor bat for Schiraldi even though the Sox led by one run now, or save Stanley in the bullpen in case Schiraldi ran into trouble in the bottom of the inning. With the score tied McNamara had planned on putting his best batters at the plate and dealing with defense when he had to. But with a one-run lead he could bleed Schiraldi for a few more pitches, perhaps a few more outs. He only had seconds to decide as Schiraldi was due up after Owen. decided to let Schiraldi bat Aafter Spike Owen struck out, McNamara decided to let Schiraldi bat. Schiraldi promptly struck out. Now Wwith two outs, knowing even better than their manager that a one run lead was too smalllittle, Boggs and Barrett combined for another run to give the Sox a 5-3 lead entering the bottom of the tenth, three outs away from a World Championship.

68 years of frustration was waiting to be released. I was charged so high I could've started a car engine with my tongue. Statistically, the Mets could not win. Schiraldi had only allowed an average of 1.41 runs per nine innings and the Mets needed two runs in one inning. Every other pitcher in on the Red Sox staff averaged over two runs per nine innings. With Bob Stanley loosening in the bullpen, John McNamara went with the numbers and handed Calvin Schiraldi the hopes and dreams of New England. He made this decision even though Schiraldi had pitched since the eighth inning, had almost never pitched more than two innings, and even though the game was now technically in a save situation. Maybe McNamara was seeing in his mind the games Stanley had lost in the past. Maybe he was hoping a kid like Schiraldi, with no history of defeat, would be able to start his career with the Red Sox by ending 68 winters of “Wait till next year.” Maybe he had a feeling that Schiraldi would be the man to deliver the miracle to one fifteen year old living in Bone Harbor, New Hampshire wearing Red Sox boxer shorts and Red Sox shirts and Red Sox sunglasses and a Red Sox ringd and a Red Sox hat given to him by Dwight Evans along with a promise to win, to win the Big Game.

AThe small voice inside my head that was whispering, “If you aren't going to bring Stanley in now, then why have him warming up at all?” was silenced by Cristo calling. “This is it! This is it! You were right! We won!”

Three outs away! The skies were clear and inky as though all the gods were watching, as though the ghosts of Babe Ruth and Cy Young and Rock Hudson wanted a clear view to this most magical of moments. Dewey watched from Right field. Marty Barrett watched from second base. Boggs watched from third. Dave Henderson, whose clutch home runs would never be forgotten, watched from center field. Rice was in left. Owen was at shortstop. Gedman was behind the plate. Buckner was at first. This was the defense that had ledgot them here. This was the team of legends, the team that would always be remembered as the ones who delivered glory to New England. It was fitting that they were all on the field to celebrate together the crowning achievement of their sport.

When Wally Backman made the first out I kissed my baseball glove signed by Dwight Evans. “Please let them win it,” I mumbled. “Please!” Since 1980 every moment, every thread of my worn jeans had been devoted to seeing this moment, and here it was. I could almost feel the round fullness of Darcy's breasts in my hands. She would throw herself at me after this victory. She would love me. I would be her hero.

Keith Hernandez hit a fly ball to center field but Dave Henderson hauled it in for the second out. Even the Shea Stadium scoreboard admitted defeat with the message, “Congratulations Boston Red Sox. 1986 World Champions.” Bruce Hurst was selected the MVP of the Series for his two extraordinary pitching performances. A few Mets fans made for the exits to beat the traffic. A few die hard old timers stayed and cheered for a miracle that could never come, not when I was so close. Cristo called as Gary Carter came to bat.

“This is it Oggy. Everything we've dreamed of is about to come true. The Curse is dead. You were right. The Red Sox are the best! This is it! Dewey kept his promise. We finally won!”

I was breathless as Schiraldi went into his deliberate windup. His pitch would deliver to me the most coveted of trophies. I would be the greatest fan of the greatest baseball team in the worldcountry. After this I could look down upon all others from my high perch and demand respect. I had paid for my reward with a childhood of disappointment, a mother lost to free agency, a social reputation second in freakishness only to Pickles the football booster, and now my dream was about to come true. Nothing could take it away from me. The tapes were rolling on the VCR and the camcorder. Schiraldi released the pitch and I watched it with all my senses exposed to the experience, open to the glory of accomplishment like Jesus before the crosshis father, ready to accept my destinyprize. I would remember wanted to cherish this moment for the rest of my life.