Chapter LIII: We are the Champions
Chapter Fifty-Three: We are The Champions
On October 25, 1986, Calvin Schiraldi struck out Ray Knight for the final out of the World Series. The Red Sox beat the Mets 5-3 in the tenth inning. I wept before the television, sobbed uncontrollably through the post game show, the highlights, and the interviews with Buckner and Dewey as they clutched the champagne glazed World Championship trophy. This was our dream and we gripped it with both fists. The losers, Gary Carter, Lenny Dykstra, Daryl Strawberry and others conceded that the better team had won, that their team didn't get the hits when they needed them, allowed too many scoring opportunities to slip away--most notably the bottom of the ninth inning when runners were on first and second with no outs. But they had to hand to the Red Sox; winning on the road was no easy task. Destiny, it seemed, at last belonged to Boston.
Destiny found me running through Bone Harbor on that October night, running with a Red Sox banner and my Red Sox sweatshirt and Dewey's hat to meet Cristo at Gillies where an impromptu celebration was in progress. Destiny swept me through Market Square and into pubs where drinks were on the house, The sacred cask was tapped and we toasted Marty Barrett and Bill Buckner and Calvin Schiraldi. I hugged teary-eyed old men wearing '75 era, blood red Sox caps as they cried into their hands and announced in beer-muddled New Englandese, “ I can't believe this day got heah. I didn't think I'd evah see it. If only my pop was still alive. Now that was a fahkin’ Sox fan, that was a fahkin’ man who loved the Sox.” And he blew his nose and cried and I cried with him, '75 era, blood red tears down our cheeks, mopped up with our Sox shirts kissed away by women wearing hooded Sox sweatshirts, dried by the heat of collective joy, a joy of combined pain and relief that throbbed and made us weak. Our tears fell down our cheeks because the burden was ours no longer, the curse was broken, the clouds had lifted at last.
A weeping bartender stood on a crate and yelled, “Your tears had been saved for this day, New England. Let them flow now!”
And we did.
It was a night against which all other celebrations would be measured, a night that would never end, a night when everything was right and correct and true and perfect, a night when the spot light of fortune radiated from me, around me, within me, and on me. I was fifteen years old, clutching Dewey's hat to my lips, and the Boston Red Sox were the champions of the world.
On November 1st I called Cristo to celebrate the one week anniversary of the Red Sox victory.
“Forget about that, Kid. Varsity hoop plays tonight. Let's go watch.”
“Forget about it? No. Sticky, this is it. We made it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Yesterday's news. Hoop, kid.”
“Listen: We're winners. The Sox won. Let's watch Game Six. Dewey won!”
“Naah. You hear about Barrett?”
Cristo then explained that Marty Barrett, the MVP second baseman of the ALCS and of hero of Game Six, had hurt his elbow during the celebration. Someone, possibly Oil Can Boyd, had stepped on him with his steel cleats. Nothing serious, but doctors were looking at it.
“He looked fine at the parade,” I said fretfully, like a new mother.
We had skipped school to attend the victory parade in Boston, a city wide celebration on a scale that I hadn't seen since the Pope visited Boston years earlier. Cristo and I watched the Mass Ave. cavalcade of cars with our returning heroes, our winners, our giants and I cried again. Dewey, Rice, Clemens, Buckner, Schiraldi, Hendu, Boggs, Owen, Gedman, Barrett rolled past us and threw T-shirts and souvenirs into the crowd. I fought for and claimed a pencil with “Boston Red Sox” stenciled in gold across the red paint. It was a treasure. We visited Fenway Park for the final speeches by the victors, the “Thank you for supporting us this year, thank you for never giving up on us for sixty eight years, thank you for believing in us because this is your World Championship too” speech. And I cried again because Dewey had fulfilled his promise and was my hero forever. It was my World Championship too, Buckner had said. Mine too! And Cristo had agreed that it was ours, never to be taken from us, always to be shared with those who know what sacrifice is, those who know heartbreak and scorn and defeat and frustration. It was ours, Boston's, New England's and I brought a feeling of invincibility back to Bone Harbor, back to BHHS where the teachers winked at me when they handed me back my papers. I had arrived at a station in life from which all roads originated; I could do anything, go anywhere, be anybody, surmount any challenge.
“He'll be alright,” Cristo said casually. “He'll be back. Good old Marty B.”
“Of course he'll be back,” I urged. “He's a World Champion. He won. He's a winner. We all won.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, you want to go to the hoop game or do I have to go alone?”
The champagne wasn't even dry on the Shea Stadium visitor's clubhouse floor and Cristo was talking about High School Basketball. I went to the High School game with him anyway, and Kodiak and Gordy and Skip and Piper pumped their fist when I yelled, “Sox Rule! Word up!”
But on Monday I was standing at my locker, straightening my nude picture of Madonna, when I felt something hit me in the back. Bonigan had spit on my new “Red Sox 1986 World Champions” sweatshirt.
“What's wrong with you, Bullwhip? The Sox are winners.”
“You're still a loser, though. That sweatshirt is super queer. Huh? You say wanna fight?”
I ignored this comment and others like it and spent November watching the VCR tape recording instead of doing over due homework. What was more important? My “Why The Red Sox Won the World Series” English 10 paper got a C- because I had not followed the proper citation format in my bibliography and had failed to identify my thesis statement. But watching Ray Knight wave at an outside curveball to end the game made all my troubles melt into tears of joy. Jim Rice had never looked so relieved. The coaches were as rowdy as the players. Yaz and Ted Williams both said they were very happy for the team and for New England. Owner Jean Yawkey dedicated the win to long time owner Tom Yawkey. The moment that brought me to tears every time I watched it was the sight of an older man wearing a Red Sox hat. He was so overcome with emotion that he didn't even cheer when Ray Knight struck out. He simply sat down behind the Sox dugout and fought back tears as the celebration erupted around him. Here was a man who had witnessed the '67 loss to the Cardinals and the '75 loss to the Reds and the '78 loss to the Yankees. He had survived all the close calls and near misses and was now struck numb by the victory. Was it real? Was it OK to cry? Yes, it was.
On the November day destiny might have found me playing football at Erin's house, the day I found a certain piece of Darcy's intimate apparel, I was instead watching the video tape of the Red Sox victory, reliving the moment when Dewey reached the infield and climbed onto the bodies of Barrett and Boggs and Buckner. Dewey, that man who seldom displayed emotion, that consummate professional, that farmer of a boy's dreams, threw his glove in the air and embraced Don Baylor, Spike Owen, Al Nipper, Rich Gedman. These were his teammates, men, trained horses and their race was won. Why did I need to play football? This was the ultimate victory and I had complete control over it. The winter belonged to the fall. I watched the game every day of Christmas vacation and every night before I went to bed. My dreams were given to the poster players of my wall gallery. Fisk and Yaz and Dewey never grew old in my Lincoln bedroom. While snow and sleet fell against my windowpane, I curled around my hat and dreamed or winners.
Bill Buckner delivered 102 RBIs during the 1986 regular season. Wade Boggs scored 107 times. Marty Barrett hit 4 triples.
The Junior Varsity baseball coach said I didn't hustle during spring tryouts. This was crap. I hustled every play, but I couldn't concentrate. It may have appeared like I was wandering the outfield looking for land mines, but really I would just imagine how happy Dewey had been when his promise came true. He was a winner like Gordy, and he...a ball dropped somewhere near me.
“Bleacher! Get your head out of your ass!” yelled the coach.
The center fielder was picking up a ball ten feet away from me in right field. He threw it in to second base.
Dewey played right field in 1986. He hit 26 home runs during the regular season. Roger Clemens won 24 games and struck out 238 batters. Bruce Hurst threw 11 complete games, 4 of them were shutouts.
My name was not on the list of players chosen for the team. I had to wait until summer to play baseball. Summer: An opportunity to visit Fenway Park and see next to an ancient 1918 World Championship banner a gloriously shiny, brand new wooden plaque pronouncing that the Red Sox were the 1986 World Champions. Champions! It was right there! My World Championship!
Don Baylor was 37 years old, second oldest after Tom Seaver (41), and played all but two games, mostly as a designated hitter. He led the team with 31 home runs. Jim Rice hit .324 in 1986. He played left field.
In 1987, the title defense season, Dewey had an average season batting .254, with eleven home runs. He hurt his back in July and was on and off the disabled list. Clemens pitched well again but the hitting to support his efforts was terrible. He only managed 13 wins though he had a 3.87 ERA. Bruce Hurst couldn't find his groove for and went 2-9 his first 13 starts. Oil Can Boyd surrendered eleven runs in one May game against the Yankees and was ejected for spitting at Don Mattingly. Jim Rice surrendered his Double Play King crown to Dave Henderson. Gedman managed to go the entire year without getting a clutch hit. Buckner hit .178 for the first half of the season so Mike Greenwell tried to learn to play first base with disastrous results. When the Sox could get to the ninth inning with a lead, Schiraldi would come in from the bullpen and allow a two-run home run to the number nine batter. He just killed us, but the Sox no longer had Bob Stanley to pick up the pieces. After a slow spring training, Stanley had announced his retirement. He wanted to leave on top. The Fenway Boo Birds, a genus of discontent fan, returned to roost in June.
Wade Boggs was the only man in the line up who appeared to be playing to win. He hit .330 but drove in only 69 runs because no one was on base when he got his hits. Marty Barrett was inconsistent at second base and just before the fall trade deadline was sent to the Texas Rangers for two pitching prospects who never got out of the minor leagues.
I went to twenty games in the 1987 season, but I still had to watch the victory tape to regain that special jubilation and relief I felt when Ray Knight waved at a Schiraldi curveball in the dirt.
When Cristo called to invite me to a Sox game against the Tigers, I told him I preferred to stay home and watch Game Six. The Sox were fifteen games out of first place, after all. What was the point of going to a game? The Sox went 76-86 games in 1987 and were out of the playoff race in early September. I didn't care as long as I had my tape. Our Junior year was over before you could say “Pour some sugar on me.” There must have been a Junior prom because that's one of those traditions kids look forward to. I definitely didn't go to it. I probably watched the top of the 7th inning when Dwight Evans grounded into a possible inning ending double play with Marty Barrett on third base, but Dewey hustled to first and beat Kevin Elster's throw. Barrett scored to put the Sox ahead 3-2. Clemens sat the Mets down 1-2-3 in the bottom half of the inning. The Sox were six outs away from winning. I smiled serenely as I watched Greenwell pinch hit for Clemens. Considering Clemens had dominated the Mets the entire game, this was a bonehead move, but I knew the Sox would win even more dramatically three innings later.
The BHHS varsity baseball team didn't win the State Championship in 1988. I watched a few of their games at Leary Field but could tell the chemistry was off. Bonigan said they argued on the bus, everyone thought they were prima donnas. You can't win if you're not a team, I said. The team was eliminated in the first round of the playoffs.
Dewey understood what it took to win. He understood sacrifice. His hustle led to the third run for the Sox. He was a winner. The High School team was Little League compared to Game Six. I loved to watch Knight make an error in the 7th inning that gave Dewey a chance to drive Barrett in with a fielder's choice. Knight was the clean shaved perfect kid and he had lost the game for the Mets. How much that must hurt, I wondered. I didn't know that pain and would never know it. Though the had done poorly in 1987, I still felt they were winners. I'd never know the ache Ray Knight must have felt after the game. He made an error to cost the Mets a run and then he made the last out of the game. Too bad.
I meant to ask Darcy or else one of the girls in my Earth Science class to go with me to the Junior Prom. I thought they would get a thrill from being seen with the number one Red Sox fan in town, but I never got around to asking them. Who had the time for those things? I had my tape recording and I knew the stupid Junior Prom wasn't going to top the magical celebration.
I even watched Ray Knight strike out as the summer of '88 turned to fall. There was no need to go to a Red Sox game anymore. Sure they played poorly again, but everyone knew it was nearly impossible to put two championship seasons together in three years. 85 wins isn't anything to scoff at. Dewey was back from his injury and ranged right field with impunity. He drilled more than enough balls into the net. I read about them in the paper. Clemens was pitching well again. Boggs was hitting well. They were winners no matter what happened in 1988. I possessed the only game that mattered and I also had a pencil that Al Nipper threw to me. We were winners, Bill Buckner had said so.
I graduated BHHS after attending summer school to get a half credit in Science. It was humiliating, but what could I do? Because I was short on credits I was prohibited from attending the Celebration Graduation. I heard there was some crazy partying, but I had my own celebration in front of the television with my pencil and soiled Red Sox 1986 World Champions sweatshirt. When I watched Dewey run in from right field the shame of my class graduating without me melted away. I didn't need baseball, didn't even try out for the Babe Ruth League teams or Legion. I had everything I needed on October 25, 1986. We were winners.
Erin went to college somewhere in Vermont, I heard. Cristo probably went to college at UNH. He was always a homebody. We didn't stay in touch anymore after he got a girlfriend. High School was just about sex and popularity. No one cared about the important things like the Sox winning the series in 1986. I remembered one of our last conversations that took place in 1989:
“Schiraldi completely fooled Knight. I mean, that pitch was ten feet out of the strike zone and Knight went fishing. Brilliant.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, My girl's coming over. Call me later.”
“Wait. Listen to this. Those two hits by Carter and Mitchell just made the Mets believe there was a chance. They didn't have a prayer, did they? Remember that 0-2 pitch to Knight?”
“You gotta stop watching that game, kid. It's ancient history. They've had one winning season in two years. They suck.”
“Watch your mouth! These are the Sox you're talking about. They are the 1986 World Champions in case you forgot. Dwight Evans beat out a throw to first that scored the third run for the Sox. I'm sorry, but that doesn't suck. You're the one who sucks for talking trash about my boys. We're winners. Remember what Nipper said about everyone being part of the team?”
“You need to have your fahking head examined, Oggy. That was three years ago. They lost everyone that was good and their prospects are a joke. You need to start going to class. Stop watching that tape.”
“You sound like my father, Sticky. What's wrong with you? You don't know me. You don't know what I need. You don't know Calvin Schiraldi. The Sox are winners.”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever. The Sox won and the Mets fans just deflated. Remember? I'm watching it right now. It's so quiet in New York that you can hear Boston. Remember when the announcer said that?”
“I gotta go, Ogden.”
I never liked the nickname Oggy. It wasn't dignified.
“And you know what? I thought McNamara was crazy to let Schiraldi bat. Remember? Remember when Schiraldi struck out in the top of the tenth? I thought that was crazy to let him bat. But if Mac pinch hits Baylor for him then maybe Boggs never gets that double and Barrett never scores him. See? Then Stanley has to come in to protect a one run lead. What chance does he have of doing that? None. Remember how wild he was? The Mets had the top of the line up coming. If they got two hits off of Schiraldi then they would've murdered Stanley. But they didn't. I'm watching the highlights right now. Schiraldi came out and sat them down just like we knew he would. Two hits just made the final out sweeter. McNamara was right all along. Look at Dewey. He's so happy. He's waving to the Sox fans. Remember him at the parade? He said that all of New England won. He said we were all winners. Wanna come over and watch it again? I can just rewind it. We can watch 'em win, Sticky. The Red Sox win. Sticky? Cristo?”
I applied to a college in California, but didn't get accepted. I thought I'd just go to a nearby technical college, learn to repair cars or install heating systems, but I never sent in the forms. I preferred to sit in the living room and fondle my Red Sox pencil and watch Jim Rice pump his fists when he picked up Wade Boggs near the pitcher's mound. The team was as playful as puppies. They're long road had ended just as Dewey had promised. Old McNamara exploded from the dugout like a seventeen-year old. He was triumphant though he would be replaced in two short years after having trouble keeping the team together in the clubhouse. Too much ego, he said. Inflated salaries tend to do that to some players. I also loved watching the scenes of the Mets clubhouse, the awful silence, the solemn packing of bags for the long winter. What could they do? It was destiny.
My father kicked me out of the house during the '93 or '94 season. I forget which. He said I was wasting my life and he told me to pack my Red Sox posters and record albums and move into my own apartment. This was fine with me. He had been getting on my nerves ever since I bought a second hand television to put in my room so I could watch Game Six while from my bed. I got a room in a nearby town, Marshford or Plumsook, I think. IT was a long time ago and the names start to overlap. My memory isn't what it was like in 1986. I could tell you every player's batting average and number of home runs. I remembered everything, but not no more.
I didn't run into the old gang anymore and Gillies burgers started giving me heartburn. I got a job at one of the outlet stores and was a manager for a while until one of the employees said I'd been harassing her. This wasn't true at all. She was coming on to me and I told her to go home. She threw a coat rack at me and I defended myself. Kids just don't respect their elders anymore. Then I worked a bunch of jobs that are the type you don't put on a resume. I was the custodian at a Junior High School for a year or two. I worked at an oil change place in Homestead, my old town with the lilacs and play room. I even drove past the old house before the land was sold to some developers in 2005 or 2006, and next thing I knew there were a dozen apartments. I would've lived in one if I'd stayed in the area, but I got hooked up with a ticket broker for a while and made some money scalping Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Patriots tickets. It was good work if you knew how to handle the cops and the crowds.
I started hitting the bars in Maine at night just for something to do and sometime in 2009 I was at a place called The Wheel Room, when a guy walked in wearing a Red Sox hat. He saw my own worn Sox cap, the same one Dewey had given me, and he asked how the Sox had done that day.
“They won. Sox five, Mets three. All of New England won. Bottom of the tenth inning with the winning run at the plate...”
“Mets? The Sox are on the west coast. Hey, sweetheart, put a little more water in this guy's whiskey.”
I didn't think that was so funny.
“The Sox won the World Series, man. They're winners. Don't forget it.”
“Sure buddy.”
I pulled out the worn pencil. It was unsharpened but scratched from being moved from apartment to apartment. I placed it next to the 1986 team photo that I had just been showing the bartender.
“This is Dwight Evans and this is the pencil he gave me,” I announced. “The Sox are winners. They won. Dewey told me he'd win and they won. Look.”
The man rolled his eyes and found another place at the bar. That night I went home with the waitress. I can't remember exactly what her name was but I know it rhymed with 'sadness'. We lived together, didn't see much of each other because she was working nights and I had to sell tickets in Boston during the day. She didn't bother me too much and I didn't bother her.
Our kid came at a bad time, though, just after the Cubs won the Series. Winter months at the ticket broker were slow, the Celtics played like shit that year and I couldn't give tickets away. The Bruins had moved to Springfield back in 2012. The wife couldn't get much work off so I started working for a mason laying sidewalks, busting my shine box for those rich assholes in Plumsook, folks from Virginia and D.C. area trying to build their own castles, their own Xanadu in my own backyard. Hurt my back in the spring and had to go on disability. The kid was alright, a girl with two different colored eyes. I used to say that she had to be my kid because I never did anything the same way twice, and that was good for a laugh.
They moved into their own place when the kid was two or three. I saw the little one on weekends. We'd go to the park and I'd hold her real close and tell her not to get hurt. But she always found a way to get hurt. You know how kids are. They blamed me for the bruises and I told the judge that I wasn't doing anything except holding her so she wouldn't fall down. Because if she fell then she wouldn't want to come see me and we couldn't watch Game Six at night and talk about Schiraldi and Rice and Dewey. It was a father's responsibility to teach his children about history, wasn't it? When I went into the new pen over in Riversook, her mom wouldn't even let her send me letters. No postcards, no nothing. That was in 2016, I think.
Wife number two was a mistake from the beginning. Met her at the Social Services in '24 or '25, picking up our checks. She had a kid too, a boy with hair the same color as Gordy Clutcher's, but neither one of us could see our own children. How do you like that? We'd hit the bar until the end of the month and then start picking on each other waiting for the next check. She said she'd grown up in New York as a Yankees fan and she used to give me shit about the Yanks winning a bunch of championships in the late '90s. But I always had '86 No one could take that away from me.
Must've been that guy she met at the bar, the red head, who got her knocked up. The boy she claims is mine has red fahking hair. No one in my family has red hair. I know they got paternity tests and all but I don't see either of them much. Don't want to know. She gets half my check and I get half drunk. Works fine with me. That kid came over once, and while I was taking a nap he taped a program called “Win my Wife.” over most of Game Six.. I might've taken a belt to him, but I didn't do everything they said I did. I still have most of the post-game show and the highlights of the game are almost as good as the real thing. I can still watch Dewey's interview. That was before my dad died. My brother lives in our old house. I forget the name of the street. You know the one, over by the Junior High school. Pretty house. I've been meaning to visit but I don't like to get in the way of his family.
Was in the supermarket the other day picking up some dinner. They got some real good meals in the frozen food aisle. I never remember to get a cart so I had to carry the boxes up front. So I'm standing in a line a mile long and it wasn't going anywhere, when a girl came up to me and said she could help me at the express lane. Express lane in a supermarket? What'll they think of next? I looked at the girl's name tag and it said, “DEE DEE”
“I once dated a girl named Darcy.” I said. That's a name I can't forget. “Pretty blond hair like yours. Ran real fast too.”
I went to follow Darcy when one of the frozen dinner slipped out of my hand. Tried to catch it but only managed to drop all of the damn boxes on the floor. My hands were shaking and tired. I'm not young anymore. Darcy helped me pick the boxes up. She was real nice. I went to get my wallet and it fell on the ground too. It's no fun getting old, but I guess it won't be long now. Picked up my wallet and found two dog-eared photograBHHS
“This is a picture of my oldest,” I said to Darcy. “She's in New York, I think, gonna be a nurse. Real good student. Real smart. And this is my youngest. He's older now, of course, I don't have a recent picture. He and his mom live out west. I hear he's real good at math. A real math whiz.”
Darcy nodded politely as she ran my dinners through the scanner thing. As I was putting the pictures away I found the eraser end of a pencil. The letters “ D Sox” were stamped on it and worn away almost to nothing. Near my library card and instructions about my medicine there was a larger piece of glossy paper. I took it out and unfolded it, smiling.
“Look at this. I'd forgotten I even had this. This was my team back in '86. We were winners. These men made my dream come true, Darcy. They said I was a winner too. They won in '86. Was it that long ago? This man here made me a promise once. His name is Don Evans.”
I knew his name was Dwight, but sometimes the details don't come out right in my mouth. It's just one of those things.
“He gave me this here hat...oh, I forgot I don't have that hat anymore. I mailed it to my son out west. Swell cap. Fit real nice. Don't know if he got it. Don Evans, we called him Dewey, he gave me a hat and made a promise to win and they won and I got a pencil. They were winners...my heroes. And this man over here struck out Rick Knight to...”
“Let's move it!” called a voice from the back of a line that had formed behind me. I couldn't see who it was without my glasses, but I was sure it looked like a boy I once knew. I think his name was Button or Brendan.
“Move it, captain.”
I nodded. People live fast these days, live fast and die young. They don't care much for the old stories, the songs from my time. Young folks have their own songs now. I nodded and asked how much I owed for my dinners.
“Twenty-Two dollars and fifty cents, sir. How would you like to pay for that?”
“Twenty dollars? In my day I could get a burger and a slice of pie for two bits. There was this place called Gillies over where the new downtown mall is. Before your time. Good sandwiches and omelets for a good price. Went there with my old friend Cristo. Read in the paper that he passed away. Had two nice kids. He...”
“Kind of in a hurry back here.”
Again that kid, Bonigan, that was his name. Bonigan. I wonder what happened to him.
I looked through my wallet, but couldn't find any cash. I must have left it on the nightstand again. I'm doing that more often these days. I never was one to use credit cards, even though my oldest has tried to get me to switch over. It's just like music; some people don't like change. I guess I'm one of them. I don't listen to much music these days, the equipment is so complicates with ten different buttons you have to push to play a song, but sometimes I hear the songs from the old fires. I still hear them, and they call me down.
“I guess I forgot my cash clip, honey. I sure do think I forgot my money clip at home.”
Darcy smiled cheerfully, a pretty smile, with good teeth. I wish I'd kept better care of my teeth.
“We'll hold onto your selections for the rest of the day, Sir. You just come back when you want to purchase them. Thank you.”
She looked to the next customer and I got pushed a little by the cart. I smiled with my lips closed to hide my dentures, but no one was watching. My slippers don't work too well on slick tile so I walked outside real slow. It was raining. I felt very tired, like I'd forgotten something other than my umbrella, but couldn't name it. People my age get that way sometimes, they forget things and complain. Life hasn't been a carnival, but I got what I asked for; the Red Sox won and nothing can take that away from me, not old age or a child custody judge or a welfare case worker, or some government bootblack working in an office. I guess when my memory is completely gone I won't have Dewey's smile to remember, but that doesn't mean it never happened. It can feel like a curse, this losing memories, misplacing long-kept treasures, but I think the only reason I get up anymore is to remember what I forgot.
When I stepped outside I got hit by a wave of cold water. Damndest thing.
On October 25, 1986, Calvin Schiraldi struck out Ray Knight for the final out of the World Series. The Red Sox beat the Mets 5-3 in the tenth inning. I wept before the television, sobbed uncontrollably through the post game show, the highlights, and the interviews with Buckner and Dewey as they clutched the champagne glazed World Championship trophy. This was our dream and we gripped it with both fists. The losers, Gary Carter, Lenny Dykstra, Daryl Strawberry and others conceded that the better team had won, that their team didn't get the hits when they needed them, allowed too many scoring opportunities to slip away--most notably the bottom of the ninth inning when runners were on first and second with no outs. But they had to hand to the Red Sox; winning on the road was no easy task. Destiny, it seemed, at last belonged to Boston.
Destiny found me running through Bone Harbor on that October night, running with a Red Sox banner and my Red Sox sweatshirt and Dewey's hat to meet Cristo at Gillies where an impromptu celebration was in progress. Destiny swept me through Market Square and into pubs where drinks were on the house, The sacred cask was tapped and we toasted Marty Barrett and Bill Buckner and Calvin Schiraldi. I hugged teary-eyed old men wearing '75 era, blood red Sox caps as they cried into their hands and announced in beer-muddled New Englandese, “ I can't believe this day got heah. I didn't think I'd evah see it. If only my pop was still alive. Now that was a fahkin’ Sox fan, that was a fahkin’ man who loved the Sox.” And he blew his nose and cried and I cried with him, '75 era, blood red tears down our cheeks, mopped up with our Sox shirts kissed away by women wearing hooded Sox sweatshirts, dried by the heat of collective joy, a joy of combined pain and relief that throbbed and made us weak. Our tears fell down our cheeks because the burden was ours no longer, the curse was broken, the clouds had lifted at last.
A weeping bartender stood on a crate and yelled, “Your tears had been saved for this day, New England. Let them flow now!”
And we did.
It was a night against which all other celebrations would be measured, a night that would never end, a night when everything was right and correct and true and perfect, a night when the spot light of fortune radiated from me, around me, within me, and on me. I was fifteen years old, clutching Dewey's hat to my lips, and the Boston Red Sox were the champions of the world.
On November 1st I called Cristo to celebrate the one week anniversary of the Red Sox victory.
“Forget about that, Kid. Varsity hoop plays tonight. Let's go watch.”
“Forget about it? No. Sticky, this is it. We made it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Yesterday's news. Hoop, kid.”
“Listen: We're winners. The Sox won. Let's watch Game Six. Dewey won!”
“Naah. You hear about Barrett?”
Cristo then explained that Marty Barrett, the MVP second baseman of the ALCS and of hero of Game Six, had hurt his elbow during the celebration. Someone, possibly Oil Can Boyd, had stepped on him with his steel cleats. Nothing serious, but doctors were looking at it.
“He looked fine at the parade,” I said fretfully, like a new mother.
We had skipped school to attend the victory parade in Boston, a city wide celebration on a scale that I hadn't seen since the Pope visited Boston years earlier. Cristo and I watched the Mass Ave. cavalcade of cars with our returning heroes, our winners, our giants and I cried again. Dewey, Rice, Clemens, Buckner, Schiraldi, Hendu, Boggs, Owen, Gedman, Barrett rolled past us and threw T-shirts and souvenirs into the crowd. I fought for and claimed a pencil with “Boston Red Sox” stenciled in gold across the red paint. It was a treasure. We visited Fenway Park for the final speeches by the victors, the “Thank you for supporting us this year, thank you for never giving up on us for sixty eight years, thank you for believing in us because this is your World Championship too” speech. And I cried again because Dewey had fulfilled his promise and was my hero forever. It was my World Championship too, Buckner had said. Mine too! And Cristo had agreed that it was ours, never to be taken from us, always to be shared with those who know what sacrifice is, those who know heartbreak and scorn and defeat and frustration. It was ours, Boston's, New England's and I brought a feeling of invincibility back to Bone Harbor, back to BHHS where the teachers winked at me when they handed me back my papers. I had arrived at a station in life from which all roads originated; I could do anything, go anywhere, be anybody, surmount any challenge.
“He'll be alright,” Cristo said casually. “He'll be back. Good old Marty B.”
“Of course he'll be back,” I urged. “He's a World Champion. He won. He's a winner. We all won.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, you want to go to the hoop game or do I have to go alone?”
The champagne wasn't even dry on the Shea Stadium visitor's clubhouse floor and Cristo was talking about High School Basketball. I went to the High School game with him anyway, and Kodiak and Gordy and Skip and Piper pumped their fist when I yelled, “Sox Rule! Word up!”
But on Monday I was standing at my locker, straightening my nude picture of Madonna, when I felt something hit me in the back. Bonigan had spit on my new “Red Sox 1986 World Champions” sweatshirt.
“What's wrong with you, Bullwhip? The Sox are winners.”
“You're still a loser, though. That sweatshirt is super queer. Huh? You say wanna fight?”
I ignored this comment and others like it and spent November watching the VCR tape recording instead of doing over due homework. What was more important? My “Why The Red Sox Won the World Series” English 10 paper got a C- because I had not followed the proper citation format in my bibliography and had failed to identify my thesis statement. But watching Ray Knight wave at an outside curveball to end the game made all my troubles melt into tears of joy. Jim Rice had never looked so relieved. The coaches were as rowdy as the players. Yaz and Ted Williams both said they were very happy for the team and for New England. Owner Jean Yawkey dedicated the win to long time owner Tom Yawkey. The moment that brought me to tears every time I watched it was the sight of an older man wearing a Red Sox hat. He was so overcome with emotion that he didn't even cheer when Ray Knight struck out. He simply sat down behind the Sox dugout and fought back tears as the celebration erupted around him. Here was a man who had witnessed the '67 loss to the Cardinals and the '75 loss to the Reds and the '78 loss to the Yankees. He had survived all the close calls and near misses and was now struck numb by the victory. Was it real? Was it OK to cry? Yes, it was.
On the November day destiny might have found me playing football at Erin's house, the day I found a certain piece of Darcy's intimate apparel, I was instead watching the video tape of the Red Sox victory, reliving the moment when Dewey reached the infield and climbed onto the bodies of Barrett and Boggs and Buckner. Dewey, that man who seldom displayed emotion, that consummate professional, that farmer of a boy's dreams, threw his glove in the air and embraced Don Baylor, Spike Owen, Al Nipper, Rich Gedman. These were his teammates, men, trained horses and their race was won. Why did I need to play football? This was the ultimate victory and I had complete control over it. The winter belonged to the fall. I watched the game every day of Christmas vacation and every night before I went to bed. My dreams were given to the poster players of my wall gallery. Fisk and Yaz and Dewey never grew old in my Lincoln bedroom. While snow and sleet fell against my windowpane, I curled around my hat and dreamed or winners.
Bill Buckner delivered 102 RBIs during the 1986 regular season. Wade Boggs scored 107 times. Marty Barrett hit 4 triples.
The Junior Varsity baseball coach said I didn't hustle during spring tryouts. This was crap. I hustled every play, but I couldn't concentrate. It may have appeared like I was wandering the outfield looking for land mines, but really I would just imagine how happy Dewey had been when his promise came true. He was a winner like Gordy, and he...a ball dropped somewhere near me.
“Bleacher! Get your head out of your ass!” yelled the coach.
The center fielder was picking up a ball ten feet away from me in right field. He threw it in to second base.
Dewey played right field in 1986. He hit 26 home runs during the regular season. Roger Clemens won 24 games and struck out 238 batters. Bruce Hurst threw 11 complete games, 4 of them were shutouts.
My name was not on the list of players chosen for the team. I had to wait until summer to play baseball. Summer: An opportunity to visit Fenway Park and see next to an ancient 1918 World Championship banner a gloriously shiny, brand new wooden plaque pronouncing that the Red Sox were the 1986 World Champions. Champions! It was right there! My World Championship!
Don Baylor was 37 years old, second oldest after Tom Seaver (41), and played all but two games, mostly as a designated hitter. He led the team with 31 home runs. Jim Rice hit .324 in 1986. He played left field.
In 1987, the title defense season, Dewey had an average season batting .254, with eleven home runs. He hurt his back in July and was on and off the disabled list. Clemens pitched well again but the hitting to support his efforts was terrible. He only managed 13 wins though he had a 3.87 ERA. Bruce Hurst couldn't find his groove for and went 2-9 his first 13 starts. Oil Can Boyd surrendered eleven runs in one May game against the Yankees and was ejected for spitting at Don Mattingly. Jim Rice surrendered his Double Play King crown to Dave Henderson. Gedman managed to go the entire year without getting a clutch hit. Buckner hit .178 for the first half of the season so Mike Greenwell tried to learn to play first base with disastrous results. When the Sox could get to the ninth inning with a lead, Schiraldi would come in from the bullpen and allow a two-run home run to the number nine batter. He just killed us, but the Sox no longer had Bob Stanley to pick up the pieces. After a slow spring training, Stanley had announced his retirement. He wanted to leave on top. The Fenway Boo Birds, a genus of discontent fan, returned to roost in June.
Wade Boggs was the only man in the line up who appeared to be playing to win. He hit .330 but drove in only 69 runs because no one was on base when he got his hits. Marty Barrett was inconsistent at second base and just before the fall trade deadline was sent to the Texas Rangers for two pitching prospects who never got out of the minor leagues.
I went to twenty games in the 1987 season, but I still had to watch the victory tape to regain that special jubilation and relief I felt when Ray Knight waved at a Schiraldi curveball in the dirt.
When Cristo called to invite me to a Sox game against the Tigers, I told him I preferred to stay home and watch Game Six. The Sox were fifteen games out of first place, after all. What was the point of going to a game? The Sox went 76-86 games in 1987 and were out of the playoff race in early September. I didn't care as long as I had my tape. Our Junior year was over before you could say “Pour some sugar on me.” There must have been a Junior prom because that's one of those traditions kids look forward to. I definitely didn't go to it. I probably watched the top of the 7th inning when Dwight Evans grounded into a possible inning ending double play with Marty Barrett on third base, but Dewey hustled to first and beat Kevin Elster's throw. Barrett scored to put the Sox ahead 3-2. Clemens sat the Mets down 1-2-3 in the bottom half of the inning. The Sox were six outs away from winning. I smiled serenely as I watched Greenwell pinch hit for Clemens. Considering Clemens had dominated the Mets the entire game, this was a bonehead move, but I knew the Sox would win even more dramatically three innings later.
The BHHS varsity baseball team didn't win the State Championship in 1988. I watched a few of their games at Leary Field but could tell the chemistry was off. Bonigan said they argued on the bus, everyone thought they were prima donnas. You can't win if you're not a team, I said. The team was eliminated in the first round of the playoffs.
Dewey understood what it took to win. He understood sacrifice. His hustle led to the third run for the Sox. He was a winner. The High School team was Little League compared to Game Six. I loved to watch Knight make an error in the 7th inning that gave Dewey a chance to drive Barrett in with a fielder's choice. Knight was the clean shaved perfect kid and he had lost the game for the Mets. How much that must hurt, I wondered. I didn't know that pain and would never know it. Though the had done poorly in 1987, I still felt they were winners. I'd never know the ache Ray Knight must have felt after the game. He made an error to cost the Mets a run and then he made the last out of the game. Too bad.
I meant to ask Darcy or else one of the girls in my Earth Science class to go with me to the Junior Prom. I thought they would get a thrill from being seen with the number one Red Sox fan in town, but I never got around to asking them. Who had the time for those things? I had my tape recording and I knew the stupid Junior Prom wasn't going to top the magical celebration.
I even watched Ray Knight strike out as the summer of '88 turned to fall. There was no need to go to a Red Sox game anymore. Sure they played poorly again, but everyone knew it was nearly impossible to put two championship seasons together in three years. 85 wins isn't anything to scoff at. Dewey was back from his injury and ranged right field with impunity. He drilled more than enough balls into the net. I read about them in the paper. Clemens was pitching well again. Boggs was hitting well. They were winners no matter what happened in 1988. I possessed the only game that mattered and I also had a pencil that Al Nipper threw to me. We were winners, Bill Buckner had said so.
I graduated BHHS after attending summer school to get a half credit in Science. It was humiliating, but what could I do? Because I was short on credits I was prohibited from attending the Celebration Graduation. I heard there was some crazy partying, but I had my own celebration in front of the television with my pencil and soiled Red Sox 1986 World Champions sweatshirt. When I watched Dewey run in from right field the shame of my class graduating without me melted away. I didn't need baseball, didn't even try out for the Babe Ruth League teams or Legion. I had everything I needed on October 25, 1986. We were winners.
Erin went to college somewhere in Vermont, I heard. Cristo probably went to college at UNH. He was always a homebody. We didn't stay in touch anymore after he got a girlfriend. High School was just about sex and popularity. No one cared about the important things like the Sox winning the series in 1986. I remembered one of our last conversations that took place in 1989:
“Schiraldi completely fooled Knight. I mean, that pitch was ten feet out of the strike zone and Knight went fishing. Brilliant.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, My girl's coming over. Call me later.”
“Wait. Listen to this. Those two hits by Carter and Mitchell just made the Mets believe there was a chance. They didn't have a prayer, did they? Remember that 0-2 pitch to Knight?”
“You gotta stop watching that game, kid. It's ancient history. They've had one winning season in two years. They suck.”
“Watch your mouth! These are the Sox you're talking about. They are the 1986 World Champions in case you forgot. Dwight Evans beat out a throw to first that scored the third run for the Sox. I'm sorry, but that doesn't suck. You're the one who sucks for talking trash about my boys. We're winners. Remember what Nipper said about everyone being part of the team?”
“You need to have your fahking head examined, Oggy. That was three years ago. They lost everyone that was good and their prospects are a joke. You need to start going to class. Stop watching that tape.”
“You sound like my father, Sticky. What's wrong with you? You don't know me. You don't know what I need. You don't know Calvin Schiraldi. The Sox are winners.”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever. The Sox won and the Mets fans just deflated. Remember? I'm watching it right now. It's so quiet in New York that you can hear Boston. Remember when the announcer said that?”
“I gotta go, Ogden.”
I never liked the nickname Oggy. It wasn't dignified.
“And you know what? I thought McNamara was crazy to let Schiraldi bat. Remember? Remember when Schiraldi struck out in the top of the tenth? I thought that was crazy to let him bat. But if Mac pinch hits Baylor for him then maybe Boggs never gets that double and Barrett never scores him. See? Then Stanley has to come in to protect a one run lead. What chance does he have of doing that? None. Remember how wild he was? The Mets had the top of the line up coming. If they got two hits off of Schiraldi then they would've murdered Stanley. But they didn't. I'm watching the highlights right now. Schiraldi came out and sat them down just like we knew he would. Two hits just made the final out sweeter. McNamara was right all along. Look at Dewey. He's so happy. He's waving to the Sox fans. Remember him at the parade? He said that all of New England won. He said we were all winners. Wanna come over and watch it again? I can just rewind it. We can watch 'em win, Sticky. The Red Sox win. Sticky? Cristo?”
I applied to a college in California, but didn't get accepted. I thought I'd just go to a nearby technical college, learn to repair cars or install heating systems, but I never sent in the forms. I preferred to sit in the living room and fondle my Red Sox pencil and watch Jim Rice pump his fists when he picked up Wade Boggs near the pitcher's mound. The team was as playful as puppies. They're long road had ended just as Dewey had promised. Old McNamara exploded from the dugout like a seventeen-year old. He was triumphant though he would be replaced in two short years after having trouble keeping the team together in the clubhouse. Too much ego, he said. Inflated salaries tend to do that to some players. I also loved watching the scenes of the Mets clubhouse, the awful silence, the solemn packing of bags for the long winter. What could they do? It was destiny.
My father kicked me out of the house during the '93 or '94 season. I forget which. He said I was wasting my life and he told me to pack my Red Sox posters and record albums and move into my own apartment. This was fine with me. He had been getting on my nerves ever since I bought a second hand television to put in my room so I could watch Game Six while from my bed. I got a room in a nearby town, Marshford or Plumsook, I think. IT was a long time ago and the names start to overlap. My memory isn't what it was like in 1986. I could tell you every player's batting average and number of home runs. I remembered everything, but not no more.
I didn't run into the old gang anymore and Gillies burgers started giving me heartburn. I got a job at one of the outlet stores and was a manager for a while until one of the employees said I'd been harassing her. This wasn't true at all. She was coming on to me and I told her to go home. She threw a coat rack at me and I defended myself. Kids just don't respect their elders anymore. Then I worked a bunch of jobs that are the type you don't put on a resume. I was the custodian at a Junior High School for a year or two. I worked at an oil change place in Homestead, my old town with the lilacs and play room. I even drove past the old house before the land was sold to some developers in 2005 or 2006, and next thing I knew there were a dozen apartments. I would've lived in one if I'd stayed in the area, but I got hooked up with a ticket broker for a while and made some money scalping Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Patriots tickets. It was good work if you knew how to handle the cops and the crowds.
I started hitting the bars in Maine at night just for something to do and sometime in 2009 I was at a place called The Wheel Room, when a guy walked in wearing a Red Sox hat. He saw my own worn Sox cap, the same one Dewey had given me, and he asked how the Sox had done that day.
“They won. Sox five, Mets three. All of New England won. Bottom of the tenth inning with the winning run at the plate...”
“Mets? The Sox are on the west coast. Hey, sweetheart, put a little more water in this guy's whiskey.”
I didn't think that was so funny.
“The Sox won the World Series, man. They're winners. Don't forget it.”
“Sure buddy.”
I pulled out the worn pencil. It was unsharpened but scratched from being moved from apartment to apartment. I placed it next to the 1986 team photo that I had just been showing the bartender.
“This is Dwight Evans and this is the pencil he gave me,” I announced. “The Sox are winners. They won. Dewey told me he'd win and they won. Look.”
The man rolled his eyes and found another place at the bar. That night I went home with the waitress. I can't remember exactly what her name was but I know it rhymed with 'sadness'. We lived together, didn't see much of each other because she was working nights and I had to sell tickets in Boston during the day. She didn't bother me too much and I didn't bother her.
Our kid came at a bad time, though, just after the Cubs won the Series. Winter months at the ticket broker were slow, the Celtics played like shit that year and I couldn't give tickets away. The Bruins had moved to Springfield back in 2012. The wife couldn't get much work off so I started working for a mason laying sidewalks, busting my shine box for those rich assholes in Plumsook, folks from Virginia and D.C. area trying to build their own castles, their own Xanadu in my own backyard. Hurt my back in the spring and had to go on disability. The kid was alright, a girl with two different colored eyes. I used to say that she had to be my kid because I never did anything the same way twice, and that was good for a laugh.
They moved into their own place when the kid was two or three. I saw the little one on weekends. We'd go to the park and I'd hold her real close and tell her not to get hurt. But she always found a way to get hurt. You know how kids are. They blamed me for the bruises and I told the judge that I wasn't doing anything except holding her so she wouldn't fall down. Because if she fell then she wouldn't want to come see me and we couldn't watch Game Six at night and talk about Schiraldi and Rice and Dewey. It was a father's responsibility to teach his children about history, wasn't it? When I went into the new pen over in Riversook, her mom wouldn't even let her send me letters. No postcards, no nothing. That was in 2016, I think.
Wife number two was a mistake from the beginning. Met her at the Social Services in '24 or '25, picking up our checks. She had a kid too, a boy with hair the same color as Gordy Clutcher's, but neither one of us could see our own children. How do you like that? We'd hit the bar until the end of the month and then start picking on each other waiting for the next check. She said she'd grown up in New York as a Yankees fan and she used to give me shit about the Yanks winning a bunch of championships in the late '90s. But I always had '86 No one could take that away from me.
Must've been that guy she met at the bar, the red head, who got her knocked up. The boy she claims is mine has red fahking hair. No one in my family has red hair. I know they got paternity tests and all but I don't see either of them much. Don't want to know. She gets half my check and I get half drunk. Works fine with me. That kid came over once, and while I was taking a nap he taped a program called “Win my Wife.” over most of Game Six.. I might've taken a belt to him, but I didn't do everything they said I did. I still have most of the post-game show and the highlights of the game are almost as good as the real thing. I can still watch Dewey's interview. That was before my dad died. My brother lives in our old house. I forget the name of the street. You know the one, over by the Junior High school. Pretty house. I've been meaning to visit but I don't like to get in the way of his family.
Was in the supermarket the other day picking up some dinner. They got some real good meals in the frozen food aisle. I never remember to get a cart so I had to carry the boxes up front. So I'm standing in a line a mile long and it wasn't going anywhere, when a girl came up to me and said she could help me at the express lane. Express lane in a supermarket? What'll they think of next? I looked at the girl's name tag and it said, “DEE DEE”
“I once dated a girl named Darcy.” I said. That's a name I can't forget. “Pretty blond hair like yours. Ran real fast too.”
I went to follow Darcy when one of the frozen dinner slipped out of my hand. Tried to catch it but only managed to drop all of the damn boxes on the floor. My hands were shaking and tired. I'm not young anymore. Darcy helped me pick the boxes up. She was real nice. I went to get my wallet and it fell on the ground too. It's no fun getting old, but I guess it won't be long now. Picked up my wallet and found two dog-eared photograBHHS
“This is a picture of my oldest,” I said to Darcy. “She's in New York, I think, gonna be a nurse. Real good student. Real smart. And this is my youngest. He's older now, of course, I don't have a recent picture. He and his mom live out west. I hear he's real good at math. A real math whiz.”
Darcy nodded politely as she ran my dinners through the scanner thing. As I was putting the pictures away I found the eraser end of a pencil. The letters “ D Sox” were stamped on it and worn away almost to nothing. Near my library card and instructions about my medicine there was a larger piece of glossy paper. I took it out and unfolded it, smiling.
“Look at this. I'd forgotten I even had this. This was my team back in '86. We were winners. These men made my dream come true, Darcy. They said I was a winner too. They won in '86. Was it that long ago? This man here made me a promise once. His name is Don Evans.”
I knew his name was Dwight, but sometimes the details don't come out right in my mouth. It's just one of those things.
“He gave me this here hat...oh, I forgot I don't have that hat anymore. I mailed it to my son out west. Swell cap. Fit real nice. Don't know if he got it. Don Evans, we called him Dewey, he gave me a hat and made a promise to win and they won and I got a pencil. They were winners...my heroes. And this man over here struck out Rick Knight to...”
“Let's move it!” called a voice from the back of a line that had formed behind me. I couldn't see who it was without my glasses, but I was sure it looked like a boy I once knew. I think his name was Button or Brendan.
“Move it, captain.”
I nodded. People live fast these days, live fast and die young. They don't care much for the old stories, the songs from my time. Young folks have their own songs now. I nodded and asked how much I owed for my dinners.
“Twenty-Two dollars and fifty cents, sir. How would you like to pay for that?”
“Twenty dollars? In my day I could get a burger and a slice of pie for two bits. There was this place called Gillies over where the new downtown mall is. Before your time. Good sandwiches and omelets for a good price. Went there with my old friend Cristo. Read in the paper that he passed away. Had two nice kids. He...”
“Kind of in a hurry back here.”
Again that kid, Bonigan, that was his name. Bonigan. I wonder what happened to him.
I looked through my wallet, but couldn't find any cash. I must have left it on the nightstand again. I'm doing that more often these days. I never was one to use credit cards, even though my oldest has tried to get me to switch over. It's just like music; some people don't like change. I guess I'm one of them. I don't listen to much music these days, the equipment is so complicates with ten different buttons you have to push to play a song, but sometimes I hear the songs from the old fires. I still hear them, and they call me down.
“I guess I forgot my cash clip, honey. I sure do think I forgot my money clip at home.”
Darcy smiled cheerfully, a pretty smile, with good teeth. I wish I'd kept better care of my teeth.
“We'll hold onto your selections for the rest of the day, Sir. You just come back when you want to purchase them. Thank you.”
She looked to the next customer and I got pushed a little by the cart. I smiled with my lips closed to hide my dentures, but no one was watching. My slippers don't work too well on slick tile so I walked outside real slow. It was raining. I felt very tired, like I'd forgotten something other than my umbrella, but couldn't name it. People my age get that way sometimes, they forget things and complain. Life hasn't been a carnival, but I got what I asked for; the Red Sox won and nothing can take that away from me, not old age or a child custody judge or a welfare case worker, or some government bootblack working in an office. I guess when my memory is completely gone I won't have Dewey's smile to remember, but that doesn't mean it never happened. It can feel like a curse, this losing memories, misplacing long-kept treasures, but I think the only reason I get up anymore is to remember what I forgot.
When I stepped outside I got hit by a wave of cold water. Damndest thing.
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 11:11 PM
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