Red Sox Nation: Montana Chapter
For anyone who knows anything about Boston and baseball, this year's world championship romp by our idiot Red Sox was a thrill beyond reason.
I grew up a Massachusetts youngster worshiping Yaz and Jim Rice, and watching the final game last week, while the moon was eclipsing, was a perfect, a once-in-a-lifetime moment that many of us east coast transplants could only wish for on a star.
When my brother-in-law, Ian, recently left Whitefish for a job in Boston, I knew that this must be the year the Sox would finally put the "Curse of the Bambino" to bed.
But just before he left, we had a scare, when the woman who rented Ian's house told him the name of her dog - Ian almost cancelled the whole deal - Jeter. Her dog was named for one of the most evil Yankees in Red Sox Nation.
When the Sox got into the post season on a wild card, the inevitable phone calls from Ian began. But the games on TV without him just weren't the same.
Watching a post-season Red Sox game with Ian is an experience worth describing: First, you must don actual red socks and wear them without washing them for the whole series. Second, hot dogs and Boston baked beans must be available during game time.
Third, make sure a cold twelve-pack of Sam Adams is chilling on the porch. The bonus here is that we still serve after seventh inning stretch.
As you can see, watching a game with Ian is a lot like being in Fenway Park, but with more comfortable seats. You'll seldom find Ian sitting, however.
Whenever a crucial play is being made, Ian will pace back and forth, then wander into the kitchen, too scared to watch with his own eyes, groaning when the inevitable late-inning home run by the Yankees - or some bobble of the ball by the Sox— would seal our home team's fate.
Throughout the series this year, I kept wondering to myself, why do the Red Sox matter? What is it about watching nine men bat around a white ball and run bases that makes us cheer, stay up late, feel anxious and excited, as if it really mattered in the grand scheme of things?
For me, watching the Red Sox this year was a lesson in life: When the outcome seemed certain, when the odds were stacked against them, when the stress was unbearable, they did the unthinkable.
The greatest comeback in sports history was acheived by our team. And why not? It makes you believe that anything is possible.
The best part about it was that this rag tag bunch of bums made it look like they knew it was going to happen all along. They believed.
As we listened to the sounds of cheering fans in the streets of Boston through Ian's cell phone, the earth's shadow left the bright moon, and the dream, it seemed, was over. Or was it just beginning?
Brian Schott is a freelance writer for the Whitefish Pilot