No amount of Friday-the-13ths or full-moon Halloween nights can get me nervous about superstitions as much as the baseball season. I’ll admit it, I’m superstitious. Especially when it comes to baseball’s bizarre eccentricity. As hard as I try to detach myself from the slippery slope to crazyville by deciding to not knock on wood at the slightest possible jinx or to consciously decide to not wear the lucky t-shirt with a massive hole down the left side of my armpit underneath my work clothes on a clinching game of an important series, I can’t seem to shake the self-destructive addiction that is baseball fandom. Is there a 12-step program out there so I don’t have to stop cold turkey?
Last post-season’s ALCS had probably solidified my fate even more than Harrison Ford in Empire Strikes Back (yup, Star Wars). While in Fayetteville with the Sox down 3 to 1 against the Rays preparing to head to Philadelphia for my sister’s wedding without giving any thought to baseball, I was to land in Philadelphia during Game 5 and would fortunately miss the Rays pop champagne in Boston’s visiting locker rooms and prepare for the World Series. Yet, that was not to be. The effects of air-travel/sickness that night and with the game on mute because my parents were sleeping in the other bed (I honestly didn’t plan on revealing I shared a hotel room with my parents in the same paragraph as a Star Wars reference) became way too much, I managed to stay awake until the top of the 7th inning but then decided to call it a night. Blame me? (Well, you will). Sox hadn’t scored a run yet and showed no signs of life in the post-season whatsoever. At least my sister’s wedding would be a nice distraction. Hey, the Phillies clinched the NLCS so there would be no chance Manny, D-Lowe, and Nomah would be able to play the Red Sox for a shot at redemption no matter what happens. Maybe I can just immerse myself into the local talk of Philadelphia and be exposed to the Phillies hype.
Dozing in-and-out of consciousness I had to ignore the constant vibrations of my cell phone as to not wake the aforementioned parents in the room. Surely it was from all my friends consoling me. But more probable, all my friends sending me their virtual jeers. After the 5th buzz stirred me awake I finally opened my eyes to see a text I never prepared to receive, “OMG! JD DREW!” And wouldn’t ya know it? Sox won and I missed it. It was happening. I was having the Jimmy Fallon complex in Fever Pitch when the Red Sox came from behind to beat the Yankees but Jimmy and Drew Barrymore were at a Great Gatsby birthday party. Then Jimmy finally said what I’d been wanting to say to someone for a long time, “Clearly it’s not JUST a game!” At least he was saying it to his future ex-girlfriend [spoiler alert!]. The only person I’d get to say it to would have to be my sister, ’cause it was her fault I missed it, right? Had I not had to drive two hours to get to Tulsa airport, fly 6 hours all the way to Philadelphia and then stuff myself with food because I hadn’t eaten all day I probably would have watched it in the comfort of my own 3 year old futon. She was the reason I was in Philly. Maybe. Just maybe, Fayetteville was just bad-luck.
Wedding Day was Saturday, also known as Game 6. Sox still in it. Beckett slated for the start. During the reception I have my iPhone turned to ESPN’s Gamecast while trying to continually give the perception I was mingling. Through all the festivities I kept a rather good track on the situation. Close game and Beckett’s still on the mound through 5 innings. Tie-game no less. Holy crap. (I hope Karen isn’t reading this, but during the first dance – I glanced at the box score. Continually.) But yup, the good ‘ol boys win and I’m on the dance floor doing the Worm. Then run to watch the highlights from the hotel room. It was as if moving to the East Coast was my calling. Being there, closer to my team I was giving them support to win, support they didn’t have before. I felt narcissistically controlling and magically I was the key to success. Well, as much as controlling I could be without going “Celtic Pride” and kidnapping David Price or Evan Longoria.
Fayetteville’s charm that has deprived the Razorbacks with years of average mediocracy has been transferred to the Red Sox. My hometown was punishing me for spending time elsewhere, wishing I lived there instead of here. Arrived Sunday night just in time for deciding Game 7. Loss. Pack it up fellas! What would have I given to jump on a Concorde to get back in Philly post-seventh inning stretch? I still kick myself because I should have just left Fayetteville; drove to Missouri or Oklahoma. Hell, it’s only an hour away and surely there’s a sports bar somewhere and since I’ve already angered Fayette-nam’s wrath, that’s where you can find me in October 2009.
Knock-on-wood.
