I didn’t want to say it, but I couldn’t shake it. Deep down in the pit of my stomach, I just had a feeling. I knew the chances of the Red Sox coming back from a 3-1 deficit in the ALCS were slimmer than they had been in previous postseasons. Too many injuries, too many years in uniform, too many reasons why the younger, spunkier team would come into our house and drive the final nail into the coffin.
But still… I had a feeling.
I didn’t say anything to Izzie about it at first. I didn’t know if verbalizing it would cross that very fine line between faith and superstition. But finally I couldn’t keep it to myself. In the bowels of the T, I uttered only these words, “I have a feeling.”
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. There was nothing either of us could say. Anymore words might rile the gods, and we had to keep them happy.
We had tested the gods already, and they weren’t pleased. As much as we wanted our beloved Red Sox to win, we knew they needed to lose one in the series to force a Game 5 and make our trip possible. So after winning Game 1, we both made decisions not to indulge our superstitions. No lucky bracelet. No lucky shirt. The fact is… we needed to jinx them.
And we did. For three straight games.
We were both ashamed and did everything in our power to reverse the pattern. I knocked on wood so many times that there was little anyone could say about the Red Sox that didn’t warrant my knuckles striking any solid object around me… wood or not. We had both gone through an exhaustive process of packing clothes that could only bring good luck. The Beckett and Ortiz jerseys stayed at home because they had not proven themselves to be charmed during the postseason. I said a Rosary the day of the game and wore lucky underwear. Anything and everything to make the gods happy, to let them know that we were sorry for testing them.
For six innings on the night of October 16th, the gods let us know that they were still forces to be reckoned with.
As we sat five rows behind the Rays bullpen in right field, I still had that feeling, but it was fading fast like the tattered photo of Marty McFly’s siblings tucked in his wallet. Without realizing it, I started composing the final paragraph of this column. I thought how I would write that even in spite of losing 7-0, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. October baseball, win or lose, is a moment to be treasured. Even though I wanted to give in to the burning in my tear ducts, I was glad to be there.
And then it happened. The gods knew I was truly penitent.
After enduring a brutal warm-up session during which he heard a taunt per pitch, Grant Balfour took the mound and coughed up a double to Jed Lowrie. Suddenly a crowd that had been given nothing to cheer for got a second wind. With two outs on the board, Crisp laced a single that sent Lowrie running for third. Then the definition of scrappiness stepped to the plate in the form of Dustin Pedroia. He connected for a single that scored Lowrie. Both the Sox and the crowd had finally showed up by the time Papi stepped to the plate.
I don’t remember seeing the swing, but I heard the roar and looked up to see Papi’s towering fly heading towards us in right field. I looked down at the fence, back at the ball, again at the fence, and back to the ball and finally it registered. That ball was gone. Izzie and I turned to each other in ecstatic disbelief. The unknowns around us suddenly became our best friends as we all exchanged high fives of euphoric glee. It was the Papi of old and we had a contest on our hands.
Balfour was gone after that, and Dan Wheeler never stood a chance. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have 38,000 people chanting your name in a cadence so derisive that you can’t function. Izzie and I joined the chorus around us, yelling, “Wheeeee-ler! Wheeeee-ler!”
Ball one to Jason Bay.
”Wheeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeee-ler!”
Ball two.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeeeeee-ler!”
Ball three.
“WHEEEEEEEEE-LER! WHEEEEEEEEELER!”
Take your base, Mr. Bay.
We were in Wheeler's head.
And then J.D. Drew joined us there by slamming a shot into the stands just to the left of us.
7-5.
My phone was buzzing like mad in my pocket. Izzie and I were practically speechless.
Was this really happening?
Before we knew it, we had reached the middle of the 8th, and as Neil Diamond’s voice filled the air, the raucous crowd truly believed that things were oh so good now that the Red Sox had come within one run of tying the devilish Rays.
Fear still lurked in my gut though because Papelbon was done for the night, but I knew that no one else could have stopped the bleeding but him. He had come in at the right moment and I just had to believe that Justin Masterson could bring the magic.
With only one minor heart palpitation, Masterson retired the Rays, and before we knew it, the bottom of the 9th arrived. Nothing seemed impossible then. Not even when Pedroia and Papi went down. Not even when Youkilis grounded to third. Not even when the throw to first seemed to glide so perfectly toward the outstretched glove of the first baseman… and then it didn’t.
Pure pandemonium undulated through Fenway on the error. Youk took second, and the triumph was so close I could have seen it with my 20/200 vision in the dark underwater.
It was right there in front of us… which was exactly where Gabe Gross was when J.D. Drew’s game-winning hit skirted over the top of of his glove.
I didn’t see Youk cross the plate, but I knew as soon as I saw Drew's rope to right that he would. When I saw the ball miss his outstretched leather, my arms flew up in the air and my hoarse voice found its tune one more time to yell for the victors.
Izzie and I looked at one another and had no words. We slapped five with each other and anyone else in a five- seat radius. When the strains of “Dirty Water” became the soundtrack of the moment, we took our cue and began to sing along, jig in place, and fire off texts and calls to everyone who we loved and who loved the Sox.
It was the type of moment you want to wrap in tissue paper, tuck in a hope chest, and keep safe forever. It was transcendent. It was perfect. It was the epitome of October baseball.
Even when Izzie and I were walking to the T, joining the Red Sox cheers and bouncing along to the cacophony of horns in Kenmore Square, I don’t think either of us realized the true magnitude of what we had just seen. We knew full well we had been at a spectacular baseball game, but we didn’t understand that we had actually seen one of the greats. It wasn’t until the next morning when we read the paper and watched the recaps that the reality began to set in.
We had witnessed history.
* * *
When Red Sox Nation finally landed back down on Earth, we discovered that our team, though gutsy and talented, still didn’t have enough gas to defeat the Rays. In the end, the Red Sox fell to Tampa Bay in the 7th game. Had they won, it would have made a nice footnote to The Great Game 5 Comeback, but it wasn’t meant to be.
I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I had a feeling.
I had a feeling it was someone else’s year to win it all, and even though I finally gave in to the tears, I was okay with that.
After all, you can’t ask for too much, and the gods had already given me more than I ever could have asked for.
