The curse, Wakefield’s knuckleball, and another f’n home run.
When Wake’s knuckleball launched off of Aaron’s bat on the night of October 16, 2003, every member of Red Sox Nation was hit in the gut. The hit, so reminiscent of Bucky f’n Dent’s, hit us like Babe Ruth himself had put the lumber to the soft tissue of our midsections with his 38oz Louisville Slugger. We, the nation, Red Sox Nation, who rooted for this back bay Fens underdog for over 80 years, only to be sadistically taunted with these dramatic displays of defeat. We were ravenously hungry for more. This moment was the peak, the high watermark of our fanship.
When I moved to the City of Boston in the winter of 2004, Grady Little had been run out of the Hub for leaving Petey in too long. This new guy Tito was lead. Some of the faces from 2003 were gone, but most back. There were new teammates too. We were hopeful, and faithful. We suited up for another campaign with pitchers and catchers reporting that February. We supervised every movement of our team, and reported our findings to whomever would listen.
The nation extended the Red Sox dugout from Fort Myers, FL, to Fort Kent, ME; from Bar Harbor to the deserts of the US Southwest. Red Sox Nation during the winter 2004 embraced generations of fans from the Silent Generation to GenZ. Encompassing wisdom of elders in their waning years with the hope and wonder of a newborn in a sox branded onesie. We were “America’s” team in that moment. Of course we broke the curse.
In the years that followed the Red Sox won 3 more trophies. During the winning years, I would go to 10-12 games a year. It was something to do. Someone always had an extra ticket. I lived in the neighborhood. I like the game. My favorite thing about baseball has always been anticipation. Every time the pitcher sets, anything can happen. And yet, it almost never does.
In the years following the 2004 victory, ownership also started cashing in their chips. They raised their prices exponentially on everything from tickets to hats to beer to hot dogs. Merch exploded. Pink baseball caps dotted the bleachers on any given Thursday night that students were on campus. But, they didn’t invest in the team. Prospects were let go with little consideration other than they would be expensive to retain.
These cost increases put the game out of reach for most of those clinging to the past glory of red sox nation. And the talent void left the product on the field less than. Those who left to fill the seats were the ever faithful and very few die hard, and the new ball game attendees. These new ball game attendees were funny. Like a tourist, not a fan.
The new ball fans weren’t into the game. They didn’t even watch it. They kinda just liked the vibes. Showing up in the 3rd inning, drinking 2 beers, eating a hot dog, taking selfies in the Museum of Boston Baseball, and then out to Landsdowne the at the close of the 6th inning for the club scene. So much for, “Take me out to the ballgame.” I may be hyperbolizing, but the point is made.
These new ball game attendees weren’t paying attention to the game. They were just paying. Paying for tickets, beer, merch, food, parking, and trains. Paying for a hit of dopamine that helped them forget the pain of their lives for a moment. The team did such a good job numbing their new guests that the guests often forgot why they went to the ballpark: to see a ballgame.
Last time I sat in the seats at Fenway, the park sweat on me. I was sitting on the third baseline, just under the grandstands. It was a classic hot and humid August night in Boston. I felt a couple of drops of water from above. I determined that the roof above was condensing the atmospheric humidity on the century’s worth of beer, tobacco, and hot dog sweat onto my head. I left the park abruptly, and have only returned once since then for an invited first pitch event where I drank too much and struggled to mask my contempt for what the Red Sox have become.
Last Saturday night, I drove through by the park for reasons unrelated to sports ball. The only clue that there was a game? The “$25 parking” sign on Beacon St. as I passed over the Pike into Kenmore. To my knowledge, that lot peaked at 60 bucks a couple years ago. The value of Red Sox Nation has been completely raided using the vampiric methods of Private Equity that now dominate the landscape of big business in the United States.
It comes as no surprise that it wasn’t despite the curse; it was because of the curse that we shared the best of times as red sox nation together. I wish the Red Sox well in their future endeavors. I expect them to move out of the Museum on yawkey and into a more modern facility before 2035.