Originally published October 7, 1990, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe
In the ballpark the other night, not many wanted to move after Brunansky made his marvelous catch and the fact that so many voted with their feet standing still in a stadium rather than head toward the reality of the street beyond should not come as any big surprise because things are fairly lousy. The people who refused to leave were all smiles and living a pleasant dream.
Past the summer green of Fenway it sometimes seems as if there is only Iraq, taxes, drugs, murder and politics. While between the white lines, where the game is played, there were a few men, especially a guy like Carlton Fisk, who somehow seem capable of delaying the arrival of their own night; so their continuing skill manages to keep us all a bit younger.
And you can feel that beautiful illusion of youth all around this morning. Baseball has a way of dominating the pulse of this region unlike anything else. Certainly, no other team comes close to maintaining a monopoly on mood the way the Red Sox do, whether winning or losing.
Given their history, rooting for this year’s edition is like cheering for September strangers. They have no speed, only limited pitching depth, and large volumes of home runs are from highlight films of memory. Yet the players actually seem to like one another and perform, incredibly, as a unit; a team instead of 24 guys bathing in jealousy and unearned hatred of sportswriters.
They are, literally, the talk of the town. Today, they set the agenda. They are the object of every verb, most thoughts and nearly every wish and prayer.
Their success, carved out of a threeweek roller coaster ride, has returned sport to the sports pages. The Red Sox, thankfully, push sexism and stupidity to the back of the paper. They have given us a brief reprieve from stories of which athlete is on drugs and who is holding out for more dough. The Olde Towne Team is playing a game that, despite the effort of owners and ballplayers, is bigger than greed and beyond being tarnished by selfishness, free agency or rootless mercenaries who take directions from agents and never hear a child’s cheer.
Friday, trying to decide what to type for today (a murder, a rape, a school system incapable of finding a slot for a kid in kindergarten were my choices), I drove around, mind changing faster than a red light at Fields Corner. The sky was high, blue and without a hint of clouds. The sun was Julywarm and yet nearly every streetcorner arrived like a blotch of ink.
Here, on Topliff Street, I recalled a shooting that started a gang war. And, over there, coming up Ashmont, I remembered a young boy, a teenager, an innocent with terrific dreams, going down dead on the sidewalk a few hundred yards from a Catholic church where nuns cried when told of the murder. He was 200 yards from his house when he was shot in the back by someone still out there, free. His family was shattered and, no doubt, remains so because nobody ever comes all the way back from tragedy like that.
Ahead of me there was a small bus, a van really, transporting youngsters with disabilities from school. Halfway down Dorchester Avenue, the bus pulled to the curb in front of a threedecker where a woman sat waiting on the stoop.
She got off the step to help a little boy get off the vehicle. He was 8 years old and greatly disabled. When he came down the ramp in his chair, he wore an enormous smile and, on his head, tilted just perfectly, a Red Sox cap. The scene was deserving of a cheer at least equal to the rush of noise that greeted the right fielder Wednesday night.
“He likes the Red Sox?” his mother was asked.
“He loves the Red Sox,” she replied. “I let him stay up late every night to watch them. He just loves them.”
The boy had difficulty speaking. His limbs were frozen. His face, however, became a simple statement of cheer as baseball was discussed. You think of everyone who regards a parking ticket or an extra six cents a gallon as the absolute end of the world, true gloom, and then you see a little boy who needs a wheelchair and perspective arrives. That, plus the knowledge that no matter how hard people try, no one can really place a foul hand on this perfect game.
So this one is for the Red Sox. For all they mean to all those anonymous dreamers who sit today worrying about Oakland and their strapping allstar strength. Remember, the true national sport used to be and ought to be again optimism.
This one is for the Olde Towne Team and everything they do to breath life and hope into those who would otherwise willingly begin the long, gloomy winter in October. And, most of all, it’s for baseball, which isn’t exactly a matter of life and death, but the Red Sox are.
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