When you marry a native Red Sox fan, your life changes
forever.
When you marry a native Red Sox fan and the Sox make it to
the World Series, your world explodes.
I grew up in Virginia, the great state of no team in
particular, and so I never followed team sports. But when I married into Red
Sox Nation, I no longer had that option.
My husband moved our twin babies and me to his homeland of
Massachusetts in 2002 when “the Curse” was still in power. One of the first things we
did was walk into Fenway Park and choose between the last two pair of available seats for season ticket purchase. I was sporting my brand new, bright-red Lands
End coat that guaranteed warmth in weather as frigid as -34 degrees. It was a massive
piece of insulated architecture that weighed a ton. I was wearing a
Hyundai. Still, it did the trick and I wore it whenever it was cold outside, which
was September through May. So on that day, as I attempted to back my rear
bumper into the 15-inch, 91-year-old seats, my husband cruised from one
end of the stadium to the other testing the sightlines until he finally made his
choice. We were officially season ticket holders.
That year the Sox made it to the ALCS Championship against
the damn Yankees. The night of Game 7, the Sox were in New York; my husband was
in our bedroom pacing in front of the TV; and the babies were blessedly
sleeping. That meant I had a good 3 or 4 hours to enjoy my favorite activity:
Peace.
The object of this game was to go downstairs and see what my
house looked like with no one in it. I’d sit at the kitchen counter and absorb
the nourishing silence like the roots of my one surviving houseplant on the
days I remembered to water it. I’d wander from room to room as if I was at a Sunday
Open House, viewing a world that wasn’t really mine. Here, I could light
scented candles without fear of little ones getting burned. I could read more than two sentences in a row, or simply
close my eyes on the couch without someone yanking my hair and demanding snacks or Band-Aids. Oh, how I was beginning to love sports.
“Muck!”
The shout came from upstairs … only the word wasn’t actually
“muck”.
“Muck, Muck, MUCK!”
My eyes snapped open and all that serenity popped like the bubbles in
my much-anticipated bath that were rapidly swirling down the drain.
“Ssshhhh!” I hissed, rushing up the stairs,
“Don't mucking wake the babies.”
A glance at the TV screen showed the Sox beating the Yankees
by 3 in the bottom of the eighth.
“What’s wrong? They’re winning.”
“They’re about to muck it up,” he growled.
“Oh for goodness sake,” I chirped, “You know they’re going to win.”
Wrong. Thing. To. Say. My husband’s head swiveled my way and
daggers shot out of his eyes.
“Why would you say that?! You just jinxed us!”
I rolled my eyes ... and a few minutes later the Yankees tied the game.
Then, in the tenth inning, something very bad happened and a very happy Yankee jogged leisurely around the bases to score.
In official sports-speak, that little round-a-bout was
called a walk-off home run and apparently I caused it. I also caused Grady
Little to keep Pedro pitching way past his prime, which resulted in Aaron Boone hitting said
walk-off homer to win the ALCS Championship. I somehow managed all this while
standing in my bedroom, 200 miles from Yankee Stadium, wielding nothing but a mucking, positive attitude.
Trust me when I tell you my house was no longer peaceful.
A decade later, my family still refers to that game as the “Adrienne
Game.” Grady Little, Bill Buckner and I have learned the same lesson the hard
way: Boston never forgets.
Stay tuned for Part Two, in which the babies become teenage
superfan fanaticals; our two seats become four seats, and the Red Sox make the 2013
World Series. We’re off to Fenway now for Game 6, where I promise not to say anything good about the Sox … wish me luck ...
