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Fantasy Defeats Hurricane

Last night as the rain begin to pour down, and our friends in New York began checking themselves into Hurricanapalooza on four square, there were only two things on my mind. One being do I have to bring inside my window AC. Another, the far greater problem, how will this effect fantasy football?

After years of mocking fantasy nerds, I have stepped inside the strange world that has somehow replaced magic cards with baseball cards. Pi has been replaced with strange self-made ranking formulas. But as my new role as a math teacher this coming year, it seemed my professional responsibility to join a fantasy league.

It is around nine. I set my alarm for 7:30 this morning, to clean my house from the hurricane party in case our power goes out. I also had every intention of organizing and cleaning my room. I figured the neater it is, the less of my stuff will be ruined when this storm crashes all of our windows and floods our entire house. An hour and a half has gone by. I have edited my fantasy team countless times. My room already looks like a hurricane has hit. My AC remains in the window.  I still haven’t gotten around to purchasing a flashlight. I used up all my batteries bringing my radio outside to listen to Sox games.  But I don’t have enough time to fix any of these problems. Instead, I anxiously wait for 9:30, the proper hour to call my fantasy mentor.

I shouldn’t even call him. His wife is due any minute, and there may be a hurricane. There is no way he would be wasting his time with this rubbish. Maybe I will call anyway, need to see how he and his wife are doing in the storm.

 

Stuck in a (glorious) moment in O'Hare

My flight was two hours delayed. Of course I hand't checked before being dropped off, so I had a few hours to kill in the O'Hare airport. With all of the delayed flights I was surprised and delighted to find a seat at the Goose Island Bar right near my gate. The San Fransico Giants were playing the Atlanta Braves. Not two teams I particularly care for, but that I meant I could watch baseball, without anxiety. I soon realized why my seat was empty. I tried hard to focus on the game, but the couple beside me was screaming at each other. One did not want to mosh at the concert because of a sore throat. The other was not "understandably." This discussion kept going until their pints finally finished, and I was alas, left to watch the game in piece.

The other screen had Monday night football. Preseason, but it was football, so I couldn't complain. The bartender kept awkwardly trying to seat men who walked in alone beside me. Maybe she assumed the only reason to go to a sports bar in the airport was to meet a man. Because people are always at their romantic best when their flights have been delayed and cancelled.

By the time the seat filled next to me, I was actually starting to focus on both games, understanding my flight would not leave anytime soon, I had no choice to follow airport sports. It wasn't like being at my home bars, where if ESPN was playing teams I didn't care for, and Joe Buck was announcing on FOX, we could agree on NESN replays. So I adapted. The man beside me had his iPad out, so he could follow all of his home team sports. I asked if there was free internet, and he replied in iPad terms.

Then ESPN flashed an update. Thome had gotten his 599 home run. They also announced they would show his next at bat. The man  next to me briefly discussed sports. We both had been to a White Sox game while in town. Him for a bachelor party, me for an insane life project involving every ballpark and a coffee table. We both had already been to Wrigley and agreed in it's superiority. He went back to his iPad, and I went back to watching and hoping for a Jets loss. Mostly, because the Yankees were winning. It was starting to feel like Kansas City was following me around.

It was Thomes next at bat. The TV switched over as promised, and we sat silently. All of the what-ifs buzzing through the air. And it happened. With mighty force he hit his 600th homer. And suddenly, my two hour delay didn't seem so catastrophic. At the bar we smiled like little kids. Because baseball does that. One minute you are at the bar pissed off listening to a couple fight, and the next minute you are witnessing something completely glorious happen to make baseball history. I texted and congratulated my principal. The only Twins fan I know. And when I finally found my gate, I was the only one smiling.

 

Baseball in Chicago

Primarily I went to Chicago to visit friends and family. The trip had nothing to do with baseball, but as so much in my life, I found some time for baseball. I booked my trip and only hours later bought four tickets to see the White Sox play. It was slim picking for baseball in Chicago. The Cubs were out of town, and the Kansas City Royals were in town.. 

The last time I was at a MLB professional ballpark that wasn't Fenway was in 2006. I went to Wrigley right after Nomar got traded. I saw the Red Sox battle the Oakland As away, as well as the Angels. But this was new territory. And I was hoping for all an out of towner would hope for, a no hitter, and an Ozzie flip out.

Neither happened. It was a relatively normal game of baseball. I almost shook when I mistook fireworks for a South Side shooting. I missed the accents of vendors in Boston. I could not believe my eyes when a vendor walked by our bleacher seats with a Margarita backpack. What was even more amusing was the men a few rows in front of us who bought what the Magarrtabuster called "happy juice" and I saw it was bright pink. Now this was truly a thing of pink hats. 

As the first hit crushed a hit off Danks, my hopes of a no-hitter were also crushed. And with the four run lead, it seemed unlikely that Ozzie would start anything. The game ended, and we took pictures of the Chicago skyline. But I wasn't ready to be finished with baseball for the day. I told my friends, if they really wanted me to move to Chicago, I would need to find a spot to watch a Red Sox game. And not just any spot, a good spot.

We got on the L with a set destination in mind. Nic and Dinos Tripoli Tavern. Two friends displaced from Framingham who had set up a Boston sports bar. On the L we had to tolerate the loud voices of, wait for it, Yankee fans. Finally, we got off and walked to the Tavern.

I could see a Bruins flag and a Red Sox flag gleaming in the sunlight. We rushed in to catch the last full inning of the game. We had already seen the Sox get behind with Wake pitching on the fancy scoreboard at the White Sox game. But we were hoping for a comeback. People around us were in Sox hats. We watched the Sox lose, but somehow it was fulfilling, drinking Harpoon IPA. Unfortunatetely, the Sam summer had been switched to Octoberfest, but losing with each other around, hardly felt like losing.  We only planned to stay for one. 

But every time we got ready to leave another fresh pint was in our view. First by a local, who seemed enchanted by our baseball obsession. And then by Nick, who seemed to enjoy being in the presence of people who couldn't hear his accent. Well, at least, I couldn't hear his accent, until it was pointed out to me. We talked baseball. And for a few seconds, I started to believe Boston was not the center of the universe. 

   

Plus Red Sox

In your late twenties things begin to change. You have less time to think about yourself and do what you want, instead you have to focus on people getting married. You have to focus on the partnerships happening around you.

It's as if people think when they are ready to grow up, so are those around them. Suddenly we are supposed to have money and jobs in which we can take of a day to celebrate a union. Say goodbye to using your personal days on yourself. No more day games. Personal days get filled up for other people's personal celebrations. Going to a baseball game becomes selfish.

I am thinking about starting a registry for myself. I am not married, and I'm  nowhere near even having someone to bring to a wedding. If only I was allowed to bring my radio to weddings. I could be entertained by 850 the entire cocktail hour. I could dance to Sweet Caroline, and Shipping Off to Boston. I want to have a celebration of my union with the Red Sox. In sickness and in health, I will always have them in my life. Till death due me part.

So all I am asking for, is some time. Some time in which no one will judge me. If I want to watch the game rather than go out, allow it. If I have tickets to a day game, and I am supposed to be meeting some family members significant other, so be it. I am with my own plus one. In my late twenties, I am plus Red Sox. And of course, I may take on a few affairs in the off season. I am still crossing my fingers Ochocinco will move in. 

 

The Bums

A year ago my father and I decided to go on a baseball pilgrimage. It was our intention to make it to as many ballparks as we could in a year. Over a year later we have one new ballpark to cross off our list. No, we have not made it to watch his favorite childhood team, the Reds. Nor have we made the trek to watch our arch nemesis play at their home stadium,Yankee Stadium.

But we can now proudly say we watched the Beach Bums play like bums in Traverse City. I would suggest this to anyone who makes his or her way to Traverse in the future. It is a truly unique experience. Is it good baseball? Not quite…

Approaching the stadium it looks more like a newly built condo village. You know, the “if you lived here, you’d be home” sort of place. The only way you know you have  come to the right place is the lights with thousands of Michigan bugs illuminating.

Walking into the stadium we purchased the best tickets (right behind home plate for $10). The nice young man informed us it was buy one, get one for free night.

Picture Red’s nightmare baseball franchise. And you got it.

In between innings they had all sorts of competitions. Two kids dressed as tacos racing around the bases to determine what section would get free chips and salsa. The frozen t-shirt contest, where kids had to see how fast they could put on a frozen t-shirt.

As soon as Scott Lawson (the best Wild Things hitter) came to bat, a huge picture of a pig appeared on the jumbotron. Scott Lawson is our piggy hitter of the evening! If he gets out, everyone gets a dollar off pork sandwiches! And each time that old pig got ready to hit the sound of snorting echoed through the loudspeakers.

The other threatening Wild Thing hitter, had to hit with the distraction of BUBBLES coming over the speakers, and a huge projected image of Spongebob.

The Beach Bums were truly playing like bums. If any bum gets on base, it’s a dollar off beer for the rest of the inning. Who can resist such an offer?

Where are the insanity and discounts at my home ballpark? The game was wonderfully chaotic, and the baseball was…well…discounted. My cousin’s son had told me his lifelong dream is to go to Fenway. But at Fenway we drink nine-dollar beers, and can’t insult players over the loudspeakers.

My father and I celebrated our return home to Boston by going to the Monday night game. The two-hour rain delay couldn’t make us go home. Even with no discounted pork sandwiches and beers. Extra innings couldn’t make us leave either.

The tenth inning came, and all around the park some fans shouted MARCO, and distant fans replied with POLO. It wasn’t snorting or Bubbles, but it wasn’t bad.

The fourteenth inning came, and we all stretched again. We all sang take me out to the ballgame again. The entire crowd had found itself into the seats we dream of. The Sox played like Bums. But I remembered why I love Fenway. And why we might just have the best fans in the world, even without discounts, even with games that start over two hours late.

Seperating from Stanley

My aunt emailed me today. She wanted to know what was wrong with her blog update. Could it possibly I hadn’t written a word since June 15^th? After a Stanley Cup Victory? It is true. I hadn’t written about the win yet. I still have yet to fully absorb it. Today my friend and I watched a NESN hockey encore at our hockey dive. We are still living in the season.

How could I possibly have forgotten to write about the Fenway father’s day game? Where I shed a few tears watching the Bruins throw out the first pitch. The woman beside me whispered, “Let it all out, I cried myself in 1970.”

How could I forget to write about the morning message, that simply said BRUINS the day after the win? It is simply. I write it and it’s making it past tense.

Last night at the game with my father, I shifted in my seat more than usual. No complaints about eight runs in the first inning. But an hour long first inning? It’s a whole different thing than playoff hockey.

So when Papi rushed the mound, I mistook the crowd for chanting “HOCKEY”. Not PAPI. I honestly believe the crowd was cheering for something in a baseball game reminiscent of hockey.

I’m still coming down of the playoff win. I’m still searching Boston bars for the cup. And I’ve still not admitted to the importance of baseball games. Because as soon as baseball becomes important, it’s like giving up that much of hockey.

Montage through Morning Messages

  

All year I have been writing my morning messages about sports.  We had a unit on rewriting fairytales. So I wrote my fairytale about the three little teachers and the Big Bad Bruins.

Game Seven Terrors

Woke up this morning terrified. We lost game seven. Luongo finally cleaned it up. I turned my phone alarm off and rolled back in bed. Surely, my boss would understand if I was a little bit late. After all, one of the core values of our school is compassion. As I heard the swift movements of my housemates getting ready to work, I realized it must have been a dream.  No one can move that fast after such a catastrophic end to hockey season. Game seven is yet to happen.

Quickly, I threw on my black and gold (more yellow in actuality), brushed my teeth, and ran out the door. I put on 98.5 hoping the rest of the world would be as jazzed as myself.

Lebron, Lebron, Lebron. Really? I’m up with Game Seven Terrors, and the people of Boston are talking about Lebron? Yawn! I need to hear hockey. I need someone to calm me down or pump me up. But I don not need my mind filled up with Lebron trash. Then it happens.

The montage of the whole Bruins season. Start to finish. The music as dramatic as it was in my dream, but a bit more uplifting. They have audio clips of the Sequin trade, the seventh game victory over the Habs, Horton’s hit, Bobby Orr holding a number 18 flag, saves from Thomas, Luogongo being taken out, and fans chanting “WE WANT A CUP!”.

Before I know it I have to take my fogged over sunglasses off. I am in tears. I look to my right at the traffic light and see a bus full of students from my school. And I realize no stories, no communication tips, nothing can teach them the importance of a Game Seven. Especially, after thirty-nine empty years.

 

The Big Bad Bruins Bug

The Bruins virus is spreading. The Bruins epidemic has affected almost all in Boston it seems. Coming into my house yesterday I realized all of my housemates were dressed from toe to head in black and gold.  Teachers, who used to ask “who” when I mentioned a Bruin, are now writing tales from the games in their morning messages. My students are now using names like Ricky O’Ree and Bobby Orr with confidence.  Last night I had a table of over ten watching the Bruins with me. It used to just be me, and one other friend. But like I said, the Bruins epidemic is spreading. And if it hasn’t hit you, wait for it. Think about the last time the Red Sox and Yankees have been playing each other, and no one spoke of it. Not out of shame or fear, just because they didn’t care much. More important things to do.

 People were saying this Bruins team was similar to the 2004 Red Sox team, in a desperate attempt to allow themselves to feel still focused on baseball in this hockey fueled time. But that’s not what it looks like to me. The Bruins don’t look like idiots. They look like the Big Bad Bruins again. The Bruins remind me of the Bruins in 1970. Well, I wasn’t alive, but they are how I imagine the 1970 team to be. There was a quick flash on the TV screen. WIN IT FOR HORTON. With Bobby Orr holding up a Horton flag, it was impossible to not think about the statue of him in front of the Garden. To think of the Big Bad Bruins trying with all of their might to win it for Green. So if you haven’t caught the Bruins Bug, catch it quick, it’s far from idiotic. They build statues about these moments, so people like me can look at the statue and pretend to have known what it felt like to be alive for it. I’m done dreaming of sheep, I’m dreaming of cups.

 

Black and Gold Sky

“Stay at home. Under no circumstances leave your house.”

            My father is usually sane about these sorts of things. But I suppose he still is my father.

            “At the very least, turn on the TV before you make a decision.”

            On the TV I see the storm watch. Tornado warning until 5:45 in Middlesex County. I give in and tell him I will not leave my house until after 5:45. Until the warning is changed up until 8:30. Why doesn’t my father trust I will stay indoors until 8:30PM on a school night? On a night weathermen are warning us not to trek outside into the oncoming apocalypse?

            It’s simple. He knows I don’t have cable. And he knows it’s the first game of the Stanley Cup Finals. Last time the Bruins were in this spot, he could have simply sent me to my room if I wasn’t listening. But now I am a grown up. Not really an adult, but I have the responsibilities of a grown person. And the choice.

            My roommate listens to my think aloud as we watch the TV go black and hear the storm alarm going off.

            “Am I crazy to go or not to go? I will look like an idiot if I get stuck in a tornado. And it will piss off my dad. But if it doesn’t even rain and I’m not watching the game, I’ll feel like a fool. Which is more crazy?”

            She tells me exactly what I do not want to hear.

            “Well, they are telling people to stay inside on the news.”

            “Okay, I’ll wear my raincoat.”

The streets are empty and the sky is black and gold. Not a drop of rain.

 

 

Bartender Kills the Radio

 

            I walk to the back of the back, eerily quiet for a big sports night in Boston. I am one of the last to arrive. Most others came from work, and didn’t have their fathers trying to guilt them into being responsible. We have a big booth for a friend’s birthday. The mussels are already devoured; the spinach and artichoke dip half gone. And only one of them is in a hockey jersey. I situate myself the best I can under the circumstances. An hour before the game. And I have no desire to be social with people who clearly don’t know what is important.

            After a half hour of fidgeting and picking at nachos, I force a friend to switch places. I tell him I need to sit on the outside, so I can stand at any given moment. Wave my hands in the air at any moment. Curse without scarring a neighbor’s ear during the power play. He switches, out of fear. And I stand for the first two minutes.

            In these two minutes a man tells me his drink order. Because obviously any woman standing in a jersey is a waitress. First two minutes no goal. I sit down. Slightly more relaxed. I shift in my seat the whole first period.

            At intermission the storm finally begins. The alarms are going off on Fenway. And worse yet. Satellite is gone. My fear realized. This storm could prevent me from watching game one. And for no good reason, for a second I blame my father.

            Immediately, everyone with a smart phone has it out on the table. I know the intermission probably hasn’t ended, but I need to know for sure. Many phones aren’t working.

            Our waitress informs us the game may take awhile to get back on. I think she might replace all of our glasses with plastic ones. I almost tell her this.

            We begin chanting RADIO! And finally they turn on the radio, which is too muffled to make anything out.

            A bartender takes the microphone and announces, “So…the Bruins just scored.”

            Everyone in the bar is one their feet celebrating. We hug each other. Congratulate each other for braving the storm. Because this is worth it. We look at the lightening over Fenway, and think we are taking in something historic. And we text everyone else we know. Everyone else who is sitting anxiously in a dark bar with a muffled radio. And I imagine those bars burst out into the same excitement.

            But nobody’s smart phone updates the new score. And then I receive a text from my father CAN’T SCORE ON A 5-3!

            The RADIO chants turn to LIAR. And finally the game returns. One TV at a time. And one by one, we realize it remains 0-0. The lightening outside looks threatening, a few minutes ago it was inspiring.

            And in the last twenty seconds we lose. Fans who braved the storm. Fans who were deceived. And none of us our thinking about the state of our homes or the roads. We are still looking to the sky, to make sure it’s a shade of black and gold.