More Signs of Spring


Wherein Our Heroine Observes Further Flowering.
It is sunny again and the weekend is nearly upon us. On Monday it will be March. Again, I am thinking of spring - but I am going to have to share something deep and dark with my Dear Readers in order to write today's entry. I started an FAQ yesterday, and one of my rules is that I don't discuss religion or politics on WoT?. Warning: this essay is going to skate as near as possible to that limitation - actually, both of those limitations. Here it is, I confess: having grown up in New England and never giving much thought to it until recent years, somehow I have in me the beginnings of a Red Sox fan.

Anyone who has met a real, rabid Red Sox fan (call me "Sox Lite") knows that my comment about politics and religion is not funny because it is flip: it is funny because it is true. Being a Red Sox fan is probably closer to belonging to a religion than a political party: those who have sent many prayers to St. Jude can surely sympathize with our plight year after year. But Sox fandom does have its political side: the ideology of the Sox is generally considered to be diametrically opposed to their wealthy, Series-Winning neighbors. Religion and politics mix when some Sox fans, in a sort of possessed fit, seem to find it necessary to denigrate those neighbors with a slightly profane (and factually untrue) chant. But religion teaches us to love the sinner and hate the sin, while politics teaches us we must endure those strange, babbling bedfellows.

So, there are a few things that are puzzling to me about the nature of this nascent Sox fan stuff. The first is the nature of competition and fandom itself. When I don't play, know nobody on the team, don't live in the area any more, and will get nothing out of a win (even bragging rights: as far as I'm concerned, if I didn't win it, I shouldn't go on about it), why do I care? Perhaps, in fact, it is because I don't live in New England any more. I get to connect with a genuine New England tradition without battling the Big Dig, worrying about parking, or shoveling New England snow in the off season.

The second thing that puzzles me is televised baseball itself. Going to creaky old Fenway, with its Green Monster, wooden seats and vendors screaming "Pop-CAHN!" is an experience. In contrast, I used to find watching baseball on TV only slightly more involving than watching golf - or grass grow. Take your pick - I find them to be remarkably similar. Growing up, I avidly watched Bird, Parrish & McHale (and whichever other two guys might have been on the court) blast the Celtics past their rivals with artistry, teamwork and speed. It seems about five percent of the game of baseball is about speed. Perhaps it's just me that is slowing down. Pro basketball's lament for the past 20 years or so has been that it is so much about speed that artistry and teamwork are completely gone. As I get slower, basketball gets faster and finally the game might just as well be gone, it's so far off on the horizon.

So perhaps, in my Jilly-come-lately way, I am just finally seeking connections: connections to those I love and left behind in New England, connections to a vast and long tradition in a grand old stadium (which unfortunately will probably go the same way the Boston Garden did), and connection to a quirky legend.

Or maybe I'm just glad we're not quite as nuts as those folks in Chicago.
Posted: Friday - February 27, 2004 at 07:50 AM         | |

©