“[The Red Sox are] a walking disaster. They act like they’re tough, how they care so much about winning. But it’s all a front. They’re just a bunch of characters. They know what we’re all about. We can still beat them and they know it. Let’s see what they do this time when it counts.”
–Yankee outfielder Gary Sheffield, prior to the ALCS
I have a newsflash for you, Mr. “Someone Planted Steroids In My Body Lotion And I Still Sucked In The Playoffs” Sheffield: When it counted, YOUR TEAM LOST. YOUR TEAM CHOKED. THE RED SOX BEAT YOU. How is that for a “walking disaster?”
Yes-sir-e-bob sports fans, whether you want to believe it or not, the Boston Red Sox have advanced to the WORLD SERIES. Meanwhile the New York Yankees are sobbing in their last team shower before they pack their bags to go home for the fall, knowing full well that they will forever be remembered as the biggest losers/chokers in sports history (this does not include the first Greek Olympiad in 776 B.C. when Schwarma the Great was up 4-0 in a best of nine wrestling series and lost five straight to Spanikopita the Strong). Does it get any better than this?
Everything that transpired in the past week simply was not supposed to happen in reality, and it would take thousands of words to put it in perspective, but let’s just say the world has been reversed and I was lucky enough to experience it first hand. For the last two games of this historic series, I ventured into a Red Sox fan’s version of Dante’s ninth circle of Hell: Yankee Stadium. Even though I had been before, I didn’t know what to expect for a playoff series. Could I wear a Red Sox shirt? Would I be stabbed by one of those crazy New Yorkers? Or worse yet, would I be able to handle it if the Red Sox lost? Well, I did wear my shirt, I did not get stabbed and the Red Sox won, so everything was as grand as grand can be!
With my Sox shirt proudly exposed, I was the brunt of an extensive amount of trash talking. For some reason, Yankees fans became very attached to my curly hair, probably jealous because they have to spend eight hours each evening removing the styling gel from theirs. Here is a quick sample of some choice tame ones, most of them uttered while I was being pelted with peanuts:
“Hey [swear word] [swear word] Justin Timberlake, Bye bye bye!”
“ [Swear word] Big wig [swear word]!”
“You Chia head [swear word] [swear word]”
And my personal favorite:
“Nice hair [swear word], are you still a virgin?!”
One even got political: “Go back to Beacon Hill, you Democrat!”
Yes, smack was being talked throughout the stadium for these two games, but it was exemplified best in the bathroom, a place where most battles are usually settled. Here was one I witnessed that couldn’t have been written better in a movie script:
Yankee fan (while at urinal): Hey, Johnny Damon looks like an eskimo.
Boston fan (at adjacent urinal): Yeah, an eskimo who hits grand slams.
Enough said. The Sox fans, like the players on the field, were on point in bith games and they were not going to let anyone bring them down, not even in the pissah.
But the Boston fans were not just winning the war of words; by the sixth inning of Game seven, we had taken over Yankee Stadium! Those Yankee fans, watching their team who had more comeback victories this year than any other team in history, left in hordes with their team still having nine outs left (maybe they were in a hurry to go get a slice)! That shows some heart right there. I managed to move from the nosebleeds to 20 rows behind the Red Sox dugout. In minutes, I was joined by hundreds of Sox fans. That is not to say the end of the game was easy to watch, especially when Pedro Martinez entered in the seventh. This was the Red Sox after all, who are (sorry were) the biggest chokers ever. We were crapping our collective pants until the final out. In the nervous hours prior to the game, my buddy Alex had even suggested that we give up the tickets, take three painkillers each, go to sleep and find out what happened in the morning. But that magical Yankee comeback never came in this reversed world. Somehow, the Yankees “Mystique and Aura” got tired of being hassled by Steinbrenner and ignored by Jeter and A-Rod, whom I like to call “Mr. Choketober” and “Sister Slappy,” respectively. Instead, Mystique and Aura decided to shift allegiances and join a team of winners, primarily Johnny Damon, who could be seen necking with the two in the Sox clubhouse after the game.
And as Pokey Reese’s throw hit Doug Mientkiewicz’s glove for the final out of the game, it seemed as if the entire stadium was a giant Boston love fest. “Let’s Go Red Sox” could be heard throughout. “Who’s Your Daddy,” became a Sox anthem. We even got pleasure out of hearing Sinatra’s famous lines, “It’s up to you, New York, New York” blasted on the loudspeakers over and over while the Sox rejoiced on the field. The world was reversed I tell you.
Even after the conclusion of this epic series, some sort of magic was still working in the Sox favor. My friends and I were in what could be called a Yankees bar sporting full Boston paraphenalia. A sign on the wall read that beers were on the house every time A-Rod (sorry, “Sister Slappy”) hit a home run against the Sox. Well, a Yankees fan took exception to my buddy Tim’s mockery and they proceeded to get into a bit of a drunken shoving match. What happened next? The Yankees fan with his trendy turtleneck sweater got thrown out while we were allowed to stay and drink! I know this Sox win was a big moment, but had the City of New York just been swallowed by Boston? Incredible.
It is time for me to stop being bitter about the Yankees and their heartless fans. The beloved Red Sox won for once. They are in the World Series, and are a mere four wins away from Boston crumbling to the ground in celebration and the forced exorcism of “1918” from everyone’s vocabulary. If all goes well, it will be a magic year for all of New England and a cause for nausea in New York for years to come.
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