When I was pregnant with my first child, I was going to be a role model for moms everywhere. I was going to be the mom that the nurses were in awe of. The mom all women aspire to be. I would show people what giving birth and raising children was all about. My conviction lasted for oh, maybe 3 seconds after my first real contraction ended. And then it got worse.
Breastfeeding: The Reality. Nothing like the beautiful scene showed in hundreds of movies. Breastfeeding sucks. I had no idea what I was doing, I assumed that my child would naturally latch on and our bond would be complete. I bared my breast, looked down at my sweet little baby and waited. I kept waiting. I wiggled her a little closer and waited some more. She looked up at me expectantly and that’s when it hit me. I was completely unprepared for motherhood. My first parenting experience ended with her starving and us crying. This was not how things went in all the baby books I read. I could see them coming to take away my super mom coffee cup at any moment
Somehow my daughter and I managed to conquer breastfeeding, after many aborted attempts and pleas for help. Thinking I had perfected the art of lactation, I headed home once again convinced I was ready to be the mayor of Momville. Silly silly me.
I woke up and knew immediately that I was dying. The area where my breasts used to be had been taken over by gargantuan parodies of breasts. Amazingly, they were strikingly similar in shape and feel to my husbands’ bowling ball. As any calm, cool and collected woman would do, I called 911. My breasts after all, are of life and death importance. After stating my emergency, I think I actually heard the operator giggle. Not very reassuring when being faced with your immediate demise. After calming me down somewhat, the operator informed me that breastial alien invaders were not overtaking me; it was something far worse. My milk had come in. What did that mean? It wasn’t like I had placed an order for these, if that was the case; I’d already be labeling these bad boys for a quick return and refund. My husband was of no help. With as much drama as I possessed I flashed him my offending orbs, ready for his shock and concern over my health. What I got was a man dancing around in his underwear acting like Santa just brought him the world’s best gift. His request to play with his new toys earned him years worth of begging my forgiveness.
When I had envisioned breastfeeding, I pictured one nice steady stream coming out. Imagine my surprise the first time my child moved away from me mid-feed. I had some type of sprinkler system that farmers would pay millions for. I don’t know who was more stunned, my husband, who was a good 5 feet away, or myself. It’s all fun and games till someone loses an eye. After 2 weeks of breastfeeding, I had a new understanding of why women in tribes don’t wear tops. More than once I have nearly strangled myself attempting to wrangle the girls out of a "convenient" nursing bra.
As is the usual pattern when things start going well, we find ways to screw them up. Example A: The Breast Pump. At first it sounds kind of nice right? I sit, it pumps. Spouse and I are off for a wild night of dinner and a movie. Great, let’s get started. As soon as I took this…contraption…out of the box, I knew things were going to get ugly. First of all, I have a strong belief that anything requiring an outlet has way too much power to be attached to my breasts. This was the reasoning that led me to the manual pump. Obviously my ability to make sound judgments went the way of my perky breasts. I can barely work my juicer; imagine how effective manual pumping was for me. Electrocution fears aside, I went with the electric pump. For the first time in my life, I felt true sympathy toward cows. I’m considering switching to soymilk, just to save one cow from being hooked up the electric pump. I may possibly have mooed once or twice during my ordeal.
Having managed to pump without a trip to the ER I felt it was time to venture out. I expressed…which is a horrid term, there is nothing quick about this process…enough breast milk for a village of hungry infants, lined my temporarily deflated storage units with sanitary napkins, sans wings, and headed out the door.
Halfway through my moo goo gai pan I realized I should have brought the port-a-pump. At the rate I was expanding, I was liable to explode. Suddenly, my milk bombs sounded the alarms. Apparently they can hear my baby cry 3 minutes before I can. As a matter of fact, they can hear any baby within a 50-mile radius. My first night away from baby lasted approximately 2 hours. At home I rushed through the doors, expecting her to be screaming, just as miserable as I was. I was in no way prepared for what I saw.
There, like a little traitor, was my darling baby, gazing lovingly at her new friend the bottle. How could she? After all my pain and struggles, after I gave in to the pump? I felt so abandoned, so useless…so FREE!
Wait….could it be true? Oh my, could I actually reclaim my breasts? Could I wear a normal bra again? Could I tie my shoes without leaving wet spots on my knees?
Immediately I bought formula to last until she turned 18. I bought a sports bra tight enough to shoot the milk straight out of my nose. I burned the pump, donated the bras to house the homeless and tried to remember what my nipples looked like before they turned into #2 pencil erasers.
I know that breast is best. I am aware that I did the right thing for my firstborn daughter. I also know that millions of women have gone before me.
When I found out I was pregnant with our second daughter, I hunted down the old tight sports bra and strapped it on. My baby just turned 5, and I think it’s safe to take it off again.
Monday, February 07, 2005
This Old Hat
This Old Hat
The Red Sox win. Those may be the greatest words ever spoken. I couldn't wait to get up this morning and write about the World Series sweep. Myself and 4,961 other writers. I've started, backspaced, started again, deleted. All to no avail. I can't stop thinking about my hat long enough to concentrate on "the win". Yes, my hat. My dirty, filthy, sweaty, mangled Boston Red Sox hat. In celebration of this momentous ocassion I decided to treat myself to a new hat. I walked into the hat store at the mall and was greeted by no less than 5 people looking for Boston caps. Surprisingly the store has a great selection, considering I'm in Texas and you can't even find a Patriots hat, not that they've won the last 2 Superbowls or anything, but I digress. Back to the hats. Pushing through the throngs of hat hunters, I thought to myself, "this is awesome, Sox fans I can celebrate with". I should have known better. I had walked smack into the middle of a bandwagon. How do I know this you ask? My first clue was the woman who said "I love Mark Bellhorn, he's definately the cutest guy". I physically had to stop myself from screaming Get out, get away, don't you DARE touch that hat!!!! I caught sight of myself in the mirror with my nasty beaten hat on and realized a few things. People are going to jump aboard this crazy train. They will profess themselves to be huge fans and will buy every jersey, every hat and yes, even a bobblehead or two. A few of them may even become real fans. Eventually. For the majority of the new born fans though, they will never become citizens of the nation. They'll cheer for their new favorite team until we lose again. Yes, we will lose again. We will drop balls, throw to the wrong base, run into outs. We will say ridiculous things to the media, we will scream at the manager, the pitcher, the batter. They'll let us down in the bottom of the 9th. They'll lose to teams that are subpar, and they'll spank teams no one can beat. During it all, RSN will continue to believe, will continue to have faith. When Manny falls asleep in left field, we'll laugh and say "That's just Manny being Manny". Even if the 2005 Sox dominate all season, win the division with a 12 game lead over the Yankees and do it without ever throwing a ball into the stands when there's only one out and not two, these baby fans still won't be an integral part of the greatest fan base in all of organized sports. Buying a hat doesn't grant you admission into the nation. Until you have laid on your floor racked with sobs, yelling "Why, why did Pedro come back out, WHY??" it is impossible to understand the depth of devotion and heart it takes to be a Sox fan. Being a fan isn't something you proclaim, it's something deep inside of you that refuses to give up, a way of life, a mentality, a willingness to lay your heart out year after year, only to get it stepped on each time. This year was special, this team is special. This doesn't happen every year, as a matter of fact it didn't happen for 86. Are you, with your shiny new hat willing to wait that long again? I didn't buy a new hat. I saw my old one through different eyes. I realized that my ugly hat is everything that is the RSN. My hat has been to wins in Fenway and losses in Arlington. My cap's been used to dry my tears, and turned inside out to rally for my team. It has been ripped off my head and thrown across the room. This poor cap has been kissed, rubbed for luck, sweated in, and turned around so it wouldn't be in the way when I laid my head on the floor begging Lowe for just one more strike.I wore this hat when we lost 3 to the Yankees, but I refused to take it off, I kept it on through 8 of the greatest baseball games of my life. I sat next to my husband and my daughters in the ballpark and this very hat kept the sun out of my eyes so I could see the ball Johnny Damon tossed to me. The boys won that game too. Through the seasons this hat has been burdened with heartache and hope, tragedy and triumph. Amazingly it's come through it all in pretty good shape. Just like the Red Sox Nation. I'm proud of this hat, I'm proud of the stains and the sweat rings, I'm proud of that fact that you only have to look at it to know I bought it long before we had a chance of winning the World Series. To all the fans who climbed aboard last night, welcome to The Nation, I hope you enjoy your visit. As far as my hat, I'm putting it in my will, it's an heirloom now.
The Red Sox win. Those may be the greatest words ever spoken. I couldn't wait to get up this morning and write about the World Series sweep. Myself and 4,961 other writers. I've started, backspaced, started again, deleted. All to no avail. I can't stop thinking about my hat long enough to concentrate on "the win". Yes, my hat. My dirty, filthy, sweaty, mangled Boston Red Sox hat. In celebration of this momentous ocassion I decided to treat myself to a new hat. I walked into the hat store at the mall and was greeted by no less than 5 people looking for Boston caps. Surprisingly the store has a great selection, considering I'm in Texas and you can't even find a Patriots hat, not that they've won the last 2 Superbowls or anything, but I digress. Back to the hats. Pushing through the throngs of hat hunters, I thought to myself, "this is awesome, Sox fans I can celebrate with". I should have known better. I had walked smack into the middle of a bandwagon. How do I know this you ask? My first clue was the woman who said "I love Mark Bellhorn, he's definately the cutest guy". I physically had to stop myself from screaming Get out, get away, don't you DARE touch that hat!!!! I caught sight of myself in the mirror with my nasty beaten hat on and realized a few things. People are going to jump aboard this crazy train. They will profess themselves to be huge fans and will buy every jersey, every hat and yes, even a bobblehead or two. A few of them may even become real fans. Eventually. For the majority of the new born fans though, they will never become citizens of the nation. They'll cheer for their new favorite team until we lose again. Yes, we will lose again. We will drop balls, throw to the wrong base, run into outs. We will say ridiculous things to the media, we will scream at the manager, the pitcher, the batter. They'll let us down in the bottom of the 9th. They'll lose to teams that are subpar, and they'll spank teams no one can beat. During it all, RSN will continue to believe, will continue to have faith. When Manny falls asleep in left field, we'll laugh and say "That's just Manny being Manny". Even if the 2005 Sox dominate all season, win the division with a 12 game lead over the Yankees and do it without ever throwing a ball into the stands when there's only one out and not two, these baby fans still won't be an integral part of the greatest fan base in all of organized sports. Buying a hat doesn't grant you admission into the nation. Until you have laid on your floor racked with sobs, yelling "Why, why did Pedro come back out, WHY??" it is impossible to understand the depth of devotion and heart it takes to be a Sox fan. Being a fan isn't something you proclaim, it's something deep inside of you that refuses to give up, a way of life, a mentality, a willingness to lay your heart out year after year, only to get it stepped on each time. This year was special, this team is special. This doesn't happen every year, as a matter of fact it didn't happen for 86. Are you, with your shiny new hat willing to wait that long again? I didn't buy a new hat. I saw my old one through different eyes. I realized that my ugly hat is everything that is the RSN. My hat has been to wins in Fenway and losses in Arlington. My cap's been used to dry my tears, and turned inside out to rally for my team. It has been ripped off my head and thrown across the room. This poor cap has been kissed, rubbed for luck, sweated in, and turned around so it wouldn't be in the way when I laid my head on the floor begging Lowe for just one more strike.I wore this hat when we lost 3 to the Yankees, but I refused to take it off, I kept it on through 8 of the greatest baseball games of my life. I sat next to my husband and my daughters in the ballpark and this very hat kept the sun out of my eyes so I could see the ball Johnny Damon tossed to me. The boys won that game too. Through the seasons this hat has been burdened with heartache and hope, tragedy and triumph. Amazingly it's come through it all in pretty good shape. Just like the Red Sox Nation. I'm proud of this hat, I'm proud of the stains and the sweat rings, I'm proud of that fact that you only have to look at it to know I bought it long before we had a chance of winning the World Series. To all the fans who climbed aboard last night, welcome to The Nation, I hope you enjoy your visit. As far as my hat, I'm putting it in my will, it's an heirloom now.
Liberating A Nation
I married into The Nation 10 years ago. I cheered for my husbands team, and I called myself a fan. I had no idea what that meant until I found myself sitting on the floor in front of my tv, crying. Why? Why did Pedro come back out? I don't get it, I don't understand???? I looked over at my husband, and with such calm he said "It's ok, there's always next year." Well next year came, but my husband left. He's been in Iraq since March of 2004. Static filled phone calls at odd hours to ask "How did my boys do?" made me feel like he was right back on my couch and not thousands of miles away. Checking the scores, checking the stats, watching the games, all of it has gotten me through 7 months without my husband. If that doesn't make sense to you, I'm sorry. I don't know if I have the words to explain. If the Sox were okay, so was my Husband. When the boys were 10 games back, I knew it didn't matter. My husband was fighting, the Sox would fight too. Those men have not only carried each other through a year, they've unknowingly carried me along with them. I will forever be connected to this team, and I will forever be in their debt. I started this essay as a letter to my Husband, to sort of explain to him why This Is The Year. It took on a life of it's own from there.
Liberating A Nation
After watching the post game press conference after game 2 last night, I had one immediate thought. We are going to win the World Series.Suddenly it was all clear. This is destiny. This is finally The Year.
We were never going to win game 7 last year. Pedro could have come out in the 6th, and we still would have lost. We weren't meant to win. It wasn't time yet. The manager was wrong, the clubhouse was wrong, even the NL team was wrong. The Red Sox were not going to play their first world series in 17 years against the Florida Marlins. No way, No how.
Oh, but the Joy that is 2004. Everything adds up, all the pieces are in place, all of the signs are there. This is it. 86 years ago we won the World Series. 86, a number that'll live in the bowels of Sox history forever. 100th World Series, a new Century of baseball. A year in which no other 2 teams have the right to play in, except the Sox and The Cards.
It all started on an October night in 2003. Tim Wakefields tears on the mound after that fateful homerun didn't signify the end of a dream, instead it was the beginning of one. His tears soaking into the ground at Yankee stadium set the wheels in motion.
Grady never stood a chance. MY Boys Of Summer needed more than a coach, they needed a father. A man that could see past the hair, the uniforms, the antics, someone who understood that behind the aloofness they were warriors. Battle scarred, weary, but not yet broken. Men who wanted to play baseball in it's purest form. For the love of the game, the thrill of it.These boys don't always perform like Champions, running into outs on occasion, throwing to the wrong base once or twice. Even with their faults, you can see their happiness, their desire, their passion. New York can have discipline, we have Joy.They needed someone who "got it", and Theo went out and found him. From that, The Sons of Francona were born.
A Thanksgiving dinner was about to once again make history in New England. Theo Epstein sat down and broke bread with Curt and Shonda Schilling. Come heal these hurt and heartbroken men Curt, pick up the pieces and give them faith in themselves. Take them to the World Series. Lead them into battle. Right all the wrongs of old, and deliver us from "The Curse"
Even with Tito and Curt on board, something was still wasn't clicking. We saw it and felt it, but couldn't put our finger on it. We weren't winning. Falling farther and farther behind the Yankees, hopes and dreams quickly fading away. 10 and a half games behind the Yankees on July 31st. Once again, you could hear sighs echoing through a Nation in Despair.
Mere moments before the trade deadline on that seemingly hopeless July day, a Nations sorrow turned to Rage. How dare Theo Epstein. Has he lost his mind? Along the crawl screen on ESPN, millions of viewers saw the words...Nomar Traded To Cubs. Surely there was a mistake. Nomar is an icon in Boston. Even worse, we traded him for nothing, 3 nothings to be exact. Dave Roberts, Doug Mientkiewicz and Orlando Cabrera. WHO?? Our season was all but dead and buried. Or so we thought.
Click.Click.Click. Pieces started falling into place. Click, no errors. Click, moving over runners. Click, turning double plays. Click, playing small ball. Click, Francona and his boys.Click, Minky, Cab, Roberts. Out of the ashes, slowly The Sox started to rise. And as they rose, we began to see one of the most beautiful teams in the history of baseball.
Quietly Jason Varitek orchestrated the men on the field. Steadily Curt lead a Bullpen of fighters, scrappy warriors willing to leave their hearts on the battlefield and their fates in the hands of the men behind them. Mannys crack of the bat woke up the sleeping giants. Ortiz, Damon, Kapler.Click. Slowly the injured soldiers trot back on the field, one by one. Their bodies bruised and beaten, ready to fight another day. Click. Suddenly the Sox had the best record in baseball in August. They were down, but never out. 10 games, then 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,3....Be Careful Yankees, The Boys are ready for another round.
The past has never been kind to Boston. Instead of fighting History, this rag tag brand of warriors decided to change it. The Sox clawed their way into the wild card, facing the Angels. 3 games later the Angels were gone and history was altered. The Angels had never been swept in the Post Season. Until they were faced with men determined to right the wrongs of 2003.
New York Yankees vs. The Boston Red Sox for the Pennant, part 2. Curt Schilling takes the mound for Game 1 and the Nation knows we'll win this night. How can we not? The plight of the Sox struck again as we realized immediately that whoever was on the mound, it wasn't Our Curt Schilling. This was 3 horrible innings of batting practice for The Yankees. Mussina was throwing the ball like he was getting paid per pitch, and our boys looked as though it was day 1 of little league. 7-10. We lost 7-10. That's ok, Pedro pitches tomorrow. Same story, different night. Pedro pitched well, Lieber pitched better.1-3 Yankees. It's ok, tomorrow we're at Fenway. 9 innings and 19 Yankee runs later, The Red Sox are down 3-0. No team in history has come back from a 3-0 defecit. Curt Schilling is out for the season, Derek Lowe is starting game 4 and our hitters have left the building. Hopeless. Not only are we going to lose the series, but we're going to do it in humiliating fashion.The curse rears it's ugly head again.
Let the game begin, quickly, lets get this over with so I can look forward to next year. But wait...something is different this time....Somehow we managed to pull off Games 4 and 5 with stellar performances by 2 unsung hereos. Derek Lowe, a star in the playoffs of 2003, had become an emotional, unpredictable pitcher, banished to the bullpen, brought back to a starting position in a leap of Faith by Tito, and Tim Wakefield,the knuckleballer whose tears stained the ground as he watched his dreams fly over the left field wall in game 7 last year. These men took the mound, and with each pitch, chased their own demons away. Each strike eased the burden they've carried this year, each out lifting the hearts of a nation, each inning laying to rest the doubts they had in themselves. The grit and determination from both pitchers allowed this story to go on. They forced a game 5, as well as a game 6...and that game 6 my friends, is where this story takes on a life of it's own. This is when I began to realize that forces greater than you and I were at work.
The fog swirled around the mound at Yankees stadium on Oct 19th. The mist drizzled down and dampened the spirits of so many fans. Until we saw what seemed to be unreal. Curt Schilling walking to the mound. His ankle bloodied and bandaged, his face tired and determined. Visions of Roy Hobbs were inevitable. Across New England, a sense of surrealness descended, we knew something was coming, and we were ready for it. With the first pitch it was obvious that this was our Curt. Our Warrior, Our Hero, Our Deliverance. Here was a man who had dug down inside himself and found what he needed to get him through this night. For us. For his team, for himself. Curt Schilling stood on that mound, head held high, defiance in his eyes. He stood in The House That Ruth Built, bleeding for a Nation, onto that Yankee soil, the same soil that swallowed Tim Wakefields tears one year ago. Blood and Tears together washed away 86 years of baggage. Blood and Tears exercised the ghosts of our past. The battle the Sox waged that night came not from Money, or Discipline, or pretty uniforms. No, it came from the hearts of men who had found their home, found their brothers, and found their place in a clubhouse filled with 25 of the strongest men in baseball. The 2004 Boston Red Sox don't play for Glory, they don't play for money or rings. They play for each other. They play baseball because they have to, because it's who they are, and what they believe. They fight and win and soldier on because they love each other as much as they love the game. No man wants to let his brother in arms down . Leave no man behind. If you stumble, your brother will pick you up. If you fail, he will succeed in your name. There is no curse on Boston. The pieces just hadn't been in place until now.
Guts, Bravery, and determination got them back to Yankees Stadium and Respect won them the game. Those men, those beautiful boys of summer, gave everything they had that epic night, they laid it all at the feet of Terry Francona. They gave him their trust, their respect,and their hearts. Tito understood these men and loved them anyways, for that his sons delivered him a win in a bloody 14 inning battle for the history books. Game 7 was merely a whimper from the Yankees. The Dynasty had crumbled without even a fight. The Sox had liberated a Nation. The past has been washed away in blood, sweat and tears. It couldn't happen any other way. This is our destiny, fulfilled by 25 men who banded together and refused to lay down and die.
The Sox took the field in Fenway for game 1 of the World Series. They walked out there a different team then we've ever seen. The Nation has always believed in the Red Sox, but it is only now they believe in themselves. They believe in each other. They have been to War and they came home changed men.
I feel blessed to watch this team play. They are the embodiment of baseball, and a team like this we will never see again. A team whose history together has entitled them to the 100th World Series Ring.
Liberating A Nation
After watching the post game press conference after game 2 last night, I had one immediate thought. We are going to win the World Series.Suddenly it was all clear. This is destiny. This is finally The Year.
We were never going to win game 7 last year. Pedro could have come out in the 6th, and we still would have lost. We weren't meant to win. It wasn't time yet. The manager was wrong, the clubhouse was wrong, even the NL team was wrong. The Red Sox were not going to play their first world series in 17 years against the Florida Marlins. No way, No how.
Oh, but the Joy that is 2004. Everything adds up, all the pieces are in place, all of the signs are there. This is it. 86 years ago we won the World Series. 86, a number that'll live in the bowels of Sox history forever. 100th World Series, a new Century of baseball. A year in which no other 2 teams have the right to play in, except the Sox and The Cards.
It all started on an October night in 2003. Tim Wakefields tears on the mound after that fateful homerun didn't signify the end of a dream, instead it was the beginning of one. His tears soaking into the ground at Yankee stadium set the wheels in motion.
Grady never stood a chance. MY Boys Of Summer needed more than a coach, they needed a father. A man that could see past the hair, the uniforms, the antics, someone who understood that behind the aloofness they were warriors. Battle scarred, weary, but not yet broken. Men who wanted to play baseball in it's purest form. For the love of the game, the thrill of it.These boys don't always perform like Champions, running into outs on occasion, throwing to the wrong base once or twice. Even with their faults, you can see their happiness, their desire, their passion. New York can have discipline, we have Joy.They needed someone who "got it", and Theo went out and found him. From that, The Sons of Francona were born.
A Thanksgiving dinner was about to once again make history in New England. Theo Epstein sat down and broke bread with Curt and Shonda Schilling. Come heal these hurt and heartbroken men Curt, pick up the pieces and give them faith in themselves. Take them to the World Series. Lead them into battle. Right all the wrongs of old, and deliver us from "The Curse"
Even with Tito and Curt on board, something was still wasn't clicking. We saw it and felt it, but couldn't put our finger on it. We weren't winning. Falling farther and farther behind the Yankees, hopes and dreams quickly fading away. 10 and a half games behind the Yankees on July 31st. Once again, you could hear sighs echoing through a Nation in Despair.
Mere moments before the trade deadline on that seemingly hopeless July day, a Nations sorrow turned to Rage. How dare Theo Epstein. Has he lost his mind? Along the crawl screen on ESPN, millions of viewers saw the words...Nomar Traded To Cubs. Surely there was a mistake. Nomar is an icon in Boston. Even worse, we traded him for nothing, 3 nothings to be exact. Dave Roberts, Doug Mientkiewicz and Orlando Cabrera. WHO?? Our season was all but dead and buried. Or so we thought.
Click.Click.Click. Pieces started falling into place. Click, no errors. Click, moving over runners. Click, turning double plays. Click, playing small ball. Click, Francona and his boys.Click, Minky, Cab, Roberts. Out of the ashes, slowly The Sox started to rise. And as they rose, we began to see one of the most beautiful teams in the history of baseball.
Quietly Jason Varitek orchestrated the men on the field. Steadily Curt lead a Bullpen of fighters, scrappy warriors willing to leave their hearts on the battlefield and their fates in the hands of the men behind them. Mannys crack of the bat woke up the sleeping giants. Ortiz, Damon, Kapler.Click. Slowly the injured soldiers trot back on the field, one by one. Their bodies bruised and beaten, ready to fight another day. Click. Suddenly the Sox had the best record in baseball in August. They were down, but never out. 10 games, then 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,3....Be Careful Yankees, The Boys are ready for another round.
The past has never been kind to Boston. Instead of fighting History, this rag tag brand of warriors decided to change it. The Sox clawed their way into the wild card, facing the Angels. 3 games later the Angels were gone and history was altered. The Angels had never been swept in the Post Season. Until they were faced with men determined to right the wrongs of 2003.
New York Yankees vs. The Boston Red Sox for the Pennant, part 2. Curt Schilling takes the mound for Game 1 and the Nation knows we'll win this night. How can we not? The plight of the Sox struck again as we realized immediately that whoever was on the mound, it wasn't Our Curt Schilling. This was 3 horrible innings of batting practice for The Yankees. Mussina was throwing the ball like he was getting paid per pitch, and our boys looked as though it was day 1 of little league. 7-10. We lost 7-10. That's ok, Pedro pitches tomorrow. Same story, different night. Pedro pitched well, Lieber pitched better.1-3 Yankees. It's ok, tomorrow we're at Fenway. 9 innings and 19 Yankee runs later, The Red Sox are down 3-0. No team in history has come back from a 3-0 defecit. Curt Schilling is out for the season, Derek Lowe is starting game 4 and our hitters have left the building. Hopeless. Not only are we going to lose the series, but we're going to do it in humiliating fashion.The curse rears it's ugly head again.
Let the game begin, quickly, lets get this over with so I can look forward to next year. But wait...something is different this time....Somehow we managed to pull off Games 4 and 5 with stellar performances by 2 unsung hereos. Derek Lowe, a star in the playoffs of 2003, had become an emotional, unpredictable pitcher, banished to the bullpen, brought back to a starting position in a leap of Faith by Tito, and Tim Wakefield,the knuckleballer whose tears stained the ground as he watched his dreams fly over the left field wall in game 7 last year. These men took the mound, and with each pitch, chased their own demons away. Each strike eased the burden they've carried this year, each out lifting the hearts of a nation, each inning laying to rest the doubts they had in themselves. The grit and determination from both pitchers allowed this story to go on. They forced a game 5, as well as a game 6...and that game 6 my friends, is where this story takes on a life of it's own. This is when I began to realize that forces greater than you and I were at work.
The fog swirled around the mound at Yankees stadium on Oct 19th. The mist drizzled down and dampened the spirits of so many fans. Until we saw what seemed to be unreal. Curt Schilling walking to the mound. His ankle bloodied and bandaged, his face tired and determined. Visions of Roy Hobbs were inevitable. Across New England, a sense of surrealness descended, we knew something was coming, and we were ready for it. With the first pitch it was obvious that this was our Curt. Our Warrior, Our Hero, Our Deliverance. Here was a man who had dug down inside himself and found what he needed to get him through this night. For us. For his team, for himself. Curt Schilling stood on that mound, head held high, defiance in his eyes. He stood in The House That Ruth Built, bleeding for a Nation, onto that Yankee soil, the same soil that swallowed Tim Wakefields tears one year ago. Blood and Tears together washed away 86 years of baggage. Blood and Tears exercised the ghosts of our past. The battle the Sox waged that night came not from Money, or Discipline, or pretty uniforms. No, it came from the hearts of men who had found their home, found their brothers, and found their place in a clubhouse filled with 25 of the strongest men in baseball. The 2004 Boston Red Sox don't play for Glory, they don't play for money or rings. They play for each other. They play baseball because they have to, because it's who they are, and what they believe. They fight and win and soldier on because they love each other as much as they love the game. No man wants to let his brother in arms down . Leave no man behind. If you stumble, your brother will pick you up. If you fail, he will succeed in your name. There is no curse on Boston. The pieces just hadn't been in place until now.
Guts, Bravery, and determination got them back to Yankees Stadium and Respect won them the game. Those men, those beautiful boys of summer, gave everything they had that epic night, they laid it all at the feet of Terry Francona. They gave him their trust, their respect,and their hearts. Tito understood these men and loved them anyways, for that his sons delivered him a win in a bloody 14 inning battle for the history books. Game 7 was merely a whimper from the Yankees. The Dynasty had crumbled without even a fight. The Sox had liberated a Nation. The past has been washed away in blood, sweat and tears. It couldn't happen any other way. This is our destiny, fulfilled by 25 men who banded together and refused to lay down and die.
The Sox took the field in Fenway for game 1 of the World Series. They walked out there a different team then we've ever seen. The Nation has always believed in the Red Sox, but it is only now they believe in themselves. They believe in each other. They have been to War and they came home changed men.
I feel blessed to watch this team play. They are the embodiment of baseball, and a team like this we will never see again. A team whose history together has entitled them to the 100th World Series Ring.
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