victory and euphoria (part II) vs. loss and dejection

So the World Series is over and the ChiSox are the 2005 World Champions. Congratulations, guys. Last year on this date, I was ecstatic over the previous night's victory and the 2004 World Champion Red Sox. This year, it's two days after a World Series sweep that crushed me and my hometown team. Let's compare.

What I wrote last year to commemorate the Red Sox win:

There is something about it… something different than you’ve ever felt before. First, it was slow motion. Then, excitement at levels I’ve never known or heard or screamed before. And then, shock. And disbelief. Now, it’s more like as exultant catharsis, even though that might be contradictory.

Yes, I’m talking about the Red Sox winning the World Series. The first in 86 years. 1918. 2004. So much has changed since then… it’s hard for me to imagine waiting that long for something to happen, since I’m obviously not over the age of 86. But wow. I believe, and I’m just so happy. You’d think I grew up here, I swear. The passion I have for the Red Sox and baseball… it’s truly incredible, really. Thank you Julia for knowing how much real true passion I have for them.

Nickerson Field. Big screen, sitting outdoors in the crispy cold that are October nights in Boston. Sausage. Popcorn. Cotton candy and hot chocolate, all of it straight from Fenway. Thanks, Fenway people. IV folk all around me, and my boy next to me. Red Sox hats, t-shirts and sweatshirts clothe nearly every person, on the field and off. And then, pitch number four. Johnny and his scraggly Jesus-hair takes the breath out of all of New England, the soldiers watching in the early morning in Iraq, and Red Sox Nation across the world as the bat hits that sweet, sweet sphere into the birdhouse (ie: Cardinal bullpen). Just like that, it’s over… or it could have been. The other red team never threatened, and lusty cries of “Let’s go Red Sox” echoed above the weeping and gnashing of teeth at Busch Stadium. Yes, Red Sox Nation is more loyal than Cardinal fans… of course. Did you expect any less?

And then, a blackened, then reddened moon later, the blankets were thrown to the ground as we jump to our feet – out of cold, but also because this is it. The ninth inning, up 3-0 (thank you Trot Nixon as well). Foulke (gotta love the boy with a miniature Texas flag sewn on his glove) on the mound, yet again come in to save the night. With each pitch, the cheering gets louder and my stomach flutters more. I’m still so scared that they’ll do it again – that they’ll find one more way to mess this up, even though it seems every possible bad thing has happened to the Sox already in the last 86 years. And finally, two outs. One more. Smack, a bouncer to Foulke, and then evvverrryyytthhhiiinngg ssllloowwsss ddoowwwnnn. A few steps, a careful underhand throw to Mientkiewicz, and then, to use Julia’s word, pandemonium.

I’m screaming. Louder than I’ve ever screamed before, and at a higher pitch, too. The sound just keeps coming out of my mouth, but it’s foreign, and it can’t be stopped. Liz and Paul… their emotional reaction cannot even be described. I’ve never seen Paul that personally animated ever. They are the ones the Sox won it for. People like them. People who have been waiting their entire lives for this moment. There’s jumping – jumping up and down, jumping into hugs, jumping into Dustin’s arms as he picks me up and swings me around. That piercing scream is still escaping from within. So this is what it’s like to win a World Series. And to think, I didn’t even play for the ring. I just live the game with satellite waves and radio reception – along with nail-ripping moments and heart-thumping plays and anxious excitement that wells up every time America’s favorite pastime plays out before me. There’s a reason this is the favorite pastime of our nation – and this moment is the reason.

To Kenmore. Crazed honking and more screaming. We’re following the masses to the center of the universe. Hundreds of thousands of people converge en masse, complete with brooms and douses of champagne. We aren’t in the locker room, but we’re with our boys in spirit. We love our boys. Always have. Always will. We shove our way through the thronging crowd to the other side, near Fenway. We stand to off to the side a bit – enough to be close to everything that’s going on, but off enough that we can just soak it all in. That’s all I can do – just soak it in and appreciate it all through the shock. Because tomorrow, when I realize what has happened, this won’t be here. We stand there for at least 15 minutes, just taking it in. It’s amazing. There’s no other word. It’s like nothing ever before or ever again. And now, we maneuver our way into the crowd again. Riot police with nightsticks stand sentry, and an ambulance sirens through the throng, but they cannot damper the exhilaration we all feel. It is now a collective emotion – we have together become one enormous, bubbling cauldron of enthusiasm, happiness, amazement, and shock all at once. Manny and Pedro gaze down on us from the billboards that exemplify this season best: “Keep the Faith.” One more time through the crowd, one more look back for posterity, and then I’m home. Tonight I live at the center of the universe.

Out my window, I hear it. The last thing I hear as I drift into contented slumber is the boom of tear gas bombs and the faithful cheer of “Let’s go Red Sox!” I half-wake once in the middle of the night, and my first and only thought that runs through my head before I fall back asleep is “the Red Sox won the World Series.” The alarm that finally pulls me out of my sleep does not stop the electric stupor of last night’s events. The Boston Globe. The New York Times. Yahoo Sports. Daily Free Press. Front page of everything. I read everything there is to read, I look at every picture. But still, it’s not real. I go to my last midterm of the semester (most of which I did very poorly on because of the obsession I have with baseball and the poor timing of playoffs), and there, it finally begins to set in. My professor is a Yankees fan, and has always made that very clear. He concedes. And then I have to think about something other than baseball for a straight hour and a half. American Revolution. Think.

One more thing to make this complete. Fenway. It’s like a trek to the promised land, except this time the promised land holds a green monster and the height of capitalism, at least until the World Series gear is sold out. That shouldn’t take long – the line is all the way around the block. My camera is now my best friend, and I’ve pulled out all the stops, using the SLR with black and white film. This is too great to not be recorded carefully. The 1918 World Series banner now seems incredibly obsolete, as does the 2004 American League Championship banner. We’re better than that now. We’re the world champions. All the way around Fenway, and a full 36 exposures… along with some pictures on the point and shoot and on Dustin’s digital. It’s beginning to set in. I cross the street right in front of Derek Lowe’s hummer and I don’t even realize it. Then I see him leave, not five feet from me, waving and laughing and smiling with and at the fans, after signing people’s shirts from inside his car. These are normal, fun, crazy guys who love baseball. And that’s what makes this win even sweeter. It makes me love the sport even more to see that these guys genuinely had a heckofalot of fun getting there and making it happen. “The idiots” they may be to other players and other teams, but to us, they are the heroes that made history once more.

Wake and his knuckler, Schilling and his bloody ankle, Pedro and his vintage Petey night, D-Lowe turning into an ace and a clincher. Johnny and his hair, Manny and his divot, Trot and his slip ‘n slide play in right. Mueller and his three errors in one game, OC and his post-season streak, Bellhorn and his clutch hits… and strikeouts, Millar and his snacking habits. V’tek and his solid leadership and that one random triple, Embree, Timlin, and Foulke and their shutdowns of any offensive hope anyone might ever have. Ortiz and being Big Papi, Arroyo and his cornrows, Dave Roberts and his clutch steal that turned around the ALCS, Kapler and his heart for the Sox, Mientkiewicz and his gold glove. Mirabelli and Pokey. The guys that did what Boston has been unable to do for 86 years. The guys who asked, “Why not us?” and the guys who will live in history and our hearts forever.

The Manny and Pedro billboards had changed to "Thank you" this morning. But that's wrong. No, boys, thank you.

Last year, it was joy and pure exhilaration. This year, I wrote nothing.

This year, there was nothing to say after I saw the look on Biggio's face after they were swept, ending at home. This year, we fought hard every game, never allowing them to get too far out of reach in any individual game... but this year, we didn't come back either. We didn't have the timely hits, we left several thousand men (it seemed) on base throughout the series, and the starters that have been so amazing all season among the "big three" didn't really put it out there like they are capable of. Brandon Backe pitched the game of his life, though.

Chicago, you probably deserve it. You were the best team in the majors for a good part of the season. I have nothing to say to tear them down. But the look on Bidge's face was heartbreaking. He knows he may never get back to this place, and he'd been waiting 18 years for it. The dejection on everyone else's face too... I turned off the TV as fast as I could find the remote.

There is certainly something to say about a team that comes back from 15-30 in May to make it to the World Series though. This Astros team never, never gave up, and I loved 'em for it. Everyone contributed, and everyone was forced to step up. And they did it. They won their first NL pennant ever. They got to a place no other Houston team (heck, even no Texas team) had been, and they proved a lot of people wrong along the way. So... I'll live. They'll live. Losing is as much a part of the Game as winning. Because without the losses, you don't appreciate the wins... and you can just look at the Sox and their 86 year thing to prove it. I just wish people would stop talking about those ridiculous "curses."

Congratulations, Chi-town, you battled it out and got the big prize. But the Astros won't lose forever either. Sox and 'Stros... win or lose, those boys are mine. And I'll live or die with them.