I am thankful for a few things. Firstly for Digital Equipment Corporation. I was born in the UK and lucked out by getting a job with DEC in the 80s. I was introduced to Fenway Park during my first business trip to Maynard and immediately caught an untreatable case of RSD (Red Sox Disease).
My youth sports were rugby & cricket, but my love of baseball grew quickly as (thanks to colleagues/friends who answered my incessant novice questions), I learned to appreciate the intricacies of the game. While baseball and rugby are obviously very different sports, what I love about both is their shared ethos of an `unwritten code’ of rules. Both sports teach you so much about what is and isn’t acceptable, and how to deal with those who cross the line – without the need for intervention by the officials (until/unless it gets a little too messy).
I was offered a job in DEC’s Lexington office, and my wife and I were even more fortunate to move to Mass in the early 90s. I vividly remember my first view of the Fenway turf, even though I was nearly thrown out for trying to give Wally a playful punch in the ribs (does Wally have ribs?) as he/her/it walked past my section. I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to touch Wally, and it was only my English accent and the intervention of my more-savvy pals that saved my seat.
By 2004 I had left Boston for a job in San Diego, but I was even more lucky that a friend of mine had a spare ticket for Game 1 in 2004. I managed to fly across for the game and have never experienced a crowd like that before. From taking the T into Fenway, to drinking in the (forget the name, but very close to Fenway) bar before the game.
I even tried to give my ticket to a New Englander I met in the bar who had flown in from Minnesota with no ticket, but just wanted to be near Fenway for the game. Being a Brit, I felt like a cheat for having a ticket, while he was a ticketless native Bostonian. I’m in equal parts still guilty and (yet again) thankful for his refusal to accept it.
The thrill of Bellhorn’s 8th or 9th inning (can’t remember which) 2-run homer is imprinted in my brain. Us reserved Brits don’t usually go in for high-fiving, but my hand was sore for days afterwards as I found myself swept-up in the euphoria. Won’t ever forget that roar, or how the whole stadium seemingly rose as one when the ball left Bellhorn’s bat.
I was back in San Diego for the final game, and (wearing a Yastrzemski shirt I had picked-up from Filene’s Basement some years before). I left my apartment in search of a bar to watch the final few innings with (hopefully) some transplanted New Englanders. My last thankfulness is for Downtown Johnny Brown’s in the San Diego Civic Center Plaza, as I found a large crowd of Red Sox devotees within.
Despite my accent, I was welcomed into the fold and shared/witnessed the delirium at the final out. I felt equally privileged and envious as I saw how much it meant to them that the curse had finally been broken. I’ve experienced a few celebratory sporting moments in rugby, but none (previous or since) matched that one.
So I’m very thankful I caught Red Sox disease and that there’s still no cure.