John Miller, head coach of the Brussels Kangaroos and a reporter for a major American newspaper, is chronicling his team’s 2008 season in a column that will appear every Monday on mister-baseball.com. It is the first of several Mister-Baseball Blogs this year.
I completed a key stage in my lifelong Tour de Baseball this week, checking in on Red Sox Nation for the first time. I visited former Kangaroo Tom McMahon in his suburban Boston fiefdom of Weymouth, pop. 53,498.
(Meanwhile, our president-centerfielder Manu is vacationing in Yakima, Washington, home of a 2003 ‘Roo, Sean Gilbert. I’ve already been. Our baseball mission has left a trail of veterans scattered around the Anglo world. They are our friends, our scouts – and our holidays hosts.)
Weymouth is a real life Simpsons’ Springfield, an all-American burg of fields and factories, tree-lined and tough, patriotic and proud. It boasts history (Founded 1652!), a harbor, a Target and ten Dunkin Donuts, including the world’s busiest.
On Sunday morning, Tom’s friend Pete took me for a drive. An engaging lanky fellow with a buzz cut and a sharp New England wit, Pete works in a liquor store and plans to study bar tendering. “You’re going to get the Weymouth world history tour,” he said.
We saw relics (Abigail Adams’s house, an abandoned Navy base, a Korean war memorial, the hospital where Mark Bellhorn was born) and pieces of Tom’s past (house, high school field, little league field).
Teens played fall ball but I was most impressed by an under-12 football game.
Hundreds cheered these tiny shiny helmeted warriors. Little girl cheerleaders in skirts shouted and shrieked. The mini-QB dropped back and heaved a 20-yard pass over the middle. The kid receiver confidently grabbed the pass before a pack of tackling tykes took him down. Here, the best athletes play not soccer, but gridiron in the fall and baseball in the spring, and it’s central to their lives and to their town.
And the Red Sox?
At one of our stops, Pete’s house, I asked his mom if she followed the Bostonians. “Have you seen our basement?” she asked.
The lair had a flat-screen TV, a comfy couch and a dozen Red Sox pennants and posters. A sign said: This family interrupts life for baseball season.
“My mom sits here and you can’t interrupt during games,” Pete said.
There were other signs of mania.
The Boston Globe printed charts galore, including one that showed how many strikes Josh Beckett threw with each of his pitches in different count situations. (19% strikes when behind in the count.)
At 2pm, before a 7.37pm playoff contest against the Angels, almost everybody in this small town wore Sox gear.
“We’re the best, most knowledgeable detail-oriented fans in sports,” said Pete. “People in Boston hated the movie Fever Pitch, cuz that made us look like we just cheer instead of debating on-base percentages.”
And had two world titles taken away the subtle satisfaction of loving the Sox?
“Oh no, this is much better,” said Pete.
My confession: I didn’t like it. The Red Sox aren’t cute anymore. They are big fat world champions, and I’m jealous.
Like all great powers, they must fall. Later that night, in Brooklyn, I cheered the Angels 12-inning triumph in Game 3.
I was also glad Manny & Co. knocked out the Cubs, because baseball theology demands it. Their role is losing. The Red Sox need to follow suit. Please.
Besides the Red Sox winning, what else troubles the game these days? Email oldworldpastime@gmail.com