Wired Mesh

There Is No Curse; There Are No Words

Travels in Red Sox Nation

I've been basking quietly in history for the past week, but it's time for a few thoughts before Game Four:

* I flew to Florida this weekend, wearing my Red Sox jersey through the streets of Chattanooga and two international airports. And the strangest thing happened: Wherever I went, every ten minutes or so another person would walk up to me, pat me on the back, yell cheers of "SOX!" or just smile at me. I have never felt so much friendship from strangers. It was as if the whole country was quietly partying, rejoicing, and looking for someone to share the feeling with. Even the people examining my baggage for bombs wanted to talk Sox.

Of course, every few hours I ran into a Yankees fan, or a general wet blanket, who would call out, "The curse lives," and stride away. And then there was the Federal airport security agent, a woman in Orlando's terminal, who took one look at my wardrobe at a checkpoint and said she wouldn't let my bags through, "after what you guys did to us."

"I'm sorry," I said. I paused, then grinned. "But not really."

She then proceded to keep my suitcase, wallet and shoes on the x-ray conveyor belt for the next two minutes, stopping and starting the belt three or four times. She just stared at me. She wanted revenge.

I just kept smiling. I didn't care. We won.

* Let's be honest: This World Series, so far, hasn't been a classic. It's been ugly, actually, and something of an emotional anticlimax after the Yankees series. And yet it's been glorious to watch, like watching a train gather momentum after bursting through a mountain. It feels, and I know it's too early to say this and all, like a curtain call: a chance to take a last, lingering look at our team's history and our heroes. It was such a pleasure to watch Pedro dominate last night, to see him have what could be his last flash of Boston beauty.

* Speaking of heroes, you really should read Schilling's interview with the Dirt Dogs. Here's my favorite bit:

While many think you're a great pitcher and a courageous human being, some don't understand why you think the supreme being cares about whether you win a baseball game or not.

CS: "With my God? Or God? I don't think anything happens to him, but I think pretty much every time I do lose I get taught some sort of lesson. Be it preparation, aggression, execution, or humility."

* When I read stuff like that, when I think over Pedro's roller-coaster season, when I remember Varitek shoving his glove in A-Rod's face, or Ortiz smashing the Angels out of existence, or Damon's hair streaming behind him as he cries his way to home plate, my strongest feeling now is that I don't want to say goodbye to this team. I like them. They feel like friends. I've been spending the past two weeks begging for them not to lose, and now I just want them to stay. Bill Simmons -- as usual -- put it best:

With an elusive championship only two victories away, I'm surprised how much I'm thinking about the end of the road -- not the possible end of the (rhymes with "Schmurse") and all that media-driven crap, but how much I'm going to miss watching this team. It's almost over. I can't stop thinking about it. Baseball teams resonate more than teams from any other sport, only because of the frequency of the games, the up-and-down nature of the season and the endless array of characters. For better or worse, 25 to 30 strangers impact your life for six straight months. Day in, day out. Only rarely is it worth it.

This season was worth it. My generation of Sox fans grew up with stoic heroes like Yaz and Rice, along with an invisible ownership that didn't care about the park or the fans. Many of our favorite players ended up skipping town -- Clemens, Mo, Lynn and Fisk -- for reasons that never really made sense. And the legacy of misfortune hung over everything. The 2004 Red Sox made up for everything, a good group of guys who bring out the best in one another. It's the kind of team you dream of following.

* All that said, am I terrified about tonight? Of course.

* We are now 27 outs away from something beautiful, the happy ending, the validation of hope. And the first unveiling of my double chin in more than two years. Which is why the party begins tonight at my place at 8 p.m., and will continue until it's done. Be there. Bring scissors. We believe.

We Did It

Good morning, curseless world. The Red Sox have beaten the Yankees. That sentence felt so good to type, I'll do it again: The Red Sox have beaten the Yankees.

More later...

This Is the Story of Your Red Right Ankle

Only here will you find the Decemberists used to make Curt Schilling references. The things we do to kill time before the Biggest Game Ever.

A colony of ladybugs has taken up residence on the fire escape outside the Pulse office. No complaints there; the little red beetles are pleasant company on my smoke breaks -- and, as centuries-old folklore has it, they are a sure harbinger of good fortune. Which brings me to my point: this afternoon, as I twitched my way through a cigarette, nine ladybugs alighted on my Red Sox jersey. Another perched on the back of my neck, the eleventh landed on my pants, and ladybug number 12 nestled at the top edge of my beard -- indeed, the selfsame beard that I have not trimmed since this series began.

I can only take this as a good sign.

Up From Third Base to Huntington They Sang Another Victory Song

Some disjointed, terrified thoughts before tonight's Biggest Game Ever:

*Four days ago, I had written off this series as another bit of misery, a nasty blast of bad luck. I had stopped thinking about it. I watched Game Four out of sheer loyalty. Then came the 12-inning classic and the 14-inning insanity. When Ortiz hit the walk-off homer, I was back in; when he hit the single, I started screaming. Last night, as Schilling pitched with blood soaking through his sock, I almost started dry heaving. Today, after perhaps the greatest win in Red Sox history, I can't work, I can barely eat and I'm struggling to carry on lucid conversations. I'm that nervous.

*Curt Schilling walks into the press room last night, wearing a black "Why Not Us?" tee-shirt. A reporter asks him about how he endured the pain of a sutured ankle for seven innings.

He replies: "Well, I don't know that pain was the thing. Seven years ago I became a Christian, and tonight God did something amazing for me. I tried to be as tough as I could, and do it my way, Game 1, and I think we all saw how that turned out. I knew that I wasn't going to be able to do this alone. And I prayed as hard as I could. I didn't pray to get a win or to make great pitches. I just prayed for the strength to go out there tonight and compete, and He gave me that. I can't explain to you what a feeling it was to be out there and to feel what I felt."

Now there's a man. The more I read that little speech, the calmer I feel about tonight. Whether we win or lose doesn't matter. That a man has found the comfort from God to give his all to his cause, that matters. I'm so happy for Curt.

*Other people I'm happy for: Bronson Arroyo, a tiny grin breaking between his cornrows as the Fenway crowd gives him a 10th-inning standing ovation. Johnny Damon, weeping as he runs home. Mark Bellhorn, finally breaking through.

*Alex Rodriguez embarrassed the Yankee organization last night. I may loathe the Bombers, but I respect them like no other franchise. Last night's player and fan behavior was pure bush-league, a disgrace to their legacy. My lasting memories from this series will be Schilling's courage and A-Rod's petulence, no matter how tonight turns out.

*My place. Tonight. Eight p.m. Bring cigarettes and smelling salts. I'll need both.

*I keep waffling between keeping an ironic distance from this team and believing wholeheartedly in their dream. I've made up my mind, consequences and heartbreak be damned. I believe in these Red Sox. I love them.

The Plot Against the Electoral College

While I wait to see whether Game 6 is a washout tonight (fight on, Sox!), I've been toying with the New York Times' wonderful Presidental Calculator, an hour-stealing Flash graphic that allows you manipulate swing states and create different Electoral College scenarios for Bush or Kerry victories. As a secret aficionado of alternative history, I've been enjoying this tremendously.

Or at least I was, until I puttered my way into a chilling scenario. Did you realize that Bush and Kerry could actually tie? And it's not a terribly far-fetched possibility. All that would need to happen is for the election to follow the same results of 2000, only with Kerry stealing away Colorado. That's it. Just Colorado. And then they're tied at 269 electoral votes apiece. The same thing could happen is Kerry took just one of Colorado's votes (the state is one of the few that can split) and then stole Nevada. Tied, again.

I have no bloody idea what happens when the Electoral College is deadlocked. I can't imagine that it's good, though. Just thought I'd toss bit of trivia out there, and help all you partisans lose a couple hours of sleep...

Quashing the Moron Vote... With Puppets

I can't begin to tell you how excited I've become about seeing Matt Stone and Trey Parker's new obliteration of all that is cherished by the self-serious, "Team America: World Police." My anticipation rises after reading their interview in Salon, in which they instruct the uninformed to not bother with that voting thing:

Stone: All we ever said was that we thought that uninformed people should not vote -- on either side of the political spectrum. It doesn't matter who you're gonna vote for. If you really don't know who you're gonna vote for, or are uninformed, or haven't really thought about it? Just stay home. Don't let people fucking shame you into going to the polls.

Parker: If you have absolutely no idea, fuck it.

Stone: If you really don't know or you're just going to vote for George Bush because he's already in office, or you're gonna vote for John Kerry because he's on the cover of Rolling Stone, don't do that. That's lame. Just stay home. That's all we ever said.

They also have a swift summary of their proposed foreign policy, which seems reasonable but I don't feel comfortable repeating here. It's just that vulgar.

I won't be able to catch the movie until Sunday... too much work, play and family swirling about me at the moment. If you'd like to spend your Sabbath in the company of obscene marionettes, give me a call.

An Open Letter to the Boston Red Sox

Gentlemen:

I have been rooting for you with the utmost intensity all season, but only in the past few days have I become fully aware of what kind of folks you are. The intricate, absurdist handshakes, the pitcher who spends his off days posting on fan message boards, the outfielder who looks like Jesus and runs around naked, the obscure 1903 theme song sung by Irish punk rockers and said naked outfielder, the giant goatees, the jheri curls, and the 23-pound midget named Nelson De la Rosa that Pedro has snuck into the clubhouse.

I think that you are my kind of people.

For this reason, and knowing that you will need every possible edge to defeat The Force of Evil That Shall Not Be Named, I now pledge not to trim my beard or cut my hair until your season comes to an end. And if you should happen to win the World Series, if you should accomplish your great, insane goal, I promise to cut off my beard in celebration. This will be the first time I have done this in more than two years. It is the least I can do.

My friends and I will gather in my apartment tonight at eight, Diet Coke and Camels on hand, prepared to sacrifice even our facial hair for your cause. May the ball smile on us.

Sincerely,

Aaron Mesh

P. S. Terry, if you're reading this, please remember to pull Pedro after the seventh inning. I do not care if he has struck out every batter, or if he has only thrown three pitches. Pull him anyway. Please.

I Will Avoid Deciding Who's Right by Cracking a Jaded Joke

This from Charles Taylor's review of Bob Dylan's autobiography:

We know what to think of celebrities. They're all egomaniacs and publicity whores -- doesn't matter if they're Paris Hilton or Bob Dylan. That's how all the pomo Hedda Hoppers have told us to think about celebrity. Forget about the work; it's the image that matters. Irony is the new Jesus. Crucified on Sept. 11, it rose again to sit at the right hand of ... well, maybe not God, but at least Maureen Dowd.

****

But then there's this from Tom Carson's review of Jon Stewart's "America: The Book":

And Stewart, who might have been mistaken for a real Sept. 10 kind of guy, has turned into the Bush years' sharpest jester, a satirist who doubles for his fans as a goofy, imperturbable reality check. Nobody better demonstrates how those post-9/11 reports on the death of irony turned out to be, well, ironic. Bush's excesses have restored irony from its decadence in Letterman's salad days, when it came to mean adopting a winky superciliousness as your default reaction to everything, to its best purpose, which is as a coping strategy with a moral value.

****

No answers on that one. All I know is that there are far too many good books to be reading at the moment. I've just started the new Roth, I'm halfway through Greg Kot's Wilco biography, and once I'm done with those two, I'd like to finally bother with some Salinger and treat myself to "Positively Fifth Street." But there's "America: The Book" tempting me from my living room floor (where it lies open amongst a pile of dirty shirts), and it's battling with my strong desire to go on a full-bore Dylan kick, with the autobiography and the Christopher Ricks close-reading analysis. As if that weren't enough, I've been feeling a lurking urge to settle down with Job, Ecclesiastes and a cup of coffee. There's something in there that I need, and I don't yet know what. Could be honest confrontation with the Divine; could be caffine.

But then I remember that I have two jobs, and the Red Sox are on in 30 minutes, and I could really use some dinner before poker. The books will remain closed for one more day.