Baseball or more specifically, the Red Sox...or more specifically, Opening Day...or more specifically. Opening Day 1998.
This was from 1998 (taken from "the bathroom sessions")
(This , by the way, was going to be the tattoo I was going to get if the Red Sox ever won a world series in my lifetime...an idea definitely hatched at one of these opening days with my good buddy John. As a matter of fact the first phone call I got after the Sox did win that first championship was from John, within minutes of the win, that went something like this..
John, "You know that whole tattoo thing?" "I'm cool if you don't want to do that anymore".
That and another championship later, we're both still tattoo-less).
So, anyway, back to that Opening day...the year before was bad...we got some good players in the off season (Pedro Martinez' first year) and ended up in the playoffs at the end of the season. but all that's irrelevant. This is what I remember about that Opening Day (bulletized)
- It was against the Seattle Mariners
- It was my best chance -ever- to catch a foul ball hit into the stands. We're sitting in the left field box seats..there's a left handed batter up (don't recall who) he hits a line drive that veers into the seats...coming my way...I'm tracking the ball...it is coming DIRECTLY to me...I stand up...put out both hands...THIS IS MINE...the ball is literally three feet in front of me...when my friend (Dave) just to my left, reaches across with his left hand (because he is holding a beer in his right)...(to demonstrate, please take your left arm, reach across your body, and imagine catching a ball to the right of you. You have to turn your hand over, right? You can't catch anything that way, right? Right!)...and stops the ball inches from my hand. That was stops, not catches. Ball falls underneath the seat in front of me and the guy sitting there picks it up and goes nuts. There is probably video of that guy celebrating getting his (my) foul ball with me hollering at Dave in the background. So close.
- Randy Johnson was pitching against us (us being the Red Sox, not me and my friends). The game is not close.
- About the fourth inning Dave sees Stephen King sitting about ten rows in front of us. He turns to me and says, "Peter, who's that guy that writes all those books?" Me, not being able to answer a question with no logical answer says nothing. My other buddy, John (remember him?), decides to though and he says to Dave, "Tom Clancy?" Dave says, "Yeah, that's him". At which point he starts heckling Stephen King. "Hey Tom Clancy!"... "Hey Clancy".."Hey Tom Clancy, you can't write a nightmare as bad as this!"..."Hey Tom Clancy!"...and so forth and so on. Dave keeps it up until Stephen King stands, turns around and waves to Dave. That's all he was looking for.
- We strike up a friendship with a group of people from Seattle that are sitting behind us. We spend the next few innings having some fun banter with them. Game is not going well.
- About the seventh inning Stephen King leaves the game. Dave hollers out to him. "Clancy's a fair weather fan", "Clancy's a quitter". "Go back to Maine, Clancy, where you belong" and other such vulgarities
- So, bottom of the 9th inning Randy Johnson has mowed us down. Literally. Two hits, two runs, and fifteen strikeouts. Randy Johnson was a badass back then. Never more than this game. Randy Johnson was such a badass that he once killed a bird with a pitch during a game. Here it is...
- Then the impossible happens....Randy Johnson doesn't come out to pitch the 9th inning. We are losing 7-2. Who comes trotting out? Heathcliff Slocumb. You read that right...Heathcliff Slocumb. Really. Heathcliff. Heathcliff Slocumb used to pitch for the Red Sox, but the year prior we traded him to these Seattle Mariners for a young catcher named Jason Varitek. We got the better of the deal. Dave says to me, "Peter, we're going to win this game. Stephen King is listening to this game and is wishing he wasn't in Portsmouth by now. I bet he wishes he could turn around and come back". Dave turns around and says to our friends from Seattle, "You just lost the game". Then Dave starts in on Heathcliff..."You're a bum", "Welcome back to Fenway you bum!", and lets not forget "Sloooocumb...Slooocumb...Slooocumb" (Dave opted to not go for the easier target of Heathcliff - first class hecklers know these kind of things), and so forth and so on. Slocumb gives up a few hits...a few runs...walks a batter...and gets no one out. He get pulled out of the game. Score is now 7-5. Another pitcher comes in and walks a batter. He gets pulled. Two runners on and no outs. Another pitcher. Gives up a hit. He comes out. Bases loaded...no outs...Fenway Park is going berserk. New pitcher. Mo Vaughn steps up to the plate. Mo Vaughn was a big (BIG) first baseman with a big swing. - As an aside - I once had a chance to stand up and ask Nomar Garciaparra one question in a roomful of about 300 people. I asked him who he thought would win in a hot dog eating contest, Mo Vaughn or Big Papi? He smiled and said he didn't know, but he would pay money to see it happen. - Back to the game...Mo Vaughn steps up to the plate....bases loaded....no outs...gets one pitch...takes a mighty swing...and POW...Grand Slam. Red Sox win 9-7. Crowd goes nuts, everyone's getting and giving high fives (even our friends from Seattle), and I'm hoarse for three days. End of story.
- To prove it happened, here's the box score...http://www.baseball-almanac.com/box-scores/boxscore.php?boxid=199804100BOS
Except for this. The next year, at opening Day, same cast of characters. Dave sees Stephen King down in front of us again. Dave hollers, "Hey Clancy, you leaving in the seventh inning today?"
Stephen King turns around, takes off his cap, and tips it to Dave.
Now it's the end of the story.
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