It Ain’t All Over

And the sun came up.

Fourteen hours after the Red Sox season ended, in a glorious flameball of unrealized potential and unrealistic expectations, of dying dreams and still-living wishes, of bratty anticipations and mature calculated opinions, the sun came up.

Fourteen hours after little-less than a Torii Hunter shaving cream pie in the face and a Matt Holliday ball to the balls, the sun came up.  Fourteen hours after baseball, a kid’s game more synonymous with a stretch than a scorching, rocked New England, the sun came up.

The regional day of mourning—they had even cancelled school and work!—began like every other day but with just a little less bounce, a little less excitement, and a little more to talk about.  The Sox’ loss hadn’t just stunned New England, it had dropped a stinkbomb that crinkled our noses and made us a little sick.

Though the sun rose like any other day, this season’s end wasn’t like any other playoff loss.  It wasn’t like 2005 when New England was still hungover from drilling the Bambino in the ass with a Dave Roberts steal and a bottle of champagne.  And it wasn’t like 2008 when the Sox battled, and clawed, and fought their way to game seven of the ALCS, only to have the kid from Haverhill put his hometown team down like Old Yeller.  This was worse.

Because all year, this season was about to start.  The team was about to click, the guys were going to start hitting, and the clock was going to be turned back.  We never felt comfortable about this team, like we did in ’07 or ’08, we never knew what to expect.  But expect we did.

We expected this team to make the World Series.  We had dreams of another duckboat parade, a dirty-water cruise.  We dreampt that our lovable Shrek, a green, clean-power power-hitter would dominate the league without his dirtier, if slightly more skilled, bash brother and kooky clubhouse cancer.  We dreampt of a pitching rotation with Cy Young candidates from one to the minors, at least six or seven deep.  And we dreampt of a dominant bullpen that would suffocate any thoughts of frisky late-game comebacks by the likes of lowly AL East rivals.  Those dreams, of course, turned into a nightmare.

By the end of every season in any sport, it’s easy to look back and say “boy, back when the season started  I never would have thought we’d be where we are now.”  This year, however, Sox fans could say that ten times over and still say “boy, back at the All-Star break,” and “boy, back when the playoffs started, I never would have thought I’d have my head in my hands and my hands in the oven.”  The Sox and their fans were stuck in quicksand the whole year, not quite drowning but certainly in peril.

The nightmare came to a head on Sunday.  Throughout the week the Angels of California of the United States of the Milky Way methodically burst each bubble and each dream.  And in game three we in New England awoke suddenly from our nightmares, only to find that the monster in the closet was real.

As any child knows, though, monsters don’t look so scary in the morning.  On Sunday afternoon I was in as foul a mood as I’ve been in.  When you’re angry and sad and disappointed, there’s no room for the good memories and eternal baseball hope: next year.  But then the sun came up on Monday.

I couldn’t bring myself to write about one of the worst sporting days of my lifetime, but then the sun came up.  Here we are in a restless sleep, not quite comforted but not without dreams for next year.  While mourning  is important, the sun will always come up in the morning.

Tags: Red Sox