All Apologies For A Lack Of A Creative Post With A Creative Title

The medicine of the a cold winter has digested.

How's that for an opening sentence. Not so much? I toyed around with it for awhile. Don't much believe it myself. You see I want to write about how exciting it is that Spring Training is upon us. That the fog and mediocrity of a season without baseball has lifted. That pitchers and catchers and players have reported. That baseball is back. That it is, wait for it... wait for it... wait for it....

A spoonful of sugar!

And that's even worse. I think I've soiled any potential for readership. The boys of firejoemorgan.com are embarrassed. Tim McCarver, on the other hand, has just called: he wants his line back. And now Jerry Seinfeld's upset that I'm ripping him off. I can't win. There'll be no MacArthur award for me.

But the facts are these: spring training's upon us. Try as I might, I can't state it any better, with any more poetry or import or creativity. It is what it is. Grown men working to get back into game shape. Playing poor excuses for games that cost way too much to attend (I tried to go to a game in Fort Myers when we go to Miami in three weeks: $60+/per ticket!). Perhaps it was because the Yawkey Way folks lentus all a very quiet and inexpensive offseason. Or that we've now won the World Series twice(!) in my lifetime.

Spring training is a welcome occurrence, despite however little it does to get me geared up for the season these days. But it remains a sign of the glory to come, however bad the games are, however fat the players are, however expensive the games get.

To the point: Yada, yada, yada. Baseball is back.

The Red Sox Bear Us Away To Winter

It's over. 162 games. The Postseason. The World Series. It has ended gloriously for us Red Sox fans. Our second World Series in 4 years. An absolute and unequivocal drubbing of the Rockies to win the World Series. And two mornings removed, the smile not yet wiped away from my face, it still remains over.

I watched the game. Every pitch. Every hit. Every inane comment from McCarver and Buck. It wasn't riveting, it was affirming. I knew we had a good team, a great team. Young and talented in some corners, experienced and unrelenting in others. Scrappy and emotional in the field, quiet and graceful at the plate. Never have I been so impressed with my Red Sox. Sure 2004 was outstanding, a beyond-words-cornucopia of glory and emotion. But 2007 was stunning. A knock you to your knees awe-inspiring season. There were rough moments, but you expect those with anything that takes perseverance. There were few come-from-behind wins this year, more content to take the lead and never surrender it games. I can honestly say there were never any doubts. When you see a team this good, this powerful and dominating, they leave little room for doubts.

Since 2004, the ominous and foreboding feeling has gone. I read that 2004 was an exorcism, 2007 was an exercise in domination. I tend to agree. This was a very good baseball team. And almost as exciting, this will be a very good baseball team next year.

I watched us emerge victorious in Game 4 in the same manner and means I watched us win Game 7 of the ALCS. Isaac was awakened and seated in my lap, my legs crossed underneath me, his draped over them. His stiff little back holding his alert head upright braced against my chest. Faced forward, eyes open, both of us watching the Red Sox win. I told the Mrs. last night I swear he knew something was going on. Occasionally he would look up at me, bright blue eyes reflecting the green fields of my childhood imaginations of World Series victories. Those eyes would stare into mine, then turn to the T.V. for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. He may have been saying nothing, just taking note of the two animate things in the living room at midnight. But in my mind he understood. Not what was going on, only that something was going on. So we watched. Cheered. Called family. And we, together, father and son, won the World Series.

For the 2007 season I watched the games. Never sure what was happening in the larger sense, only that something was happening. This was a good baseball team and a lot of fun to watch. Now that we've won, I'm still not sure I can put winning the World Series into words. Twice in a lifetime!", that was the headline on ESPN yesterday featuring an animated, wide-eyed, wearied and enthralled Papelbon. That's about right. Twice in my lifetime the Red Sox have won the World Series. The Red Sox have won the World Series twice. Never gets old, always bears repeating.

For all the celebration, the quiet moments of joy with my son seated in my lap, I am sad this morning. Baseball, my pastime, my favorite sport, is over for the winter. It will be a short winter though. And a warm one, images of Papelbons and Pedrioas dancing in my head. Of Manny's and Papi's and Jacoby's bringing smiles to my face. But baseball is over for another year.

But it was a year in which the Red Sox have won the World Series. And that's only happened twice in my lifetime.

The Modern Prometheus

If you're familiar with the stuff of myth, the stuff of fantastic stories and tales, perhaps you'd be acquainted with the ancients conception of how fire was brought to man. Prometheus concealed the conflagration in his cloak, thieved from the heavens, and bestowed it to man. Interesting to note in this story that fire was the stuff of heaven. That it is not man's, not originally present on earth to the Greeks. I mean, there are no stories of a man named Chuck thieving water in the folds of his shirt, or Larry holding air in his wallet as he crept out of heaven. It's fire that's the stuff of heaven. God made the bush burn, not rain, when he chose to speak to Moses. Fire is the stuff of heaven.

So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.

Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...

Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.

We Win The World Series.

You Keep Using That Word Fairytale

So last night's game was pleasant. An easy win that featured big hits, and hard ones at that. I'd be a little afraid if I were the Rockies. Not because they should doubt how good they are; because they should realize they can't really fathom how good the Red Sox are. A point of fact: everyone tells me how good the Rockies are, how they won all these games. My question: Look at their respective averages in the postseason, how are they scoring runs with those averages? Good pitching beats good hitting like a full house on a pair in the postseason. Bad hitting? Well, then it's a game of solitaire for the pitchers.

All that said, I think tonight's going to be a close game. The temperatures could fall into the 30s in Boston and, playing in Denver or not, that's a cold game. And with cold games come cooler bats and pitchers that look unhittable. Expect an ugly game tonight. Lots of pitches, lots of foul balls, not a lot of anything else. The Red Sox win anything close too, especially with the lead late.

As for last night's game, I'll fully enjoy what it was: A win in Game 1. But here's the thing about postseason baseball, namely: the World Series. If it is like a fairytale, as I surmised yesterday -- an idea I really like, one whose metaphors I could extend and will here -- then yesterday was much like the movie "The Princess Bride". Remember at the beginning of the film, Columbo starts reading to Kevin (Peter Faulk to Fred Savage). And Kevin stops him midway through the opening of the story saying (aloud mind you, not in the voice of David Stern) he knows what happens and Columbo might as well go solve a mystery or some other grandfatherly thing. That's how Game 1 was last night. No mystery to solve. Pretty easy to predict by the fourth inning what as going to happen.

This isn't a bad thing. A win in the World Series is huge. A lot to be excited about. But excuse me if I like a little drama. If I like to feel tense and upset and get mad and throw things and think that my determination and my will in believing we can win actually affects the outcome in a close game where every little thing helps. None of that was needed last night and I felt left out by the end. We expect drama from these games. We want drama from these games. We want to be pushing 1AM in a close, cold, and bitter game. We want the crowd and the wind and a bad pitch to mean everything. We want it all to hinge on some minuscule fulcrum, fitting all of the team and the fans and history and future on a ledge. Suffering. We want to suffer a little. We want Wesley to disappear, take us through the fire swamp, get whisked away and killed, brought back to life by Billy Crystal and to "have fun stormin' the castle".

We got none of that last night. But the bottom line is we want our team to win. Last night, the Red Sox replied, "As You Wish".

Once Upon A Time

There have been 3 Game 1's of the World Series that I've truly been interested in. The first one, well, I was six. The second one, I feel asleep during. And tonight.

A quick note about the one I fell asleep during. It was in 2004. After the longest and most emotionally draining sports experience of my life. Those games were epic and fantastic. Everything after was almost a let down. Well not everything. Game 1 was actually exciting. I was just excited out.

I'm rested for tonight. Rested and ready. Game 1's mean little in the scope of things. No one's back is up against the wall. It's not a must win game. Out of all the game's in the Series, this one means the least. That's not to say we can't or won't win. Or shouldn't. I know very little about what the Red Sox need to do verse the Rockies. I know nothing about the Rockies. All I can say is the Red Sox have to hit the ball hard and well -- taking full advantage of Fenway.

As for The World Series itself, there's a lot that can be said. It's the greatest sporting event on the planet. Explained best here. If the regular season is a story, a good novel, the post-season a sort of commentary, literary criticism of that story, then World Series is a fairytale.

It has a plot. Hyperbolic characters: giants that need to be slayed; carriages that turn back into pumpkins because time and luck has run out; Prince Charmings and Sleeping Beauties that appear and awake. And most importantly the idea inherent in every fairytale's opening lines: Once Upon A Time. With the Series we're transported to the magic land above and beyond and to the right of that second star. Moments that keep us up past midnight and straight on till morning.

I'll be awake tonight. Curled up in the same chair I've been reading this season's book in all year. Hearing the rhymes of curveballs and sliders and fastballs in my head. Seeing beanstalks and magic beans, perhaps even a dwarf or a Manny. And it'll be no surprise that up, way up past my bedtime, after reading a good story and great criticisms, that I'll fall asleep to the timeless tale of the World Series. But not until those famous last words.

The End.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

Drawn Up And Drawn Out

Perhaps you called it. Perhaps it occured to you that baseball is sometimes magical and when there occurs the opportunity for a magical moment, the baseball gods deliver with more "cadabra" than a Harry Potter novel. I'm not even so sure Aslan had anything on J.D. Drew's homerun last night. I've maligned the guy only because he struggled, not because I thought he wasn't good. But even I was left dumbfounded, speechless and deafened by my own internal screaming after the first inning Grand Slam. Sure there was a long way to go in the game. A very long way. But just because the Prestige occurs in the first inning doesn't mean the remaining act will be left wanting. Last night's win was magical. October baseball magical.

Now the series climaxes. Reaches the penultimate moment October baseball was created for. In my lifetime there have been only 4 Game Seven's for the Red Sox. They're 2-2. But it's the one stat you don't ever keep. Because stats don't matter in a Game 7. Pitchers on x days rest pitching don't matter. Consecutive hit streaks are rendered useless. And hitting a Grand Slam the previous night means nothing. It's all about what you can do tonight.

I've maintained all along (since the Sox had been down 3-1) that a Game 7 is a crapshoot. Hardest to predict. Teams will throw everything out there. Both teams with their backs against a proverbial wall. Both teams cornered. Both teams with the same goal, the same objective, and nine innings to decide who's more determined. Game 7's are the hardest to predict because they are played harder and more passionately than any other game. Because this is the game that means everything. The game that stretches back into the green fields of childhood homes minutes before going inside for dinner. "Two outs, bases loaded, 3-2 count, Game Seven." Even then it was the last thing you uttered as you prepared, in your mind, to win the game, make the catch, throw the pitch. "Game Seven..." Even now I feel a hush coming over me as I think about it.

The Red Sox need to continue to be patient at the plate. They don't need to score early in this one, they need to threaten early. Lead-off hitters need to get on. Maybe a stolen base early. A walk with two outs. They need to do the little things that grind on a pitcher like Westbrook. Frustrate him, not overwhelm him. Of course it would be great if they did that, but all they need to do is make sure Westbrook can't get into a rhytym. Make sure it's not easy for him. And when they have a chance to score, score. If they play smart and patient, they'll win. And they're winning anything close. That Fenway crowd is overwhelming. Everyone one in the stands has, also, dreamed of that Game Seven. And Red Sox fans don't let dreams go. Ever.

I'm not blogging this game either. Between my own memories of playing "Game Seven's" in the yard as a kid, and watching this Game Seven, there's not going to be anytime to expound any more thoughts. And because each pitch, in my mind, will be treated with the same anxiety I tried to bestow upon the childhood me, minutes before dinnertime, there's not a salient thought I can even offer.

Game Seven. Tonight. Fenway Park. Winner wins the Pennant. Goes to the Series. And there'll be plenty of time before dinner for the other.

This is the Prestige.