Championship Cat
There it is. Unreal. This is not photoshopped. THE trophy was at our second (OK, maybe third) home. Saturday, May 28th at 12:30PM the
Red Sox trophy team stopped by the
Brass Cat for 15 minutes. We had less than one day of warning. Regardless, at least 60 people showed up. My Dad, Mom, Uncle, Grandmother, Grandfather, Jen and I were all there for it. As the hour was approaching we all started to get a little nervous. Mike Lavalle (one of the owners of the Cat) said "God, I hope this isn't a hoax". I was standing outside looking down the street waiting to see the Red Sox car that the trophy travels in. Yes, the entire car is painted with Red Sox logos and whatnot. When they finally pulled up I waved them into a parking space and introduced myself and thanked them for making it. They were very gracious. As we entered the bar we heard an explosion of clapping and hooting and hollering similar to that grand evening of October 27th. Hundreds of pictures were taken.
Baseball is talked about (and written about) to death in this area. Please bear with me. I wish to briefly join that heralded (and sometimes, ridiculed) community.
I didn't think it would be as moving as it was. After all, it's just a piece of hardware. Just a static, inanimate object. Big deal. My dear friend, Eric Poulin said the same the night before. It's just a trophy, we all have them. Eric's entire family was there too. His Mom, brother, sister and all their kids. He relayed a story to me the night before game 4 of the World Series. His brother, Donny pointed out to him that this was much, much more than just a baseball game. This pulled people in a similar direction. It helped make people who were already close, closer. It also made friends of strangers. The Sox winning it all would be justification to so many, in so many different ways. Eric and I are very similar. We were raised by a thinking man's blue collar family. We were born with gloves and bats in our hands. If I wasn't playing baseball I was talking about it. If I wasn't talking about it I was thinking about it. The Red Sox were the core unifier in that way. It made you new friends. It made conversation for you with people you might never have had the chance to talk with otherwise. See, in New England (specifically, Massachusetts) it's the only constant thing. The seasons all change. People move from town to town. The factories all close but remain as giant, ghostly reminders of failure. But no one ever speaks ill of these things. They deal. They move on. They continue to support and believe in the people around them. The Red Sox embody the famous quote "
The more things change, the more they stay the same". Players hop around like hired mercenaries. The ballpark is run down and broken and filled with inevitable failure. You always think that this must be the year. Even the 65 year old snakeskinned mechanic thought that '46 was their year. Or '67. Or '75. Or '78. Or Goddamn '86. That is, until October 27th, 2004. They did it. The Red Sox became World Champions. People rejoiced. Strangers hugged. Teenagers ran down the street jumping and hollering. Church bells rang. Car horns honked. Fathers hugged their sons. Sons hugged THEIR sons. People wept. Wept like they never had before. Something died that day. Peace blanketed everyone. Kept us like the woods at night during a snowstorm.
So here we are, Eric and I. Cheering as they march the championship trophy into our front yard. The jaded and rough edges of our opinions dropped and lost to the overwhelming accomplishment of those 25 men. I had my photo taken with my father and grandfather. Three generations of silence finally vindicated. Eric stood with his brother and sister and their kids. Also three generations. Eric's mom refused to be in the photo. She just wanted the kids to be in it. Nestled in Eric's somewhat freakishly large arm was a photo. A small, wooden frame decorated with tiny baseball gloves and bats and balls. The picture in the center was that of his father and himself as a toddler. See, Eric lost his father, Don Poulin Sr., to chronic lung disease in 1999. The man that taught him everything. The man that always made sure he kept his faith. His belief. His hope. The Red Sox were one of their strongest bonds. Baseball and all its gentle prose. And all it's vigilant passion. I've got a great picture of all of them. Everyone beaming from ear to ear. The small picture of their father gently tucked in Eric's arm. When it was winding down my father grabbed Eric and hugged him. And just like that this sterile piece of gold and platinum leapt to life. Telling wordless stories everywhere in that room. Beautiful and strong and filled with an odd familiarity. It really happened. We were really there for it. We are lifted. So high, as a matter of fact, that you can almost feel those hugging you who are no longer standing here with us. Yes, it was that important. The tears came from nowhere. I saw him and grabbed him and lost it myself. "He's here, man. He's right here." I kept whispering to him.
On behalf of everyone I love, thank you Red Sox. Thank you more than you'll ever know.
