Victor the Goat’s

Great American Novel

The Bostonian

ere begins a chronicle of loyalty and love, of curses and catastrophes, of baseball and bare reality.  By chance they are united, by chance they are divided.  And through curses and catches, they are the same.  Fighting for causes so different and so similar, they are united by a common thread: the desire to Reverse the Curse.

Playoffs. << October, 2003. << Yankee Stadium.

            The stage was set.  Pedro and Clemens, the same pitcher’s duel of the infamous Game Four of the ALCS.  The same heated rivalry, this time with the American League Pennant on the line.  In the Bronx, the home of the Evil Empire called the New York Yankees.  In the Year of the Boston Red Sox, Two Thousand and Three.  For this was the year to Reverse the Curse of the Bambino, and send those damn Yankees packing their fabled pinstripes into their lockers, and forcing them to utter the words.  Wait until next year.

End. << October, 2003. <<  Wrigley Field

            Oh, wait ‘till next year was scant comfort for the Cub Nation.  Cubs fans the world over felt the anguish of the indescribable pain known only on the corners of Clark and Addison streets, but felt in a region of the human heart that somehow does not end it’s career.  Its injuries heal over the winter, and it is ready early March for Spring Training at HoHoKam Park.  If the President was shot, if the World Trade Centers fell again, if the Cubs’ American League counterparts on the south side were series-bound, none of these tragedies would parallel to the horror witnessed these past two nights at the not-too-Friendly Confines.  There is only one way to get on with your life, and Cub fans knew it.  They knew it from past seasons, and it’s a small comfort that it is always there, but you have to wait for it.  It, is next year, and the Cubbie Nation is waiting.

Playoffs.  <<  October, 2003. <<Yankee Stadium

            They thought it was done in the Bronx.  With five outs to go, there could be no comeback.  None.  “Oh Babe,” the Red Sox Nation taunted, “Whaddya think of Cowboying Up to the World Series?”  “I don’t think highly of that,” said the Babe.  “And it won’t happen in the House I Built.”  And the Babe was right.  Damn him, he always is.  And the team wearing pinstripes, not far removed from his own, tied it up.

End. << October, 2003. << Wrigley Field. 

            Cub fans cried and tried to explain the loss to each other.  If there was a God, and He cared, why did he allow this heartbreak?  Why did he allow that foul ball to make another cruel Cubbie twist out of the glove of Moises Alou, and into the hands of Steve Bartman?

            A man offered to slaughter his pet goat.  Death threats were made against the Bartman Bastard, as if he were not a person, but simply another medium through which the curse was transmitted.  Demands were made to the Tribune ownership powers-that-be that Alex Gonzalez be traded to a team where he could never screw up such a big game again, such as the Montreal Expos.  But to no avail.  The blue flag with a white L flew sadly in the icy cold breeze.

Boone. << October, 2003. << Yankee Stadium.

            Aaron Boone is a mistake.  The Yankee fans hold their breath when he has to make an assist.  He doesn’t make an error.  This time.  He comes to bat.  He doesn’t whiff.  This time.

            It is the eleventh inning, and there is a mistake.  Boone takes that mistake, and for a moment, he is the hero, not the villain.  The mistake lands in the upper deck.  And the Babe is smiling.

And here are the players involved:

            Alexandra Maria Sheffield was born October 4, fourteen years ago.  When she was born, as usual, the playoffs were in session.  However, there was something odd happening…  The Cubs were playing.  Strange enough, but the Cubs were in the pennant hunt.  The sound echoed throughout Wrigleyville.  This is the year!  This is the year!  THIS IS THE YEAR!  There is a curse, you may recall, called “The Curse of the Goat,” that has been placed on the Chicago Cubs.  That curse has spoken.

            “I will not be reversed!”  The Goat butts its horns against the Cub Nation.  The Cub Nation is large, but it cannot overcome this little goat.

            Will Clark came up for the Giants.  Will Clark hit a grand slam.  When his foot touched home plate, Alexandra Maria Sheffield was introduced to the world.

            “George is a nice name,” offered Ruth.

            “No!  You know who George is?” asked Ruth’s husband.  They had just had their first child and were trying to come up with a name.

            “Bush.  Now you know I’m a Republican.  So are you.  What’s the issue?”  Ruth asked.

            “We can all tell you’re new to Boston.  George is the name of the owner of the evil Yankee Empire!” her husband explained.  “I already have a husband named Ruth.  I can’t have a kid named George as well!”

            “The name Ruth has been passed down through my family ever since my great-grandmother Ruth was born in 1918,” his wife explained.  Levelheaded, it sounds.  To anyone else, it’s a plausible explanation.  However, to a member of the Red Sox Nation, them is fighting’ words.

            “Ruth…1918…curse…we can’t name this child George!”  He was out of breath.  Something more powerful than him, than the arm of Roger Clemens, than the whole nation of Boston Red Sox fans was rearing its ugly head.

            He knew it, but could not control it.  It was dèjá vu all over again.  A ball dribbled through the first baseman’s legs. The Mets won the World Series.  George was Stienbrenner, a man who’s face appeared on dart boards and rifle targets thought the state of Massachusetts. 

            Ruth’s voice of reason spoke up.

            “We’ll name him Casey.”

And we’ll hope he doesn’t strike out.

            Heaven called Hell and they got to trash talking.  All the Yankees went to Heaven, and claimed they could beat anyone in a baseball game.  Hell chuckled and said that it had the greatest players in the outcome.  Heaven reminded Hell, that all its men had worn pinstripes and played in the Bronx.  Hell didn’t listen and challenged Heaven to a baseball game.

            Heaven showed up to the ballpark with 25 men all dressed in pinstripes.  Hell showed up with four men in blue.  And Hell won the game.

Boston is Boston, and will always be Boston.  Plug your nose and say it with a twang.  Bawston.  Rawd Sawx.  Yankees suck.  Just sound like an annoying, whining asshole that wouldn’t know a curse if it hit you in the face.  Have some chowdah.  Call your shortstop Nomah.  It’s all wicked had core.  Then you’ll be a Bostonian.

            Chicago people are different.  We north-siders have seen curses.  Since nineteen hundred and fucking forty-five, we’ve seen curses.  No pennants.  Just curses.  Since nineteen hundred and fucking forty-five.  Curses.  Wait ‘till next year.  They’ll do it then.  Honest.  I believe.  Don’t you?

            I got a Cubs necklace for my 8^th birthday.  Haven’t taken it off yet.  I know the curse will be reversed.  I’m confident in the Cubbies.

            The Yankees will never loose.

            When you are born and raised in Boston, you are a Red Sox fan.  Babe, Bucky, Buckner, Boone.  You just don’t say those things.  Even if you don’t follow the action at Fenway, you still know the stories.  You’ve seen the ball dribble through the first base line, even though you don’t believe it.  That wasn’t anyone on the Boston Red Sox.  That was Babe Ruth.  You didn’t see that, you clam.  That was just a bad joke.  The Mets didn’t win the World Series, did they?  Yes, they did.  In 1986.

            It is now 2004.

It is now 2004.  It is time for a change that will alter everything known.

Alex Sheffield

            I was playing games on my cell phone when I got paged. 

            “Alex!  Get in here!”  I stopped paying attention for a second, and died.  My score was ten points below my best score.  If only my mom had waited thirty seconds.  I would have beaten the high score, which had been my goal for the past ten minutes. 

            Excuses ran through my head.  I had stayed up until three o’clock in the morning putting my baseball cards in alphabetical order.  Not my fault.  I couldn’t find my other Will Clark card.  So I ripped my room apart in the search.  And it was a mess.

            Jordan would understand.  He understood the need to tweak his hot rod.  So did our parents.  Just because he was seventeen, and I only fourteen and a half, I was inferior.  Thanks.  I’ll be sure to remember my beloved parents when I’m older.  For what assholes they were.

            I don’t care if I find those cards ever again.  I hope they stay buried in the infinite mess of my closet, and get bent and torn, and stained with pine tar from the farm hand’s bat I got at a Cubs game. 

            I walked down the stairs with an urge to forget the whole thing, to make the Big Three of Oakland important, not some old dude that played for the same team that Barry the steroid abusing freak Bonds plays for.  To recite Zito, Mulder, and Hudson; to say young pitching, the essence of all things good in baseball.  To think about Zito and that overhand curve and how he’s a lefty and how that is just so perfect, and why nobody ever thought of being a lefty with a nasty overhand curve before, I could never know.  Nor would I want to, for it would ruin the beauty of the moment, of the pitch, of the at-bat, of the whole game plan.  The things that never show up on the score card,

            My feet followed the hall, down the stairs, and to the living room where trouble awaited.  I wasn’t prepared, for I was thinking beautiful thoughts.  The knuckleball came to mind.  How beautifully it danced!  The curve ball and how it would bend.  The slider and how a pitch didn’t always have to go sixty feet, six inches to be effective.  And then just pure heat, and how there was nothing like it.  If it was in the zone, Mr. Farnsworth. 

            “Sit down.”  They said.  The worst two words in baseball, no matter what side you’re on.  Ride the pine.  Fetch the Gatorade.  Watch somebody else play your position, and notice every single way they are screwing up.  No matter how small.  I could do better blind.  Look at that stupid error.  What a dumb ass!  Does anyone notice me?  I have an arm.  So what if I’m a little short?  Or have a bad knee?  I can make that play!  And the poser out there can’t. 

I don’t have time to think about it.  I have to listen to somebody else’s crap.  The manager is trying out a new lineup on me, asking my opinion.  What am I supposed to say?  I don’t like it because I’m not playing second base.  Can’t say that.  Say whatever.  Ask what was wrong with the current lineup.  Get me back on the field! I scream.

            “I got a new job,” my dad announced.  It’s like our third baseman.  “I got a new glove!”  “I got a batting helmet!”  “I got a life!”  But you never see any of it.  Because it doesn’t exist.  I’d heard this one before.   I sat down.  What’s the new lineup?  Do I get to play second base?

            “I got a new job,” he started.  A new five tool second baseman.  If Carlos Beltran played second base, he was now on our team.  Damn it.

            “The want me to be the head of a new architectural firm in Boston.  So we’re moving.”  The Carlos Beltran of second basemen is now on our team, and the new team captain.  Wearing the C on his uniform, like Sosa does. Wondering if it stands for “Cork” or “Captain”? 

            “Who’s ‘we,’ Frenchman?”  I asked sarcastically.  Why do we need this?  I can play second base!  Who cares if he’s Carlos Beltran?  I don’t. 

            “The ‘we’ is this family, and you’re a member, therefore you’re moving to Boston!”  My mom exclaimed.  Now I’m just a backup outfielder.  Or a designated hitter.  Or relegated to pinch-hitting duty.  I will get quite familiar with the bench.  I hate the GM.

            “Family?  Who walked in?”  I looked around in bewilderment.  Where is this spectacular second baseman? 

            “Very funny.  Now go do your homework.”  I left, knowing I had been sent down to the minor leagues, thanks to the greatest thing to hit the second basemen of the world since the double play.

            It was dangerous.  The new second baseman had to learn to work with our new shortstop.  But it was all the same.  The double play.  Although it’s been done, many times, many ways, let’s turn two.

            I knew the danger.  I was close to Wrigley, but had never stayed in one place for long.  The Cubs were five outs from making the World Series, but didn’t make it.  Dusty Faker.  Had trouble mowing his lawn.  Couldn’t figure out how to pull the starter. 

            I was eating a box of Cracker Jack in the seventh inning of Game Six.  My prize was a little picture of a water faucet.  When you folded it, it showed another picture; one of a fish.  I tried to get someone’s attention.  Nobody would listen to me.  If they did, they would find out everything they needed to know.  A fish.  Any questions.              That was the commercial break between the bottom of the seventh and the top of the eighth.  The eighth inning. Of Game Six.  Cringe.

Casey Bergman

“This is Game Seven against the Yankees in the home of the Evil Empire.  How are our Bosox going to mess it up this time?” I asked, posing the question to family and friends.

            “Casey!” they exclaimed, as if I had just dropped the world’s nastiest F-bomb.  “Don’t you believe?”

            I questioned myself.  Of course I believed.  Read my desktop.  It had a Bosox symbol on it, and said “Just once before I die!”  That’s all I want.

            “I believe,” I started.  “I want it just once before I die.  But the longer I have to wait, the sweeter it will be.”

            “Bull shit!”  My uncle yelled.  “I want twenty six of them in a row!  I want to show George fucking Stienbrenner that this is our division too!  With or with out Princess Gay-Rod playing third fucking base!  Why the hell is he playing third base anyway?  He’s obviously gotten further than that with Jeter!”

            All hell broke loose.  That was the funniest thing ever, and I assume it would be when you’ve had a couple of Millers.  Sober, it was funny; drunk it was hilarious.  Me, I was saving the beer for the later innings, and if things weren’t going well, raid the fridge, have a beer, and it was all right again.  Simple enough.

            “All I meant,” I started bravely, “Is that our beloved Cowboying Up Bosox haven’t won a World Series since…” the two people on either side of me put their hands over my mouth to prevent me from saying It. “It” referred to 1918, the last year that the Boston Red Sox had won the World Series.  “It” was a forbidden phrase.  We operated on the hope that springs eternal in the Red Sox Nation.  The wish of Just Once Before I Die, and then my life will have a new dimension.  For if I die before the Curse is Reversed, I will not be able to bear it. 

            But this was not the year we all have been waiting for.  Goddamn Aaron Boone.  Couldn’t play third base to save his life, but here he was in the eleventh inning, taking Wakefield deep into the upper deck of Yankee Stadium.

            I swear that Babe Ruth must have been there.

            Certain things unite people.  Common goal, common dreams, common loves, common hates.  The attraction is complex and unexplainable.  It has a name, its name is Love, but how can four letters describe it?

            It is the thread connecting me to you to him to her to us to them.  Life is a never-ending circle that spins until you’re dizzy, dense and delusional.  Then it takes a new name:  Love.

            We all achieve something in our lives.  We are all united, because we share the same different goal.  There is a curse out there, as intangible as it may be.

            You don’t have to believe in curses.  But they’re there.  They have representatives here on Earth.  That person may be sitting next to you.

            And you are connected to them by the thread that connects us all.

Alex Sheffield

            I arrived in Boston on July 24, 2004.  I got off the plane with my mom, dad, older brother Jordan, and my tabby cat Maddux.  We headed to the food court.

            Being a Chicago chick at heart, I was a stranger in a strange land.  There was no White Castle here, no grabbing a sack of Whities with a Mountain Dew and the special secret White Castle sauce on every Whitie One Bite.  The only thing I recognized was the McDonalds, which was jam-packed.  So I went for the pizza place and hoped for the best.

            I rubbed my Cubs necklace for good luck.  To have a sense of familiarity, no matter how small, was my oasis.  I took a deep breath.  The words “Yankee Fan” were not written with a Sharpie on my forehead.  Nobody could tell my other fan allegiance. 

            A guy my age turned around.

            “You know the score in the Sox game?”  He asked.  Not thinking, I replied,

            “Sox suck.” 

“What are you, some sort of evil Yankee fan?”  Yes.  But was I going to say that?  Hell no!  I didn’t have to say another word.  He noticed that I talked like a normal person, or that I had a Cubs necklace on.  Either way, he didn’t take the comment as a diss against the Bosox anymore.

            “You from Chitown?”  He asked.

            “Yeah.  Just got here half an hour ago.  We’re moving here from Chicago.  The north side of Chicago.”  I added for emphasis. 

            “Oh.  That’s okay.  At first I thought you were a Yankee fan.  You know what happened to the last Yankee fan I talked to?”  He asked.  I didn’t think that I wanted to know; because I was a Yankee fan and I don’t like hearing about my fellows suffering at the hands of rouge Boston Red Sox fans. 

            “Well, anyway, I called him a…”

            “I really don’t give a shit.”  I interrupted.  “My ex-boyfriend was a Yankee fan.”

            “Disgusting!  You dated a Yankee fan!  How did you survive?”  I had him interested.  Good.

            “Have you ever talked to a Yankee fan?”  I asked.  “I mean, really sat down and had an intelligent baseball conversation with one?” 

            “Nope,” he answered abruptly.  Well, you are now!  I thought.

            “Well, they’re very knowledgeable.  Especially about the World Series, which is something we don’t have to worry about.  In fact, we ranked the fans of each team, and the teams with the best fans were the Cubs, Yankees, Bosox and someone else.  I don’t remember who.”  He was curious.

            “How did you rank them?”  He asked.

            “Well, we took into account their knowledge of the game, their team and it’s history; some of their habits, like throwing the ball back onto the field at Wrigley; the signs they hold up; and what clever ways they come up with to taunt the other team.”  I explained. 

            “Oh.  I like that.  What team was at the bottom of the fan pile?”

            “There wasn’t a bottom of the pile.  Some teams we didn’t rate, like the Montreal Expos, Colorado Rockies, Florida Marlins and Tampa Bay Devil Rays.”  I explained.  He asked,

            “Why not?”

            “They need some fans to rank.  Like, with the Expos, why rate a bunch if ignorant Cannoks?”  I explained.

            “I just came back from Montreal.  It rained the whole time we were there.  So we got tickets for an Expos game.  There were about 8,000 people in the stands at the most.”

            “Who were they playing?”

            “The Marlins.  The World Champion Marlins.”

            “Not cool.  I’m a Cub fan, and I’ll be honest, I rooted for the Yankees last year.  I hate the Marlins.  I wanted to see their asses killed!”  I exclaimed.  “I wanted revenge!  I wanted to see carnage!  Beanballs!  The Rocket throws a perfect game!  (Even though I hate that guy! Boys and Girls, can you spell ‘Mike Piazza?’)  I wanted the Florida Marlins to die.  Just keel over and die.  And when they didn’t, I wanted to keel over and die myself.”

            “Meow!” my cat Maddux agreed.   The guy I was talking to jumped. 

            “I didn’t notice you had a cat!”  He exclaimed.  “Aaaww, cute!  What’s its name?”

            “His name is Maddux.  My brother Jordan said that her paws look like Gold Gloves.  So Maddux was the perfect name.”

            “I agree.  Is you brother a Cub fan too?” 

            “Hell no!  He’s a fucking LA Dodger fan!  Don’t get me started on the Dodgers.  I hate them with a passion!”  I told him.

            “Okay.  So what are you here in Boston for?”  He asked.

            “To live.”  I replied.  “And it ain’t gonna be pleasant.”

            “Why?” he inquired.  Perhaps he didn’t know about my Yankee fan status.  “The people do talk a little funny, but you’ll get used to it.  And the chowdah’s great!  And Nomah is one hell of a shortstop!”

            “Here’s my problem with this whole city:  I’m a Yankee fan.  You weaseled it out of me.  Okay?  Happy?  Bucky Dent.  Like that?  Cause I do.”

            “Order number 56- Cheese and sausage, medium Mountain Dew,” was called out.

            “That’s me.” I claimed.

            “That’s four dollars and sixty seven cents.”  I counted out the cash and paid up.  The guy yelled for me.

            “What?”  I asked.

            “Go Cardinals.”

            “Thanks.  Go Yankees.”

Casey Bergman

I was confused as I grabbed my pizza order.  I liked that crazy Cub/Yankee fan chick with the cat.  Look, it’s not her fault she’s a Yankee fan.  They win.  I would be one too, if I didn’t live in Boston.  No, Casey.  You wouldn’t.  I told myself.  That’s assine.  Because George Stienbrenner runs the organization.  I hate that son of a bitch.  He wins it all.  Every fucking year, it seems.  I don’t care.  I like winning. But I live in Boston.  Be a Cardinal fan; it’s the only way.  Especially with them looking like a shoo-in for the NL pennant.  We can watch it together; Cardinals vs. Yankees.  The World Series.  Sweet. 

I had this smirk on my face.  The Yankees pitching staff sucks this year.  Goody, Goody, Goody.  Christmas in October, a nice fat ring, with a nice fat smile on my face.  Bring on the pinstriped bastards.

Alex Sheffield

            Here I was in the middle of a new nation, the Red Sox nation, and the one person I had met started out nice, but turned into a chowdah headed asshole.  Cardinal fan.  Eat shit. 

            I fed Maddux the pepperoni off my pizza and poured him some water.  Jordan looked at me as if I was insane, caring so much about my cat.  He was at the machismo age of seventeen, where all that mattered was how fast he could get his hot rod to go.  But when he needed someone, somehow Maddux was in his room, and instead of heavy metal, you heard the gentle purring of a cat.         

            We all do what we have to in order to get by.  Jordan distracted by complaining about not being able to get Dodgers games on the radio anymore.  I thought about the Yankees, my cat, my life, and that damn Goat curse.  Would it ever be reversed?

Casey Bergman

            I forgot about the incident.  There are too many other things to remember about my trip to Montreal.  Like when Jason and I left the hotel room in the middle of the night to go to that bar.  I can’t believe they let me in.  No ID check, nothing.  Just all the beer Jason could afford.  Beer is good stuff.  I like it.  But after you have three or four, you don’t notice the taste anymore.  You just drink it, and don’t give a shit.  It tastes good.  Add some pizza, pretzels, and you have one hell of party.

            Then you sneak into the hotel room at three in the morning, completely and utterly drunk, to find out that your parents have left, probably also out partying, and also return about as drunk as you are, and the next day, you nurse a collective hangover.  And everyone forgets all about it.  Hell, how are you supposed to remember when you’re drunk?  So you don’t.  Simple enough.   You leave it all in Canada, and come back home to Boston, sobered up and watching your beloved Bosox kick Yankee ass, in more ways than one.

Alex Sheffield

            Thank God for movers.  Those guys, even though they’re ugly as hell, are a godsend.  When we showed up at our new house in Boston, all of our furniture, and most of our boxes were inside.  These people are da bomb.  Love ya all!

            “Alex!”  My mom yelled, “Go to McDonalds and pick up dinner!”  She handed me a list of what everyone wanted on a piece of packing tape and a twenty.

            I walked down the street, wondering what the score in the Yankees/Red Sox game was.  I knew where the McDonalds was; we passed it on our way to the house.  I should ask someone if they know the score.  I thought.  Just make sure to ask for the score in the Red Sox game and not the Yankee game.  God, you have to constantly think in this town if you’re a Yankee fan to keep yourself undercover.  It sucks.  Let’s go back to Chicago, where the White Castle’s makin’ burgers and the Cubs still ain’t won it all.  Works for me.  Get my Yankee fan ass out of here!

            I opened the door and got in line.  It’s five thirty.  Every idiot and their brother wanted a cheeseburger and fries about now.  Sharp, Mom.  Send me smack dab in the middle of dinner.  Not at four thirty, when we were all starving our asses off. 

            I was standing behind an idiot on a cell phone with a Nomar Garciaparra jersey on.  Instant reaction:  Jeter’s better than Nomar!  Jeter’s better than Nomar!  And the fans can actually say his name!  Think, stupid.  Welcome to Boston, where they don’t think, they root for the Red Sox.

            “Rivera blew it…into the bullpen…three run homer…RED SOX WIN!”  My heart fell through my Converses.  Rivera, you fuckhead!  You save everything else, but not against the fucking Boston Red Sox!  I can’t believe it!  You dumb ass… Calm down, I told myself.  The guy is one of the greatest closers in the history of baseball, and probably the greatest Yankee closer of all time, right up there with the Goose.  He can blow a few.  Just not against Boston!

            I resisted the urge to burst out in a volley of profanity.  This should be illegal.  I thought torture was against the Constitution.  Dumb asses.  I hate them all.

Casey Bergman

            “The move from the outfield to the pitcher’s mound is not to be taken lightly Bergmeister,” Coach Nixon told me.  “Especially when we’re in the middle of the playoffs.  Are you sure you can pull it off?”

            “Look.  We need help in the bullpen, if you’re going with this new starter/setup man/closer situation.  If you want Johnson to close and Williams to be setup that leaves you with a two man rotation of Greene and Martinez.  How does that work, if we play sets of three games in three days?  You wouldn’t make one of them pitch on short rest, would you?”  I asked.  How could anyone overlook the starting rotation?  Duh!

            “Shit.  I’m fucked.  Fine.  You win.  Want to start?  Go for it.  Just if the bullpen eats your innings, you will sit your ass down on the pine, and it will never see the light of day ever again.  Cool?” he asked.

            “Yeah.  No problem.  I can handle it.”  I replied.

            “Hey, you hear the Yankees got their asses kicked?”  Coach asked, spitting out the toothpick he was chewing.  “Oh man, it was great.  Arroyo plunked A-Rod, and the little girl got all pissed off and started a fight with Tek, which of course he lost, and then got his ass ejected, which was great! (Unfortunately, Tek got the boot as well) and I know they won, but I don’t know if anything exciting happened besides the Yankees getting their hated pinstriped asses kicked again.”

            That brought a smile to my face.  When the Yankees loose, all is right with the world.  And I was pitching.  I said goodbye to Coach Nixon, got on my bicycle and left, knowing that this was the year.

Alex Sheffield

            “Since coming into the majors, Will ‘the Thrill’ has turned on fans with his pure swing and constant drive to win.

            “Hitting with power as well as average, Will’s ability to produce excitement with every at-bat made him the National League’s fans favorite last year, unseating Ozzie Smith, the perennial NL All Star Top Vote Getter.

            “Clark’s season highlights, in addition to the All-Star game included finishing second in the NL batting race and helping the Giants get past the Cubs and into San Francisco’s first World Series since 1962”

            “Whatever,” Jordan said.  “What do you want for that Gagne card?”

            “I hate the Dodgers.  But you know what?  Gagne is one hell of a closer.  And I’m not trading him.  I’m willing to trade my Sosa card for your Ichro card, though.”  I paged thorough my binder.  Sosa starts with S.  He would be at the end.  I have my entire collection in alphabetical order.

            “Hey, I’m not trading this!”  I exclaimed.

            “Is that the cork bat?”  Jordan asked.  For the card showed Sosa breaking a bat, and had a post-it note on it saying “check that for Cork”

            Check that for cork.  Check Sosa’s ego for cork.  He uses it to fill in the empty spaces.  Dumb ass.  I hate him so much; I wish he played for the Chisox.  We’ll take Maggs; leave him for next season when he can take over for Moises Alooooooooou.  And then they can sign Carlos Beltran to play RF and keep Corey Patterson in center field.  And the Yankees will get Randy Johnson and Pedro Martinez in the free-agent market, and the two teams, the Chicago Cubs and the New York Yankees meet in the World Series.

            I thought I had it all figured out.  It was simple enough.  Once all these pieces of the puzzle fell into place, life would be perfect.  Bliss.

            I had this illusion of the perfect life when the Cubs won it all.  We lived in a mansion.  I called everyone on my camera phone.  My college tuition was all paid for.  I got a BMW for my sweet 16.  All because the Chicago Cubs won the World Series.  Which makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? 

Casey Bergman

            “Our playoff uniforms are in,” Coach Nixon announced.  Yes! I thought.  I am so sick of Gay-Rod’s number 13.  Coach knows how I feel about that number.

            “No, Casey, you’re not number 13.  There is no number 13.  Or number 3.  Three is bad luck.  Damn curse.”

            “Yes!  I’m not number 13!  Pay-Rod sucks!  Pay-Rod sucks!” the rest of my pitching comrades joined in…

            “Pay-Rod sucks!  Pay-Rod sucks!  Pay-Rod sucks!”  the infield stopped BP and joined in.

            “PAY-ROD SUCKS!  PAY-ROD SUCKS!  PAY-ROD SUCKS!”

            It rattled over the baseball fields to where the softball team was playing our archrivals from across town.  They stopped their bitterly contested 1-1 extra inning game to join the chant.

            “PAY-ROD SUCKS!  PAY-ROD SUCKS!  PAY-ROD SUCKS!” 

            The athletic fields at Pesky High School rang with the chant.  It reached the football team who stopped their practice to join in.  Even the blocking dummies seemed to chant

            “PAY-ROD SUCKS!  PAY-ROD SUCKS!  PAY-ROD SUCKS!”  The chant seemed to consume everyone at Pesky High, no matter who they were or what they were doing.

            Unless they were Alex Sheffield, Yankee fan.

Alex Sheffield

            “Okay, I’m not trying to be stupid on purpose here, but I’m from Chicago, and I don’t know anything about Boston, except for the fact that their team sucks almost as bad as my Cubbies.  So, anyway, who the hell is this Pay-Rod dude?”

            I had just asked my new softball team to explain the fundamentals of summer in Boston.  I could explain it quite easily.  The Boston Red Sox and Curt Schilling.  Kerry and Edwards.  Both a group of idiots who had captured the heart of the city.

            The team looked at their new second baseman in astonishment.  How could anyone not understand?  The Yankees suck, and that’s all there is to it. 

            The shortstop, Lauren, spoke up.

            “Pay-Rod is A-Rod, that little fuck that plays third for the Yankees.”  She couldn’t tell me any more.  A hearty chant of “Yankees suck!”  Rose from the patrons of the game.  A straggling few Yankee fans got up to go in deep despair.  The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the Bostonian breast; “Yankees suck!”  They thought, “If only the Red Sox could but get a whack at that—We’d put up even money now, with any of the Red Sox at the bat.

            The chant was short-lived.  Our game started up again, but not for long; the third baseman got cut in the eye when a bad hop hit her in the face.

            “Sheffield!  Move over to third!”  I trotted over.  A new second baseman was inserted.  I heard whispers in the visitors’ dugout.

            “Oh my god.  Save us all.”

            “Why?”

            “Their third baseman is wearing #19.  Aaron Boone.”

            “Quit crediting those damn curses.  The Sox just choke.”

            The inning was over on a 6-4-3 double play.  I was the first up in the eleventh.  During the pitcher’s warm up pitches, we were called over for a pep talk.

            “Okay.” Coach started. “This is the eleventh inning.  Carla is spent.  We’re lacking a closer.  We need some eleventh hour heroics.  Now more than ever.”

            “Let’s do it!” I shouted. 

            “The rally prayer, Mandy,” Coach nodded to the catcher.  We joined hands.

            “Oh, God, please give us this run.  Make our bats swift, our feet sure on the basepaths and guide our hits to the gaps.  Give us this day, our daily rally, and may we never loose again.”

Even as an atheist, this speech gave me goosebumps every time I heard it.  I was the first one up.

            I closed my eyes on the on-deck circle, and just felt the bat in my hands, felt its cool aluminum.  An electric surge went through me.  This is when the Yankees would excel.  I felt that Yankee mystique.  I reached inside my jersey and touched my Cubs necklace.  I opened my eyes and stepped up to the plate.

            One pitch, one swing one run.  Over the fence for a round-tripper.  No Carlton Fisk-ing it fair.  Just a pure bomb.

            I trotted the bases.  When I reached home, I was dogpiled.  It didn’t matter that I didn’t know who Pay-Rod was, or that I didn’t hate him.  It didn’t matter that I was a conservative in a liberal city.  It just mattered, that the third baseman, number 19, Alex Sheffield, had launched one over the fence for a home run.

            Fuck the curse.