In October, the Seattle Mariners’ quest for their first-ever appearance in the World Series came up a couple of runs short. As I watched, I was transported back through time to my little attic bedroom in Amherst, Massachusetts: October 12, 1967.
That was the “Impossible Dream” season for the Red Sox. The year before, they had finished last, and no one had expected them to do much better the following season. But against all odds, they stayed in it ‘til the end, then stormed from behind to win the last two games of the season and clinch the American League title. They headed to the World Series for the first time in 21 years.
Carl “Yaz” Yastrzemski was their big star. He led the league in batting average, home runs and RBIs that year, and was named the American League MVP — but their ace starting pitcher, Jim Lonborg, was my hero. His poster was taped to the ceiling above my bed, where I could look at him as I fell asleep and imagine myself in his place on the mound.
In the World Series, the Sox dropped three of the first four games to the St. Louis Cardinals. But just when it looked like it might be over, they came back to win the next two and even the series at three games apiece. It all came down to game seven at Fenway Park — winner take all.
It was a day game, but I went up to my room and shut the door so no one could break my concentration – which was essential if the Sox were going to win. I lay in bed with my little transistor radio pressed against my ear, clutching my Rico Petricelli autographed mitt. I had half a package of M&Ms and a plastic army canteen full of water in case I got hungry or thirsty. I was ready.
My idol Jim Lonborg was going up against the Cardinals’ ace, fireballer Bob Gibson. Lonborg was pitching on just two days’ rest, and Gibson had three, but I wasn’t worried. The Sox were the Impossible Dream team — a team of destiny. There was no way they could lose.
The game started out tense and close. Both teams put up zeros in the first two innings. By then, my M&Ms were eaten, more out of nerves than hunger. In the top of the third, the Cardinals broke through with two runs, and then two more in the fifth. The Sox got one back in the bottom of the fifth, though, and I wasn’t about to give up hope. The game was still within reach.
By the sixth inning, Lonborg was gassed, but they left him in. He hung a slider up in the zone, and Julian Javier hit a three-run homer over the Green Monster. They pulled him after that, but it was too late.
Since that fateful day, I’ve watched my favorite teams lose many times. I’ve also watched the Seahawks win the Superbowl, and I was in Key Arena with my daughter when the Storm won their first WNBA title. Win or lose, I always come back for more.
Some of my friends make fun of spectator sports. I can’t really blame them. Overweight dudes sprawled on sofas, watching pumped-up kids in silly uniforms give each other traumatic brain injuries. It’s pretty pointless. But to me, that’s kind of the point.
The fact that these players train and practice and push themselves to the very limits of what human beings can do, for no practical reason whatsoever, is a strangely beautiful thing. They strive for greatness for its own sake, as only we crazy, unreasonable, irrepressible humans do.
You may have a little person in your home right now who’s feeling lost since their team of destiny stumbled at the finish line. They’ve tossed their J-Rod autograph glove in the closet, and their lucky Big Dumper jersey has finally made its way to the laundry basket. Disappointment hangs in the air like a thick, dark cloud. But a few months from now, when the crocuses are just barely peeking up from the sodden Seattle ground, a bunch of young men will stroll out onto a field in Peoria, Arizona, with crisp new chalk lines and freshly mown grass, and set out in search of greatness one more time.
Spring will always bring spring training — and with it, a new season of hope.
Just wait ’til spring.
Read more from the Dad Next Door:
“Dad Next Door: He Ain’t Heavy”: Coming to understand the true gift of my brother
