Knowing the sound of a marksman’s jump shot is similar to knowing other beautifully dangerous noises (SawxBlog Illustration)
There are times when you can completely understand what’s happening without ever having seen a thing. This can occur with eyes that are distracted, and then BAM - your ears are perked and you’re turning your head to see. You’re certain your vision will confirm what you’ve just heard because the distinctive rip of a basketball net still echos in your mind. The vicious tearing of nylon through rim is easily recognizable from all the way up in the the balcony, to down onto the court. That my friend, is the sound of a Ray Allen make. RIIIP.
Knowing the sound of a marksman’s jump shot is similar to knowing other beautifully dangerous noises. Like the model of a revolver after its bullet screams through a passive target. POP. Or knowing the year a muscle car was born, just from listening to the roar of a vicious strip laid down on some sun burnt road. VREVVV.
This is auditory recognition folks, and it’s still somewhat of a mystery to modern day science and medicine. But believe me when I say that it is very real, and once you’re properly in touch with the wild man within you, it becomes an unmistakable way to distinguish the subtle flavors of life. Second only to maybe it’s cousin smell, sound is a very effective lie detector that is rarely used.
It was sometime last year that I began hearing what sounded like the beginning death throes of the true Boston Red Sox fan. Ugly sound waves and vibrations rippling through Fenway Park like a tsunami of karma cresting past the Cask ‘n’ Flagon, and then crashing down over the Monster and into left field. This is the natural order of things though, for once you hit your apex, there is only down left, and there’s no such thing as an easy plateau.
But this is a classic and tired story, and one that someone down on their luck never wants to hear. There’s nothing more sinister then a story that’s in existence only because someone or something became a “victim of its own success”. The irony is that this may indeed be what happened with our now branded, patented, and organized “Red Sox Nation”. Is this possibly where my recent influx of fear and loathing lies? Am I not over the fact that each state in this grand Union has an “official” Governor of this “Red Sox Nation”?
No, I guess I’m not over it at all.
But how can I really complain? The Red Sox are more functional and successful then they’ve been since the turn of the last century. We have a core nucleus of young talented players, and an ownership & management that is the most progressive thing to hit Boston since the Hancock Tower was constructed. But if you ever take the time to look a real lifer of a Sox fan square in the eye, you’ll then know, something is amiss in this Nation of thieves.
Two times last year I was told to sit down by a “fan” at Fenway, the first time it happened was while in the goddamn bleachers of all places. Jesus...I mean, these sort of things aren’t supposed to happen in Fenway Park right? I feel that I, more then most people, understand the cadence and proper pace of a baseball game. This means I know the correct times to stand and cheer, and the proper times to sit and beer. Last year was the first time I’ve ever sat in the EMC Club, and on that early August day, which was the debut of Jason Bay, I found myself screaming at the suits all around me that it was “OK to CHEEEEER..”.
But like it or not, our dirty team is now in the process of being gentrified by a horde of casual fans, tourists, and razor blade salesman savagely drunk on both Jack and Coke and Jägerbombs. It’s turning into a feeding frenzy now, with the vortex of it all being a distinctive mix of brand new ‘B’ hats and Jason Varitek jerseys, all being torn, worn, and scorned en mass by a bunch of ugly people with fake Boston accents. Baseball fans in this city, and others across America, seem to complain more about women wearing pink hats then they do about drunk, cell phone talking, not paying attention to the game at all cause the seats were free and I randomly happen to be in town from Idaho for three days and two nights guy . Seems more like a case of misogyny to me, but that also seems like a direction too deep to get into now, must . . . . stay on the task at hand.
So where are we going with this. Am I saying that Red Sox Nation was dead before it even began? Could I possibly be agreeing with Hank Steinbrenner when he said; “Red Sox Nation? What a bunch of shit that is...This is a Yankee country. We're going to put the Yankees back on top and restore the universe to order.” (The Yankees later went to finish in third place that year...)
Maybe Hank was right in saying that Red Sox Nation is a bunch of shit. The weasel faced Charles Steinberg is the one who monazited Red Sox Nation and then split like a banana and went off to LA. Christ man, you think it’s a coincidence that the day after Manny is in LA they’re selling dreadlocked wigs in the stadium? That’s a distinct hallmark of Steinberg if I’ve ever seen one. If that muskrat came back to the Red Sox tomorrow there’d be Youk Fu-Man Chu’s for sale within the next day for $15.00 each.
I guess I’m just trying to swim upstream when the water’s obviously going down, and the night’s just getting too late to keep this pace. But I can’t help it, at least not tonight, as I sit and watch the light of my 20’s rapidly wane away like a gentle harvest moon. These have been times of change, and I’m bitter most definitely on certain things. But I’m also joyous to a large extent, and I’ll take the good seasons and championships over whatever it used to be or mean to be a Red Sox fan I guess. Still, every time I hear someone say the Red Sox and their fans are just like the Yankees and their fans I feel like an angel loses its wings. I know the truth there isn’t complete, but it’s there enough to make me feel uneasy and strange.
Is this what it feels like to be a winner? If so, down with the year 2009, it obviously got off on the weird side of the bed.