A shot of our camp from the Deerfield river. (SawxBlog Photo - K. Kingsbury)
My adventures on the Deerfield River now lay in the rear view as I sit and type from the safe and sane confines of Boston - contemplating what a strange weekend it was. I traded in skylines for trees last Thursday and took the night off from the Red Sox in order to get in touch with my inner Bear Grylls, and by that I mean eating and drinking around a campfire with friends - but you get the point. My long weekend began with a plethora of unnecessary stops along Route 2 as my friend Kevin and I made 
massive amounts of impulse buys on items completely unnecessary. After close to two hours of this spending spree the front windshield was the only window offering any visibility as our load exponentially increased with each mile. The added weight of things such as a fly fishing rod, bota bag, foam swords, cases of beer, smore ingredients, bottles of booze, rubber cement, bait, lots of rope, and 2 bags of beef jerky were all too much to handle. This, among numerous other frivolous purchases, forced us to turn off the AC when approaching hills, lean forward, and pray that our momentum would be enough to get our weighted car of consumerism up the rising hills of Western Massachusetts. I’m getting a little lost off of the topic at hand here though aren’t I; after all, this is a blog on the Boston Red Sox. Needless to say, this was a good start to the adventure - for an ill equipped man is no man at all, and we were assured of being prepared for all the Mohawk region had to present.
On Friday morning I awoke early to the churning sound of the Deerfield River racing next to my tent along with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and cooked eggs provided by SawxBlog’s very own, Krazy Kris. Wiping the sleep out of my eyes I hunkered down underneath our canopy to read about the Red Sox sweep of the Blue Jays via The Republican newspaper, and I have to say it was a very enjoyable read. I haven’t sat down and read an actual physical daily paper in quite some time, and it seemed to compliment my analog vacation perfectly. I remember a few years back while backpacking through Ecuador I’d read the American newspapers each day to catch up on the Sox along with other American happenings, and the connection was quite amazing. This is how I came accross the “Mother’s Day Miracle”, sitting in a café in Quito while reading the box score from an elevation of 9,350 ft, visualizing Fenway Park erupting in jubilation, sipping Colombian coffee, and smiling.
In this modern age of Twitter & Facebook we take the swiftness of information for granted which creates a very nostalgic feel when reading an actual paper. This all goes back to the internet-echo theory where information becomes so watered down it loses its importance. I realized that on a campground with only one newspaper the weight of the box-score becomes very heavy and informative. That said, the internet also provides power and a voice to the common man, if net-neutrality remains neutral that is, which is still yet to be determined by demon lobbyist in Washington. I sit on this subject with crossed emotions as newspapers continue to die and get dumbed down to the level of a USA Today. The new formula is to keep the font big, the pictures plenty, and the colors pretty. The paper is no longer reporting on actual news it seems, but more on the entertainment of news, which is going to be like a lobotomy to America if the course continues as is. Shoot, with the way our educational system is going we’ll have to limit all newspaper articles to having words of no more than three syllables so that people can actually process what they’re reading. Crap, there I go again, traveling down that mysterious path of tangent.
Anyways - The rest of Friday involved rafting down the river which was a mixed bag of success and total fear. The first run was perfect, involving much swashbuckling and revelry which amped our crew of eight for a second run after some quick lunch. Upon finishing our food the winds began picking up and the skies were looking very ominous in threat. I don’t think anyone really thought it was a good idea to go back out on the river, however no-one spoke up - and with the swiftness of a lightning strike, we were all on the Deerfield paddling for our lives. Let’s just say that being on a river during a two hour long electrical storm is no place to be, and if you haven’t recently seen the wrath of Mother Nature you are quickly reminded as to who the boss is in the wild. Twenty minutes into the trip I found myself huddling with half of our crew underneath a rock for the better part of an hour, cursing both the elements and ourselves. The whiskey in my bota bag provided the slightest of refuge for us, and once the lightning subsided we made a mad river dash back to camp, sans electrocution thankfully.
So this is the state I was in entering the first game against the Yankees on Friday night, thankful to be alive, a little hazed from almost pulling a “Powder” on the river, and surrounded by rowdy bikers looking to get their Friday night on - strange combination's indeed. As we docked our rafts and spewed out stories of survival the second wave of weekend warriors began arriving, and as we replaced the lightning for campfire I sensed that the game had begun. I had no clue what time it actually was since my cell phone had died and my internal clock was switched over to Mountain Time. I then noticed that a little down the way one of the more “permanent” campers were projecting the game onto an enormous screen, however, I couldn’t quite make out the proper details from my vantage. I eventually drifted away from our camp to view an inning or two from just off the of the dirt road. Passing by the other camps on my way there I became engulfed in the sounds of people hooting and hollering while Lynard Skynard and Kid Rock rang loudly from their radios. Yes, we were surrounded by people who were actual Kid Rock fans, not in the ironic kind of way, but in the hardcore “I Love Kid Rock” way. Terrifying, and this is when I suddenly felt safer being surrounded by lightning, and became suspicious of my solo trip into this unknown.
Standing in the dark, 10 feet off of the dirt road, I stood peering at the screen holding my IPA and tried to remain as inconspicuous and sleuth as possible. Around this time I drifted briefly into a daydream of being discovered by some biker named Raven and being accused of “snooping around his grounds”. This is when I started to get pretty edgy for I knew my dark perch wouldn’t last forever. So in my new state of fear and paranoia I watched the bottom of the third inning with Kid Rock’s “Bawitdaba” at full volume and was feeling very much like a terminal outsider. The game offered me no solace as the score was already 6-1 and fading fast into the ether. I watched both Alex Gonzalez and Jacoby Ellsbury strike out swinging to then be capped off by Dustin Pedroia getting thrown out at third on an ill advised triple attempt. I screamed in anguish as this occurred and realized swiftly that my cover was blown, either that - or I was beginning to fit in, which I certainly wanted no part of. Regardless, I wasn’t sticking around to find out, and briskly walked backed to the safety of my camp cursing the Sox while giving up on the game. Half an inning was all I needed to see, much like being surrounded by lightning on a river, I knew when it was a good time to get out of the water.
Waking up dehydrated and hung-over the next day I was greeted with the headlines of the NY Post revealing all the gruesome details. Egad, 20-11 NY Yankees, what a nightmare. It looked like I made the correct decision the night before, and I was thankful for that. Instead of wallowing in the cursed headline I decided to get right back on the horse, or in this case, the river, and another great day of rafting was had. After some delicious lunch (I highly suggest hot pepper rings on your hamburgers moving forward) a few of us bravely ventured up the road to the bar to take in Game Two and give the Sox a little love. I’d been wearing a bandanna along with tie-dies all weekend long to try and blend in with this crowd, however, I probably was looking more Narc than biker, either way - I was in the bar, and actually enjoying the scene. After looking over a pamphlet on how to coexist with Black Bears I perused the pictures of past biker rallies that took place on the very site of our camp. Who knew what kind of karma had been seeped into the earth over the years, and with a heavy Native American presence there as well, I was feeling oddly patriotic as I looked on with a Bud Draft in hand.
The bar was like a northern version of True Blood's Merlotte's, and the psychic connections of the place felt just about right; this was further solidified when I beat my friend Josh in a game of pool despite having six balls on the table. Ah, the power of the eight ball scratch, gotta love it. Things seemed aligned for the Red Sox to get off on the good foot this game, and this they certainly did, bludgeoning the Yankees $85 million dollar man, A.J. Burnett, in the process. The bar went from dead quite in the first to downright rowdy by the fifth inning. The swirling energy from the place was increasing with riptide speed and strength, so with this coupled together with the fact that a "classic rock band" was set to go on later in the evening, I decided to get out of that scene, and ended up leaving with the Sox firmly in control 12-1. The Sox ended up winning the game, thus clinching the season series against the Yankees, which basically means that if by some miracle of fate the two teams end up tying in record the Sox win the division. Far shot there though.
By Sunday night I was finally clean, detoxed, and back in Boston for the finale of this weird series. I’ll be honest; I still had the tiniest sliver of hope that the Red Sox could win the division. I mean we had our ace on the mound, were playing in Fenway, had a two game lead in the Wild Card, and momentum was seemingly back on our side. Then they played the game, and it seemed as if my hope was false. Can we now finally END all the ridiculous talk about Beckett not pitching well in Toronto because V-Mart was catching instead of V-Tek? As it was clearly on display then as is was last night, Beckett’s just not really hitting his locations, and he’s getting burned for it. I could also give a rat’s ass about his pitch count as well when he’s getting lit-up like a mall on Black Friday. Tito left him in waaaaaaaaay longer than needed, and it ended up costing us the game. I have 100% faith Josh will bounce back, it’s just hard to see this happen against NY. The Yanks were just teeing off on him ALL night yet Tito lets him pitch eight innings. I just don’t get it; we kept clawing back offensively only to have Josh blow it in the bottom of the inning. This also took away from the success the Sox had off of Sabathia, who wasn’t impressive at all, he just sucked less.
So it’s Wild Card or bust now and that’s fine I guess. We’ve won it all that way before; we just have to get there first, which consistently seems like a sketchy proposition this second half. I have faith though that we can avoid the lightning, and sail on down the river unscathed; from there it’ll depend on what we want to do, and how long we plan on setting up camp in the post-season. I suggest we get more firewood though; I still think the Sox have some more burn left in them, time shall tell.
