There's Always Next Year
Looking back over the years, I can see that, ironically, it was on the day of my big promotion that my life suddenly veered from the path of success and happiness and took a wrong turn onto the dark road to despair.
I began my career as an entry-level service technician for the Mikel Corporation, an international electronics company believed by many to be the American equivalent of Sony. My job didn't require an advanced education, which was fortunate indeed since I wasn't a college graduate. However, I did well in my electronics classes at the vocational-technical school I attended, and it was this rudimentary knowledge of electronic components that got me a job in Mikel—that and the fact that my Uncle Seymour, who had worked more than twenty-seven years in Mikel's sales department, put in a good word for me with the head of human resources, proving once again that it's who you know rather than what you know that counts.
Regardless of how I got the job—yes, it was nepotism; I fully admit it—once I was in, I had to perform my assigned duties to my supervisor's satisfaction. If I failed to do so, I would have been summarily terminated—Uncle Seymour or no Uncle Seymour in sales. Naturally, I took my responsibilities seriously. Each day I arrived on time, my lunch breaks never ran over the allotted thirty minutes, I neither made nor received any personal phone calls while on the job and I never called in sick. This iron horse dedication soon earned me a promotion to senior service technician.
At that point, I firmly believed I had it made. After all, I was a young man with an attractive wife, a nice apartment, my own car and a garage in which to park it. Not only could I pay my bills, but Ronnie—short for Veronica—and I also had the financial wherewithal to spend a week on Cape Cod every summer and to attend three to four games at Fenway Park each season. The former was my wife's idea of fun and relaxation, while the latter was mine. Most of the time, though, I neither relaxed nor had fun watching the Red Sox lose, which they had been doing on a regular basis since 1918. But I was a lifelong fan, a card-carrying member of the Red Sox Nation, and I stuck with Boston through thick and thin, prophesying at the end of each September, "There's always next year."
Neither my wife nor I had ever expected that, largely due to my old-fashioned Yankee work ethic, I would be offered a good job in Mikel's regional district office. The accompanying increase in pay was substantial, but the job also entailed commuting to Falmouth. At first, the long drive wasn't too much of an inconvenience, especially since I was in the fortunate minority commuting out of Boston rather than into the city. When the fall turned to winter, I had to travel treacherous ice- and snow-covered roads; however, my wife and I decided it would be wiser to relocate.
I remember quite clearly the day we moved into the house on Palmer Avenue. Ours was a beautiful old home, on a street lined with equally beautiful old homes. While my wife and I had been happy living in Boston, we were even happier in Falmouth. With our biological clocks ticking away, we looked forward to starting a family, and what better place to raise children than in the clean, quiet, seaside community? With this goal in mind, we began to put money aside for our "baby fund." And, thanks to my generous salary, we didn't have to give up our summer vacations—now spent on nearby Martha's Vineyard rather than on the Cape—or the games at Fenway.
Life was good. That is until our next-door neighbors sold their house and Doyle McCloskey moved in.
* * *
I woke up one clear, crisp Saturday morning in October, anticipating spending a relaxing day with my wife. We had planned on going to a late morning brunch and then catching a movie at Regal Cinema in the mall. Our plans were abandoned when my wife spotted a Mayflower moving van in the driveway of the house next door.
"Looks like we're getting new neighbors," Ronnie announced excitedly when I walked into the kitchen to get my morning cup of coffee.
"I can see that," I replied, briefly glancing out the kitchen window as I filled my Red Sox mug with Folgers French Roast.
"I'm going to make a casserole and bring it over to them," she volunteered. "That way they won't have to cook or eat out tonight."
"Maybe they like going out. We do."
I was surprised at the change suburban living had wrought in my wife. Back in Boston people had constantly moved in and out of surrounding apartments, and she took no notice. After only a short time living in Falmouth, she had turned into a self-appointed welcome wagon.
"Even if they do," Ronnie persisted, "I'm sure they'll appreciate the gesture." She got out her cookbook, adding, "I think I'll also bake them a cake while I'm at it."
"I thought we were going out for brunch and then to the movies," I complained.
"We can go tomorrow, or better yet, we'll go next week."
I sighed and consigned myself to watching the American League playoffs even though the Red Sox were not in the running—since at that time they were still living under the infamous curse of the Bambino. Even my afternoon of baseball was to be destroyed when Doyle McCloskey, my new neighbor, showed up on my doorstep with a large pizza and a six-pack of Budweiser.
"Your wife suggested I come over and watch the game with you while she and my wife undertake the monumental task of unpacking."
I invited him inside, and he immediately made himself comfortable in my new La-Z-Boy recliner. I had guessed from his accent that he was a New Yorker, and the fact that he was rooting for the Yankees confirmed my suspicions.
"It looks like Torre and the boys will go all the way this year," Doyle gloated as he popped the top on a can of Bud.
I looked at the TV screen and saw the camera zoom in for a close-up of Joe Torre, his grim, unsmiling face reminding me of an undertaker in a B-rated horror movie. Then the camera shifted from the somber Joe Torre to the ever-smiling Derek Jeter, and I turned away and reached for a can of beer.
"Yeah," Doyle went on, "it looks like we'll get another pennant."
"I don't particularly care for the Yankees," I said—an understatement, to be sure.
"Don't tell me you're a Red Sox fan!"
"Well, I was born and raised in Boston. It's only natural," I pointed out, long used to defending my allegiance to a losing team.
Doyle shook his head and chuckled.
"Sit down, my boy, and watch how the game was meant to be played."
At that moment, I looked at my new neighbor—sitting in my chair, watching my television and inviting me to sit down in my own living room and watch the Yankees—and I knew I hated him.
* * *
It proved to be one of life's little jests that when I reported to work the following week, I discovered that my new neighbor was also the most recent (and youngest ever) vice president at Mikel Corporation.
"Small world," Doyle laughed when he saw me getting a cup of coffee in the cafeteria.
I nodded my head to acknowledge his greeting. Although I hoped to escape a conversation, it wasn't to be the case.
"How about those Yankees?" he called.
Once again, the Bronx Bombers had won the American League pennant and were on the way to the World Series.
"Oh, I forgot," he laughed. "You're a Red Sox fan."
"Yeah. Well, there's always next year."
"Sure, maybe next year."
Doyle smiled, but there was no mistaking the condescension in his voice.
Like most people in residential communities across America, I wanted to be on good terms with my neighbors. Yet despite the barbecues, card games and movie nights our wives arranged, the better I got to know Doyle, the more I despised him.
"I can't imagine why you don't like him," my wife said every time I nixed proposed plans with the McCloskeys. "It's silly not to be friends with someone just because he likes the Yankees."
My wife wasn't a baseball fan and had no idea how deep the Boston-New York rivalry went.
"It's not just baseball," I said in my own defense. "Doyle and I have absolutely nothing in common. He's a Republican and boasts that he supports George Bush."
"And you voted for Kerry. So what? This is America. Everyone is entitled to vote his own conscience."
"I know that, but he's too conservative for my taste. And what's worse, he's got that New York attitude. You know what I mean."
"No, I don't. I think he's very personable."
My wife, being a woman, would never understand the male ego. I couldn't explain why it upset me that Doyle's car was a newer model than my own, that his lawn was always green and free of weeds, that his suits always looked professionally tailored and freshly pressed or that his hair always looked combed. He not only backed a winning presidential candidate but also the winningest team in baseball history. Even at Christmas, a time of peace on earth and goodwill toward man, I hated the fact that none of his Christmas lights ever burned out, his plastic reindeer remained upright even in the strongest wind, his driveway was always shoveled and icicles never formed on his gutters.
Since the McCloskeys moved to Falmouth, there was only one brief moment when I didn't feel inferior to Doyle, when I felt the balance had shifted in my favor. The year 2004 was one held as dear to the city of Boston as 1776. Just as the ill-equipped American patriots defeated the powerful British army, the underdog Boston Red Sox came back from three defeats to beat the New York Yankees in four consecutive games to win the American League pennant.
I was ecstatic. For weeks my car stereo played nothing but the Dropkick Murphys' "Tessie": Boston you are my only, only, only. Had I the power, I would have canonized Johnny Damon for his grand slam homerun. Naturally, the granting of sainthood is not within my power, but I could rub Doyle's nose in the Red Sox's victory, one made even sweeter when they went on to sweep the Cardinals in the World Series. I wanted to pay my obnoxious neighbor back for all the times he taunted me with "1918" and took pleasure in Boston's long losing streak.
With the Red Sox the world champions, I no longer cared that there was crabgrass in my lawn, that my rusty Subaru was well on its way to extinction or that I was still vacationing on Martha's Vineyard while Doyle and his wife went on Caribbean cruises or flew to Hawaii. The Red Sox had reversed the curse. At long last, I knew what it felt like to be a winner.
* * *
My euphoria abruptly ended the following October. The Red Sox tied the Yankees for first place in the American League East, but they were defeated by the White Sox in the division playoffs. Once again, I had to endure Doyle's playful banter, even though the Yankees lost their bid for the pennant to the Angels.
Disappointing though it was, the postseason loss wasn't the pin that finally burst my bubble. Just days before Christmas, Red Sox star centerfielder Johnny Damon jumped ship and signed with the Yankees. When Doyle laughingly declared that even a self-proclaimed "idiot" like Damon knew a great team when he saw it, I wanted nothing more than to punch the former New Yorker in the face. But I was a civilized man. I had no wish to create a Hatfield and McCoy situation on Palmer Avenue. Instead, I would take my anger out on the traitorous Johnny Damon.
When the Yankees made their first appearance of 2006 at Fenway Park, I was there to boo the turncoat every time he came to bat. I'm not proud of myself, but I must admit I prayed that New York's short-haired, clean-shaven centerfielder would lose his ability to hit and field in much the same way Samson had lost his strength when he shed his locks.
While Johnny Damon was apparently enjoying his career move, I was at the lowest point in my life. I continually compared myself to Doyle McCloskey and always came up short. My low self-esteem soon affected my performance at work, and I received a stern warning from my supervisor. Even my wife found fault with me. Was I becoming paranoid or was everyone turning against me?
My ebbing spirits revived somewhat when the Red Sox managed, with the help of David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez, to make it to the top of the Eastern division the following spring. The Yankees, on the other hand, had Sheffield and Matsui on the disabled list, and even with A-Rod, Jeter, Giambi and "Judas" Damon, they had difficulty gaining ground. Eventually, however, the Yankees overtook the Red Sox. But with a lead of only a few games, there was still the possibility the Sox could regain first place. I pinned my hopes on a five-game series between New York and Boston, to be held at Fenway in mid-August. If Boston could win at least three, all was not lost.
In an insane act of desperation, I sold my car and bought tickets to all five games from a scalper outside Fenway. The first two games were played on Friday—a day/night doubleheader. I suffered through not one but two dreadful defeats, only to face more of the same on Saturday and Sunday. The Yankees didn't just beat the Red Sox; they annihilated them, scoring a total of forty-seven runs in the first four games, compared to the twenty-five scored by the Red Sox. To add insult to injury, many of those runs were courtesy of Johnny Damon.
Steeling myself for the last game of the series, I entered Fenway Park on Monday, a broken man. Ronnie, furious at my rash behavior, had given me my walking papers, as had my employer. Infinitely worse—in my troubled state of mind—was the fact that my team was falling further behind the Yankees in the standings.
"Let them win at least one game," I begged my creator.
But God must wear pinstripes because New York won again, sweeping the Sox all five games. I was devastated. Several Yankee fans displayed banners proudly proclaiming "Boston Massacre 2006." Others held up signs praising Johnny Damon.
"Greedy freakin' idiot," I grumbled with disgust at the sight of his smiling countenance.
With the game over, the crowds around me headed for the exits, but I remained in my seat, staring at the scoreboard on the Green Monster and clutching my ticket stub in my hand. I had nowhere to go—no wife, no home, no job, not even a car. Like the Red Sox, I was a loser. But for them, there was always next year or the year after, or maybe it would be another eighty-six before they won another World Series—who knows?
Although my troubles were all of my own creation, visions of revenge clouded my thoughts. I imagined hijacking a 757 out of Logan and crashing it into Yankee Stadium. Yet even if this were possible in the post-9/11 world, I would never want to hurt innocent people. And, truth be told, I would not want to hurt baseball's heartthrob, Derek Jeter; the young Robinson Cano and Melky Cabrera; A-Rod or any of the other Yankees—not even Johnny Damon. What I really wanted was for the former Red Sox player to grow out his hair and beard and return to Boston.
As I pictured the great celebration there would be in Beantown if Damon, Ramirez and Ortiz combined to win another series, a voice from behind interrupted my reverie.
"You win some; you lose some," it said.
I shook my head. It was as lame an observation as "there's always next year."
"Don't take it so hard, kid. There'll be other ballgames," the voice continued.
"Yeah, and the Red Sox will probably lose them, too."
"It's not whether you win or lose ...."
I cut the annoying voice off mid-sentence.
"Yeah, I know; it's how you play the game."
"No. That corny old cliché is wrong. The real secret to happiness is not whether you win or lose; it's remembering at the end of the day that it's only a game. Look, son, don't take these losses to heart."
"It's not just the losses. It's the fact that so much of the damage was caused by Damon."
The voice laughed.
"You see him as a traitor for joining the Yankees, don't you? Hell, sports heroes are bought, sold and traded every day. Even franchises sell out and move to new cities. Don't you think thousands of New York fans were heartbroken when the Dodgers left Brooklyn and moved to the West Coast?"
The thought of the Red Sox playing anywhere other than Boston was beyond my imagination. Even if their championship record paled in comparison to that of the Yankees, they were as much a part of Boston as the Old North Church, Faneuil Hall and Bunker Hill.
"I've been coming to Fenway all my life," I explained. "My father brought me here as a kid. Some of the best days of my childhood were spent in this ballpark."
"Did the Red Sox always win?" the voice asked.
"Are you kidding?"
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the stranger's question.
"But even when the Sox lost, there was still the excitement of being at a major league game and watching your team play."
"Was that it? Or was it that you were here with your father?"
Suddenly, the man's interest disturbed me.
"Who are you?" I asked warily.
"Just someone who wants to help you out in your time of need."
I wanted to see the face behind the voice, but I couldn't turn my head. As though frozen, I was unable to move. The idea of being alone in Fenway Park with only a ticket stub, the Green Monster and a strange voice for company unnerved me. I was overcome by a profound sense of loneliness and grief. I wished I was a boy again and my father was sitting beside me, eating hot dogs and watching baseball—even if it was a replay of the five games the Sox had lost to the Yankees. My throat constricted with unshed tears. I never realized just how much I missed him.
"Your father is dead. Do you think he cares who wins a ballgame?" the voice continued with its sage advice. "Life is too short to worry about trivialities."
My mysterious companion was right. It was a lesson I learned as a young boy, but one I repeatedly forgot in my adult life, especially since Doyle McCloskey moved into the house next to mine.
"What a fool I've been," I exclaimed. "Instead of appreciating everything I had, I worried about whether my lawn was as green as my neighbor's."
"Or whether your baseball team was as good as his?"
"Yeah. I was more concerned with Johnny Damon's career than with my own."
I could no longer hold back my tears.
"And I lost my wife because of my blind stupidity," I sobbed.
"Maybe not. Maybe you've only temporarily lost sight of her."
I felt a strong hand fall on my shoulder. It seemed to release me from the force that held me immobile. Words cannot adequately describe the shock I felt when at last I turned and saw the face behind the voice. It was one most baseball fans knew—not just those from Boston and New York. The man who had come to remind me of what mattered most in life was none other than George Herman Ruth, Jr., better known to millions as "the Babe." He was not in his Yankee pinstripes. In fact, he wasn't even wearing a baseball uniform. Instead, he was dressed in an elegant and expensive suit, one befitting a legend.
"Baseball was my life," he told me. "I can't complain. It was always good to me. But even if I wanted to do anything differently, I couldn't. Life gives you only one time at bat, and when you're out, you're out. There's no arguing with the umpire."
I detected a look of regret in his eyes and couldn't imagine Babe Ruth regretting anything—except maybe Roger Maris and Hank Aaron beating his homerun records.
"Go to your wife," the Babe urged gently. "Tell her you're sorry and ask her to take you back. Beg her if you must."
God knows I wanted to do just that, but I had nothing to offer her.
"Not yet," I said. "After I get back on my feet, then maybe ...."
Babe was persistent.
"What makes you think you're going to live long enough to get back on your feet? Lou Gehrig was just about your age when he died."
The Bambino was right again. There were no guarantees in life. I capitulated.
"Okay, I'll go see her tomorrow."
"Why wait?" he asked with a hearty laugh.
"I don't have any money," I confessed. "I have to find a ride back to Falmouth."
Babe reached into his pocket and took out a baseball.
"Here's a souvenir for you, kid. I hit this one out of the park right here in Fenway."
The ball was old and discolored, but I had no difficulty deciphering Ruth's autograph. Reluctant as I was to part with such a rare collector's item, I needed the money to get home.
"Thanks, Babe," I said, but when I looked up, the Bambino was gone.
"Hey, you," another voice called.
Who is it this time? I wondered. The spirit of Ted Williams? Cy Young? Jimmy Collins?
It was no ghost come to haunt me, however; it was only a stadium security guard.
"The game's over, pal," he informed me. "What'd you do, fall asleep?"
"As a matter of fact, I did, and I had a dream that Babe Ruth was back in Fenway."
"Don't mention his name. Two years ago I thought his curse was reversed, but after these last five games, I'm not so sure. Johnny Freakin' Damon—that traitor—really let us have it!"
"Hey, man, go easy on Damon," I said, jumping to my former enemy's defense. "He only did what you and I would have done. Who walks away from a $52 million contract?"
The security guard eyed me with suspicion.
"You're not a Yankee fan, are you?"
"Nope. I'm just a Red Sox fan, reeling from a five-game sweep."
"Well, hang in there," he urged, patting me on the back as he led me to the exit. "If we can't overtake the Yankees now, there's always next year."
Don't be so sure of that, I thought as I walked out onto Yawkey Way. For all we know, my friend, you and I may never live to see next year's spring training.
But neither the prospect of death nor the memory of Boston's humiliating defeat dampened my newfound optimism. True, there were no guarantees that I would be around next season, next week or even the next day.
"But I'm here today," I cried joyously to the Boston skyline.
I was overcome with a newfound sense of purpose. I would return to my beautiful old home despite the crabgrass-ridden lawn. I would do my damnedest to win back Ronnie's trust and affection. I would also beg my employer for a second chance to prove my worth. And who knows? I might even hold out the olive branch and become friends with my annoying neighbor, Doyle McCloskey.
* * *
I look back on the events I've described herein and confess that I almost didn't make it back from that dark road to despair. But I did. With help from the Babe, I was able to turn my life around. Of course, the Yankees are still the winningest team in all of baseball. (Some things never change!) Yet the fact that my Red Sox seem destined to remain the underdogs no longer bothers me—much. My priorities are now in order, and like the great Lou Gehrig, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
Lyrics from "Tessie" by the Dropkick Murphys. Salem and I—though ardent Yankee fans—love both the song and The Dropkick Murphys.
The Black Monster meets the Green Monster!
