Three weeks ago marked a special one year anniversary for me: the night I had a knife pulled on me for the first and hopefully only time. And it was, in a way, the Red Sox' fault. And you know what? It was worth it to go to the game. (Can you tell I'm a Red Sox fan?)
First things first. I'm pretty sure that the Patriots are still the best team in, as Phil Simms would say, the National Football League. Yeah, I know we lost to the Steelers and that their quarterback, Ben Rothelisldijefbererger, is being heralded as the new Joe Montana/Dan Marino/James Vanderbeek in "Varsity Blues" after seven games.
We absolutely lost to the Steelers. Without our starting running back, best wide receiver, two offensive linemen, a tight end and both starting cornerbacks. I'm not one to make excuses, but let's be serious. The Patriots beat - make that blew out - the St. Louis Rams, reported to be a good team, with a cornerback combo of Randall Gay, Earthwind "And Fire" Mooreland, and Troy Brown. Yes, wide receiver Troy Brown. Not to mention that Adam Vinatieri threw a touchdown pass and linebacker Mike Vrabel caught one.
At this point, why don't the Pats start raffling off the opportunity to play? Apparently, under Bill Belichick all you really need to succeed is a Rudy-like desire to compete and moderate health. Forget Rudy, Belichick could probably just toss himself into the game and turn in a solid performance. I'm speechless. Troy Brown was covering Issac Bruce ... and it worked. Speechless. Remember, Bill Cowher still coaches the Steelers. In a postseason game, who would you put money on, Belichick or Cowher? Yeah, that's what I thought.
Back to knife pulling. Last season I took the plunge and, with my friends, set up camp on Yawkey Way outside the Red Sox ticket office at 9 a.m. the day before the Red Sox' first home meeting with the Oakland Athletics. Second in line to a guy named Chris from South E, a dead ringer in every respect for Ben Affleck's Chucky in "Good Will Hunting," and just ahead of a young couple from New Hampshire, we felt pretty good. As the day dragged on, however, a new group made their presence known.
Scalpers have gone hand in hand with Fenway Park for as long as I can remember. Fresh from stints in Walpole State Prison, heavily connected to organized crime and dressed like strip club bouncers, Fenway scalpers are among the most despicable people on the planet, including those who voted for Nader in swing states. From the moment you step off the T or set foot within a five block radius they pounce, screeching "NEED TICKETS? SELLIN'!?"
It was around 2 a.m. when, without any police presence (more on that later) and the numbing effects of the air starting to mess with people, they went on the offensive. South E Chris ended up in a scuffle with a scalper, and my friends and I tried half-heartedly to break it up. The scalper, nostrils flaring, whirled to face us and lifted up his Celtics sweatshirt, hand on knife handle (I guess this doesn't qualify as him pulling a knife, but saying it like that makes for a better lead).
One of my friends pulled his sleeping bag over his head and went to his happy place, and I managed a tough guy "My mistake, my mistake ..." Luckily, scrappy Chris took this opportunity to spit on the scalper, and I dove back to my lawn chair as the two of them wrestled on the street. The encounter ended with the scalper warning Chris not to go to sleep, referring again to his knife.
During the course of the night, I also managed to name myself MVP of the whiffle ball tournament, witness someone brandish a handgun over a traffic dispute (a first in my sheltered life), watch as Chris and his friend broke a drunk kid's nose and get about three hours of sleep.
The next morning, exhausted, filthy from the sidewalk and slightly insane from the cold, I was haggard. Adding insult to threatened injury I watched Boston cops, sent to maintain order, talking to the scalpers about expected take and asking after relatives. One cop, upon hearing how much the knife-wielding scalper intended to make, joked that he should ask for more. "Classy," someone murmured. I was too miserable to care. Around 10 a.m. I deliriously staggered into the Red Sox box office, purchased two bleacher tickets and stumbled home.
This is where non-Red Sox fans cease to understand. It's not that we're obsessed. We just love to care. The Red Sox have been passed down, like a cherished heirloom, from one generation of Bostonians to the next, like Bruce Willis' watch in "Pulp Fiction." A world championship won't change that.
That night, Trot Nixon's walk-off home run landed two rows in front of us. You can see five of us in the replays, jumping and awkwardly hugging. I slept outside twice more.
Unfortunately the glory era of sidewalk sleeping is over in Boston. My friend Charlie Vallely slept outside during the ALCS only to be turned away the next day. Wet, exhausted and delusional, Charlie insisted that the Red Sox 19-8 loss in the game that night was payback for his slight.
The Red Sox have taken something special away by preventing people from sleeping outside. I understand that it helps deter scalpers, but it also deters me, a loyal fan, from being able to see a game. For God's sake, even Robin Williams claims to have sidewalk slept with his friends in "Good Will Hunting" for Game 6 of the '75 Series.
Playoff games are now reserved exclusively for season ticket holders, the lucky callers, and Ben Affleck. Nevermind that sleeping outside was a cherished ritual. Devoted fans need not apply.
I guess now I have my "In my day ..." story. Was it worth it, you ask? As Napoleon Dynamite would say, "Obviously! You flippin' idiot! Gosh!"
