i’ve been immersing myself in baseball, reading voraciously, soaking it all in. and i was reading boston globe writer brian mccrory’s take on things:

The first order of business is to admit it to ourselves: 2004 was more meaningful. Back then, and in the 86 years that preceded it, we knew who we were. We were hapless, though never hopeless. We were the ones that always had something to overcome – a curse, a seemingly in surmountable deficit, a little-brother syndrome.

In the end, until that fabled October, we usually lost, but that was OK. In defeat, we had identity. We got to be the luckless loser. A team, its city, and indeed, an entire national following, thrived on it.

…

Which means they don’t know about our angst. It was our blanket, our source of comfort, our common bond. If angst were a natural resource, we could have had factories packaging it up 24 hours a day and shipping it to every part of the world.

…

Without it, what have we become?

and i have to disagree with the premise that losing gave us our identity, that we have something invested in remaining hapless, cursed. to subscribe to that theory is to believe that you love a team only based on their wins-losses columns. to subscribe to that theory is to believe that you aren’t worthy of more, worthy of the best. to subscribe to that theory is to insult the intense loyalty of the fans who live only to see their team perform at the height of their craft, with skill and joy. as i put it in 2004:

what does it all mean? is the rivalry with the yanks over? do we have nothing bigger and better to look forward to from here on out? have we become a fad phenomenon? will we win again, or go back to our well-worn losing ways?

and the biggest: without a curse to gripe about, what does it mean to be a sox fan now?

i guess my answer is this. it doesn’t really matter. red sox fans will remain red sox fans, because we love them.

red sox nation was never truly defined by our martyrdom or long suffering misery. that was how others defined us.

we defined ourselves very simply, as fans of the greatest sports team ever. the red sox were never a cause or a charity we signed on for. they were just a team of men, playing a game we loved, for fans who were truly passionate about baseball. a team which we sometimes lauded, sometimes cursed, but always stood by. it’s always been a marriage, for better or for worse – not because of the success, or lack thereof, but rather because we just love the team. marriages change, but true love remains always. we loved them when they were ugly, we loved them when they were poor, and we loved them when they were sick and sad and downtrodden. we did not love them *because* of these things. we loved them in spite of them.

winning and losing are transitory states of being, much like ice to water to vapor. and tomorrow or the day after, there will be more winning and losing. but the essence remains the same. they are ours and we are theirs, forever and ever, amen.

the only thing which has changed in all of this, is the acknowledgement by others, of what we have always known. The definition by others, of what we have always seen before our very eyes.

Greatness.

Champions.

game 1 tonight.

tom petty and the heartbreakers – even the losers

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for most of the past 10 nights, i’ve averaged 3 hours of sleep per night. i’ve basically been a walking zombie. and when we were down 3 – 1, i admit, I had to wonder if i was being foolishly optimistic.

but they made it worth every single second.

hot damn. we’re headed for the world series, baby.

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ah, those boys. these games.

it’s really is unbelievable the effect such a simple game can have on my emotions, the rollercoaster it can put my heart on. and i still couldn’t say for sure if i love it so much because of that, or in spite of it.

in the end, it doesn’t really matter. the heroic themes and mythological qualities tap into something deeply ingrained in us – primal. these boys, these games, are simply an evolution of the same stories that have followed us through history. they resonate like homeric epics or biblical parables, the stories used to illustrate brave and noble qualities. we speak of them as davids and goliaths, of gods and monsters.

and for a few hours, we all believe in the infinite possibility that lives in that soaring ball, the crack of that bat. the possibility of something monumental, epic, historic. the infinite possible endings to that story playing out on the field, bringing us back time and again to watch the plot unfold.

ah, those boys, these games. for a fan, the greatest story ever told.

game seven tonight.

neil diamond – sweet caroline

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red sox, alcs

i’ve avoided writing much about my beloved red sox so far this season. partly because, like any superstitious fan of 30 some years, old habits die hard – we’ve done really well so far this season, sitting in first almost continuously since april, winning the a.l. east division, and easily dispatching the angels in 3 games in the first round of the playoffs.

tonight, however, the american league championship series against the cleveland indians begins. the winner of this best-of-seven heads to the big game, with a chance to play for all the marbles.

of course, a lot can happen in the next seven games, so i’ll be watching every last second. unfortunately the time difference makes that rather difficult. the games all start at 7 or 8 est, so midnight or 1 am my time. which leads to some rather screwy sleep schedules for a devoted fan in the wrong time zone – get home from work, eat, sleep, wake up at midnight, watch 3 hours of baseball, and go back to sleep.

but there’s always time for sleep in november.

the bravery – believe

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of montreal – don’t stop believin’ (journey cover)

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heard on a podcast this morning during a 20 miler

“only 0.1 of 1% of the world’s population have run a marathon”

this afternoon, my legs tell me there’s a damn good reason for that.

moby – run on

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okay, as predicted, the u.s. were beaten handily… but they played their little hearts out, refused to quit, and left it all out there on the pitch.

and as j pointed out, the u.s. scored *2* tries against south africa. whereas england (the defending world champions) scored none.

the u.s. acquitted themselves well. they earned the respect of all the bigger, badder teams, played hard for every last second of their matches, and can go home with their heads held high.

isn’t that all you can ask of any team?

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photo courtesy of boston.com

woo hoo! my beloved red sox are the american league east champions!

it’s the first time in a long time that we’ve finished on top. even the year we won the world series, we got into the playoffs as a wildcard. it’s a wonderful feeling being on top. we’ve been the better team throughout the season, and it’s nice to finish that way.

now we only need eleven more wins…

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i did the first 20-miler of my training today (with another scheduled for 2 weeks time). they say that if you can run 20, you can run 26 – still, i’m nervous about the fact that i haven’t been able to do any hills, and that beachy head marathon bills itself as “not a race, but a personal challenge event” with a total ascent of 3500 ft, plus stiles, bridges, cattle grids and several flights of stairs. eeep!

so i’ve begun mentioning to people at work that i’m going to do this crazy marathon thing. which inevitably begets the same question every time: why?

to which i don’t have a really good answer. i mean, i like running and everything (well, i like the post-running bit where you get to *stop*, at least.) but why the committment to something as all consuming, frequently painful, and potentially fraught with disappointment? why have i felt compelled to do this, not once, not twice, but three times?

just what am i trying to prove?

and in being forced to examine my motives/motivation, what does it say about me?

for some reason, people seem to find running a marathon impressive. and while being able to lay claim to something very few people ever do makes for good cocktail chatter, the fact is i also feel a bit of a fraud getting any kind of ego boost out of it. i mean, almost everyone *can* run a marathon. i know what you’re thinking (”no way!”), but yes, they really can. i remember going down to fourth avenue in brooklyn early on a sunday morning to watch my boss run past at the seven mile mark the year that he was in the nyc marathon. i remember being astounded at the incredible array of body shapes going by. old folk, young folk, heavy folk and skinny folk – almost none looked like the lean, stringy marathon runners i had envisioned in my head. my curiousity was piqued – and when i subsequently learned that oprah winfrey, of all people, had run the chicago marathon, i thought, “well, hell, if she can do it, surely *anyone* can do it.” so i looked up a schedule, started training, and found myself crossing the finish line of the nyc marathon the following year. so yes, almost anyone can run a marathon, in spite of the general public perception. there’s nothing particularly special or skillful about it, so that brief flash of egotism when someone says, “wow”, is quickly followed by a self-deprecating disclaimer.

and while finishing a run feels great, and marathons can be fun… they’re also a special kind of self-imposed torture. i’ve had to drain fluid from under my toenails with a hot needle, and just this afternoon spent several hours on the couch with stomach cramps after trying a new energy bar during my run – not glamourous. in the last marathon i ran, i suffered ten long miles of excruciating knee pain to the finish line and couldn’t walk the next day. and for all that, the balloons and cheering are all over with in a matter of hours, and then you go home with a cheap medal and a bag of fruit and bagels, to celebrate with a hot bath and a cold beer. there’s no big parade for finishing, no fireworks, no key to the city. in essence, there’s precious little recognition for a helluva lot of work.

and then there’s the obvious: my constant, incessant need to set challenges – big, bold, improbable things to throw myself at. but there’s no bravery in it – rather, looking deeper, perhaps an attempt to face failure on my own terms. where so much of life is left to the elements of fate (health, luck, weather, family), it’s easier to achieve success when you determine the playing field. a false sense of accomplishment.

still, i will admit there is *something* vaguely noble about it – a tribute to the endurance of spirit, if you want to get schmaltzy. or, alternatively, the human impulse to test one’s limits and resist complacency. the impulse for growth and experience. when faced with exhaustion and pain and the easy way out, it is impossible not to learn something about yourself – to dig deep and ask yourself, how badly do you want it? are you committed to your goal no matter what the physical and emotional cost? when confronted with an obstacle that seems insurmountable (like the wall at mile 18), how do you respond? what kind of mettle are you made of? what will it take to get you through? what are you trying to prove?

for all the things a marathon is not (elite, pleasurable, glamourous), it *is* this: a personal challenge event. and so there are probably as many reasons for running a marathon as there are marathon runners. each person sets their own test, each person takes away their own lessons, their own big or small triumph – whether that be just getting to the starting line in the first place, or crawling hands and knees over the finish.

and it’s *that*, that immeasurable, inexplicable, invaluable experience that keeps me coming back.

so when they ask me, “why?”, my only response can be, “why not?”

the tragically hip – long time running

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beachy head marathon

my eyelids open at six. i dress, lace up my running shoes, stretch, fill my camelbak, grab the ipod and head out the door.

i drive along quiet winding streets – even in summer the morning air is chilled with a fresh seabreeze. i am munching on a powerbar and trying to find some music on the radio to relax to. arriving at the canal, i am several hours ahead of most of the saturday morning joggers, which suits me just fine. i’m not particularly graceful at this, and don’t much like the company of an audience. and in my plodding way, i set off, wondering what kind of run this will be – are my legs rested enough? will it be a long hard slog? did i bring enough water and fuel to keep me going? will i make it?

i plug in and tune out. the first 4 miles pass quickly, almost easily. i note the markers notched in quarter mile increments on the path, and watch them roll out under my feet. the fishermen posted on the shores nod at me, their rods and tackle boxes and chairs decked out for the duration. i note the bathrooms and water fountains at 5 miles. i’m sipping diligently at my water, monitoring my stopwatch time. i hit the end of the path at 6.5 miles, and turn around, doubling back for 2 miles, eating another stickyheavy powerbar on the fly, then reversing again for another 2. the path is shaded and cool, helping my hydration. the canal is calm and constant, flowing smoothly alongside me, lulling me. i pass earnest walkers and rollerbladers going both ways, then again as i do my mini-lap. bicyclists cruise past me with ease, looking relaxed and breezy, and i’m beginning to wish i was on two wheels too. i’m starting to think about being tired, and i’m in need of distraction, so i change up the ipod.

at the far end of the path, i reverse for the final time – i’ve completed 10.5 miles and it’s another 6.5 back to the car, but it’s nice to know i’m on my way to the end. the legs are starting to feel heavy so i gulp a carb gel – nasty but necessary, they taste like bad cake frosting and require lots of water to get down. i’m back under the bourne bridge, passing the fishermen yet again. four more miles. i take stock of my body – hip flexor muscle is twinging and tight, knees feel okay but the feet are hot and achy from the pounding. three miles left. the shade is burning off with the morning sun, and i’m starting to sweat more. two miles. jesus, this is a long two miles. i’m running on empty now, and all the glycogen stores in the muscles are long gone. one mile – just keep putting one foot in front of the other, almost there, almost there, it’ll feel so good to stop, the markers are approaching and receding in slow motion, and the car park isn’t getting any closer. plod, plod, plod. thump, thump, thump. my hip truly aches now, with each step, and it’ll feel so good to finally… be… done.

and stop. 17 miles, just shy of 3 hours.

i’m disgustingly sweaty, physically exhausted and mentally drained.

but god, it feels good.

bring it on.

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the rugby world cup is just around the corner! believe it or not, i’m excited.

did you know the u.s. has an international rugby team? did you know they actually qualified for the world cup? neither did i until four years ago.

rugby is a big sport in much of the world, and particularly in commonwealth countries, so i’ve been learning as i go along. (and no matter what any rugby enthusiast would want you to believe, it’s really not all that dissimilar from american gridiron football. that kind of talk is considered heresy in these parts, but it’s true nonetheless, and i should know.)

england are the reigning world champions, and there was much craziness and celebrating back in 2003 when they won. south africa and australia are always serious contenders for the crown, and new zealand is the bookies’ perennial heavyweight favourite to walk away with the cup. so, yeah – some serious rivalry is to be expected in these heavily antipodean parts of south london, and the pubs are guaranteed to be chokka.

i, of course, will be pulling for the americans, though i admit i can’t get my hopes up too high when i look at the pool we’re in. i mean, we might have an outside shot against samoa or tonga if their team gets food poisoning (those are some *big* teams and we’re 2:1 underdogs), but we really haven’t got a prayer against south africa or england. we’re given similar odds to romania, namibia, georgia and japan. i mean, you don’t have to know much about rugby to know that the romanians are probably not considered a dominant team. i may be a fan, but i’m also a realist.

the u.s. face off against england in the first game of our pool on 8th september, and though i’ll actually be stateside that day and have the time difference in my favour, i doubt it’ll be easy to find on television. i doubt many people in the u.s. know or care that we have a rugby team, or that there’s a world cup on at all – while football/soccer is catching on slowly, i think rugby-fever is still several years away from hitting american shores. which is a shame, really. rugby is an intense, fast-paced, physical game to watch… and we’re not half bad at it.

international marital relations will also be tested in the jen and jonno household on 30th september when the u.s. face south africa in what is sure to be a red, white and blue bloodbath. showdown!! mark your calendars.

jimmy cliff – the harder they come

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woke up to this travesty that got my blood boiling this morning:

barry bonds breaks hank aaron’s record

what a farce. and i am *angry* – not at barry bonds, but that the people who matter have knowingly allowed this record to be tainted, allowed the sport to be tainted in this indelible way. who stood there like ostriches, and let it happen.

this was, of course, a long time in coming – anyone who watched baseball’s last home run chase in 1998 knew the record was soaked in steroids.

the difference is, they had the chance to put this one right. the difference is, this record is unlikely to ever be surpassed – people just don’t have 20+ year careers anymore. the difference is, this equates hank aaron’s lifetime of dedication and craft – all that is good and noble about the sport – with something mean and cheap and dirty.

that everyone know’s bonds is a cheat, just adds insult to injury. because it’s the generations of fans who care about the game who’ve been cheated – they’ve been handed tarnished fools gold and expected to show veneration. it’s a shabby imitation of achievement, and it makes a mockery of whatever pretext of purity the sport had left.

and the league have allowed it to happen, in deliberate, willful ignorance of what every baseball fan knows to be true – that record does not belong to bonds. that record rightly belongs to the fans who make the game possible – and they’re angry that what has long been lauded as the most hallowed record in american sports history, has been allowed to be defamed in this shameful deceit.

let’s lay the blame squarely where it belongs – at the feet of the commissioners and vips who’s sole job it is to elevate the sport to the best it can be.

the biggest, most blatant asterisk of all has just headed into the hall of fame – and they let it happen.

pretty girls make graves – all medicated geniuses

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bonds, baseball, home run record

it’s marathon season, and as i sit here watching the london marathon on television, looking at the thousands of exhausted and exhilarated runners, there’s no denying it – i’ve got the bug again.

there’s a saying amongst marathon runners that you will spend the rest of your life chasing the feeling of that first one, and there’s nothing truer. the emotional intensity of testing yourself against one of the oldest feats of endurance known to man is completely overwhelming. feeling as if you can’t possibly push yourself any further, cannot possibly take even one more step – yet continuing on anyway. forcing yourself onward when every cell of your body is crying out in rebellion, and doing it over and over again, putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again – the ultimate exertion of mind over matter. convincing your muscles to carry on in spite of every nerve ending screaming “stop!”

and when you finally come into sight of the finish line – when all the months of logging endless miles, hours eaten up by asphalt on weekends and in the dark, all the aches and stomach cramps and innumerable blisters, the boredom and slog and sweat, culminating in the most challenging four hours of mental perseverence of your life – to see that finish line is nothing less than perfect exalted triumph. a high unlike anything else i’ve ever experienced.

and it only leaves you wanting more, again. again.

in the course of my 20 year tortured love affair with running, i have trained for four marathons, completed two and a half, and long since sworn off any more distance races. my knees simply shouldn’t do any more grinding. right now i’m running about 7 miles three times a week, and surprisingly, my knees have been okay with that. which is dangerously tempting – at the end of each run, i find myself toying with the idea of seeing if i can go just a little bit further. because when it feels good, it feels so good. the sense of accomplishment in pushing though your limits, doing more than you thought you could, is what’s so damnably addictive.

watching the runners on television only feeds that addiction. i want it again. i’m craving that incredible concotion of bone weariness, salty lycra, growling stomach and intoxicating, heady success.

and so, in spite of all my better judgement, i have set my sights on the clarendon marathon – 30th september. it’s pure folly, i’m sure, but i’m so excited – for now.

i may be singing a different tune in a few months time

dinosaur jr – feel the pain

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marathon

yay! the red sox/skankees game (the first series of the season) is on telly! too bad it has the crappy fox announcers, but i’m so thankful to be able to see it at all.

i love baseball.

go sox!

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boston red sox v. seattle mariners. opening day at fenway park. and i’m watching it!! this nasn (north american sports network) cable channel is worth every penny.

some photos from the last time i was at fenway in 2004.

not as good as being there… but nothing is.

go sox!

and, as history dictates, i bring you…

the standells – dirty water (boston, you’re my home)

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opening day, boston red sox, fenway park

red sox opening day today!!

I love love love my red sox. Love.

The next 6 months are the best part of the year.

Play ball!

dropkick murphys – tessie

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opening day, boston red sox

man, i’ve loved prince since the 6th grade, age 10, wearing purple legwarmers and obsessively listening to the “1999″ album at sleepovers. and watching the halftime show of the superbowl, i can’t help but love him still.

doing jimi hendrix’s version of “all along the watchtower” in a driving rain, segueing into the foo fighter’s “best of you” with feeling, and finishing under “purple rain” and a wailing guitar. he’s still a phenomenal freak and musical legend.

the second half is here

very tired now. must sleep. congratulations colts!

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the superbowl is tomorrow. i get a lot of ribbing at work about american football, from people who just don’t get it (and who, of course, think rugby is superior) – who think all the stopping and starting, all the padding, makes american football a less serious game. i like to describe it to them as violent chess – what happens in between plays is almost as important as what happens on the field, and if you don’t appreciate the strategy behind it, you’ll never truly be a fan. dont’ mock what you don’t understand.

so tomorrow the indianapolis colts play the chicago bears. my beloved patriots were knocked out in the semi-finals by the colts in a nailbiter that kept me up all night, but ended badly. so i while i wanted to watch the big game, i wasn’t all that enthusiatic about it, and certainly wasn’t planning to watch til the finish at 3 or 4.

but my friend amity happens to be from indiana, and this is the first time she’s seen her team make it to the bowl. her husband is away on business, and so she was planning to watch home alone in the wee hours. and having been in that position of watching your home team win it all in the solitude of your bedroom in the middle of the night, far away from all the celebrating masses, in a country that thinks your sports are silly, that doesn’t understand how much it means to you to see your heros triumph, that won’t even acknowledge the victory the next day… well, i know how lonely it can be.

and if they don’t win, it’s even lonelier.

so i’m headed to her place tomorrow night. i’ve taken monday off from work and we’re going to drink sam adams beer, eat buffalo wings, nachos (all difficult to come by delicacies over here) and cheer on the colts. and win or lose, at least she won’t be alone.

it’s the least i can do.

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superbowl

the second most important day of the year for any bostonian…

opening day at fenway.

(photo courtesy of boston.com)

sox meet the rangers today at 2pm EST, and offices all over the city will be empty.

i’ll be listening here, determined to get in as much sox-iness as possible before we leave.

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red sox, opening day, baseball

more sporting heartache – adam vinateri (Mr. golden foot of the 2 superbowl winning field goals) is leaving the patriots.

can everyone *please* just stay put??!! 

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Not little Bronson too! my heart can’t take this!

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red sox

sunday, so trying to stay calm and relaxed. had a good run this morning with almost no knee pain, which is encouraging.

just watched sweden beat finland in the olympic men’s ice hockey finals… brilliant game. though i was rooting for underdog finland, they were just marginally outplayed by sweden, who were a bit tighter, had a better passing game, better flow, larger size, and a bit more energy. boston bruins forward pj axelsson now has a gold medal for his neck. (which is good, since it looks like, sadly, the bruins won’t be winning anything much this year. they remain solidly in the middle of the league, but at the bottom of their division.) J had to laugh at my constant chatter as i urged the team on, exhorting them through the television screen.

wow, I really really miss watching ice hockey.

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