Sox Offenders

Dad got the tickets, because that's what Dad did. He just waved his hands like some goddam illusionist and suddenly, bam!, there were tickets. To Game 3 of the 2003 ALDS. Against Oakland at Fenway Park.

I remember it was cold. Way too cold for October. And we were sitting in the bleachers, which I found surprisingly more accommodating of my goofy-ass 6'2" frame than the grandstands. And I had on my gloves and Dad had his hat and I don't think anyone sat down for a single minute. Because we'd already dropped the first two in Oakland and this could be the end. The last time we got to see Pedro and Nomar and Mueller and El Bencho in action. So we stood. And we screamed. And we begged for something magic to happen so we could all tune in again tomorrow. That communal vibe was in effect. People passing around bottles. Strangers high-fiving strangers on every hit and enemy strikeout. And did I mention that we stood up, for like the whole game? Because we did.

Thankfully, Oakland was in a giving mood. Because what could have been a season-crushing rally in the sixth went awry when Eric "Spicoli" Byrnes missed home plate after colliding with Tek, then felt compelled to restore a little testosterone to his reserve tank by coming after Tek to shove him back. Tagged. Owned. There's your seat on the bench, pally, and thanks for coming. A bit later, practically the same thing happened again, with Miggy Tejada running into Mueller while rounding third, then stopping to bitch about it before hitting home plate. Here's your tag. And there's your seat.

"It's all going our way," I told Dad. And he agreed. And we sat there, munching popcorn and swilling hot chocolate and without saying a word, the two of us remembered that walking into Fenway Park was like going through a friggin' time vortex. No matter how old I got, when we walked through those gates, I was a goddam ten year old kid, grabbing my dad's hand and pointing at the players and the lights and the wall and getting all swept up in everything. And it was awesome.

Even though the whole thing was knotted up at 1-1, I had a weird -- and at that time, quite rare -- feeling that it was all ours. And when Trot came up to pinch hit in the bottom of the eleventh, the last thing I was expecting was a miracle. I just wanted contact. Anything. Get on base and get the rally going.

And then he hit it. And it kept coming toward us. Closer. Closer. Closer.
Bang.

Cue madness. Cue "Dirty Water." Cue screaming college chicks and grandpas and kids on their dads' shoulders. Suddenly, there was a tomorrow. And everything was right in our world again.

On the way out, Dad and I were walking alongside a drunk girl shouting into her cell phone, "We fucking won!" I smiled and told him that that was the single greatest game I ever attended. And it was.

So I thank Trot for that magic moment. And I’ll add a few more things I’ll miss about the fucker:

He was hell with his fists: Trot's a two-fisted, double-flushing tough guy in the finest sense, and if he was born in another era, I could totally see him fixing a plate of knuckle sammiches for the likes of Cy Young and Joe Jackson, showing up hungover and black-eyed with Babe Ruth, and helping General Patton keep the Communists at bay. Was there ever a player who was quicker out of the dugout to stick his cleat up another guy’s ass? Yes, Trot was hell with his fists. And when you’re facing the Yanks in a critical series in mid-summer, that’s a good thing to have on your side.

He owned Roger Clemens: I don’t know if the numbers truly back this up and to be honest, I could give a shit about going and looking them up. But it always seemed that when we needed a big hit off the Rocket, Trot was the guy who got it. His now-legendary, two-run shot that won the Clemens-Pedro throwdown at Yankee Stadium in 2000 was one of the greatest Red Sox Moments of all time.

He was a gamer: He runs blindly into poles, over walls and into fellow outfielders. It’s the sort of work ethic we like to see in our players, and Trot was all about it. While other guys were injecting themselves with growth hormones and testosterone, Trot was simply gobbling down the wheat toast and fistfulls of Vitamin Awesome. The kind of moxy that can almost make you overlook his annual “tearing of the ass mucles” and those painful at-bats in key situations.

He was born to be a baseball player:Is there anyone -- and I mean anyone -- who looks more out-of-place when he’s out of his baseball uniform than Trot Nixon? Whenever I see him on TV in his street clothes or a suit, it's like seeing a grizzly bear wearing a stove pipe hat and monacle. It doesn't make a lick of sense. In fact, Trot shouldn't even be allowed to purchase suits and ties. To the point that his photo should be hanging in Casual Males and Mens Wearhouses across the city, with the words "Do Not Serve" under it. He should just stick to the baseball uni 24/7 -- on the field, raking leaves in the yard, shopping for exotic meats. And on those rare occasions when he can't wear the cap and cleats, give him one of those red Captain Marvel outfits with the lightning bolt across the chest. Because, y'know, the suit just doesn't look... right.

The Nixon era ends. And the Drew era begins. At least we think it’s going to. Either way, godspeed, Trot. You did us proud.

Red & Denton hold court daily at www.survivinggrady.com.