World Series Memories

By Patrick Ronan
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The smell of skunked beer infested our living quarters that night. Three of us packed tightly like sardines into the cheapest tent money could buy from City Sports. The bitter cold of late fall pierced at our skin. As a matter of fact, meteorologists called it the coldest night of the season at the time. Go figure. A light rain began to fall in the early morning hours, a coating that made the hardness of the concrete sidewalk that much more unbearable. And as I stared skyward, completely awake despite the fact I hadn't slept a blink in over 24 hours, I thought to myself: What the hell am I doing?

It was October 23, 2004. For anyone who's good with historical dates, it was the day of Game 1 of the 2004 World Series. And there I was, questioning my sanity on the sidewalk of Lansdowne Street. As the sun began to break, doubts of my devotion and loyalty hung over me even more so than the shadow of the Green Monster, which at the time was literally keeping me somewhat dry during the early morning mist.

And I knew it was going through my bunkmate’s minds, too. Because judging by their similar rustling and disgruntled noise making, the unbelievable discomfort we were experiencing was triggering a lot more than just doubt. Regret swept in like an unexpected New England nor'easter.

Here we were, spending the night at Fenway Park, in hopes to score tickets to Boston's first World Series game in 18 years. It was just such a great idea on October 22nd. The Sox were only 48 hours separated from their miraculous ALCS victory over the New York Yankees. At the young age of 21 and as a person who wasn't alive or old enough to experience the great Bruins teams of the 70's, the Impossible Dream of '67, or any of the Celtics' dynasties, even I knew that what had just happened with our Red Sox was possibly the single greatest moment in Bean town’s illustrious sports history.

So pitching a tent outside for a night seemed more than do-able if it meant we could witness history in the making.

Having never pledged for a frat, I've heard stories from friends that described the whole process as a tremendous life lesson, but there's that one moment in rush when you really take a step back, look at your life, and really contemplate giving up. I don't mean to overdramaticize my situation that morning, but that's how I felt.

Was this worth it? I hadn't eaten anything substantial in days. I was cold. I was slowly but surely getting sick. I had more than my fair share of homework that was piling up at home. I was borrowing money from a friend in order to pay for the ticket because at that time, I had about $16 to my name.

Hungry. Sick. Broke. And here's the kicker. As of that moment, the Red Sox were reporting that no seats were available for sale. So, this sleepover was the ultimate crapshoot. As the morning approached, my friend Jed had enough. A Baltimore native and a newly acquired member of Red Sox nation, Jed had come down with a severe cold over night and frankly, looked deathly ill that morning.

And so he left. One down. Two left to "hold the line".

My pal Jeremy, ironically a native of upstate New York but a die-hard Sox fan, looked pretty worn, too, but he was willing to stick it out if I was. I must've flip-flopped my decision on whether to stay or not a dozen times in those first few hours leading into the afternoon.

I'm staying. It's the Sox. It's the World Series. I'm staying, god damnit!

I'm out of here. Jed is smart. We can watch the game at home. I'm gonna get sick. This is ridiculous.

Screw it. I've already spent the night. First pitch is only a few hours away. We beat the f*cking Yankees for Christ's sake. I'm staying.

Screw that. They might not even sell tickets. I can't even afford this ticket. If I stay here and tickets aren't available, I may even miss some of the friggin game on my way back home.

Presidential candidate John Kerry would've been damn proud of my reluctance to take a stance.

And to be quite honest, as much as I like Red Sox fans, considering I am a one of them, some of the people in line with us were REALLY getting on my nerves. There was one group of drunken college dropouts with painted faces who repeatedly tried to cut their way into a better spot in line. There was the homeless guy at the front of the line who may have been a bit charming and uplifting the previous day, but now he was just a smelly old man who wouldn't shut up.

But the worst of them all was this kid positioned directly behind us in line. He was around my age, but my God, he must've had the IQ of a six-year old. And he loved the media attention we were getting from the TV and newspaper outlets. Every time a reporter came in our vicinity, he was the first one in front of the microphone, giving his life story. And he was just so ignorant. He didn't even know that the angle of all these news "stories" would be on how we were a bunch of fools who waited in line for World Series tickets that didn't exist. It was hard not to feel bad for this guy, who I later nicknamed Corky. This kid was in line...ALONE. He had no friends or family willing to spend the night with him. Shocking.

As game time was nearing and my decision to leave was becoming more and more prevalent, Jed returned. He was sick. Real sick. But there he was, turning the corner off Brookline Avenue to rejoin us in line. Despite my jealousy that he had been able to return home to shower and take a brief nap in a comfortable bed, this was the kick in the ass I needed.

Jed was from freakin' Baltimore. He owes the Sox nothing. Why did he come back? Not because it was the World Series. Not for the Red Sox. Not really even for himself. But for me.

He saw me unload $700 the previous year to fly cross-country to catch the Sox win Game 5 of the great ALDS against Oakland. He saw me cry my eyes out the night of the infamous Aaron Boone homerun in Game 7 of that same season's ALCS. He witnessed me pick up and leave town in late-September on a road trip to Baltimore so I could catch the last regular season games of the 2004 BoSox season. He proudly wears a shirt that my roommate and I dropped hundreds of dollars to have printed up in July of '04 (when Boston was still 8 1/2 games back of the Yankees and in a three way battle for the Wild Card). The shirt read "Boston Red Sox- 2004 World Series Champions. I Don't Believe...I Know".

Jed came back to the cold of Fenway when he could've been nestled warmly in his Beacon Hill apartment preparing to watch the game. Because he said it would be worth it to witness a World Series game with me.

A couple hours later, about a half hour before the first pitch, tickets were released. We purchased three seats next to each other in the Right Field Box, which provided a perfect view of Mark Bellhorn's 8th inning lead-taking blast around Pesky's Pole. The Sox won that game, and as you all know, took the next three to win the whole shebang.

If this overnight tale was in movie form, this would be the part where I catch you up in what happened in our lives since that game. I would've liked it to read the following:

The Red Sox' World Series victory helped Patrick quickly get over his cold and he hasn't been in better physical condition since. He won the lottery a week later and has successfully paid off all his college loans. He finished that semester with a 3.8 GPA and made the Dean's List. He met a beautiful young model who has a thing for die-hard Red Sox fans with a drinking habit. They are engaged with a child on the way.

Ok, here's the real wrap-up:

Patrick was very sick with the flu for the next two weeks, leading him to miss a handful of classes and fall even further behind in his work. He finished the semester with a 1.6 GPA and is on Academic Probation at Emerson College. He has had to take out an additional loan with Sallie Mae because he can't afford his living expenses. And as far as his love life, HA!!!

But don't feel bad for me. I was at Game 1 of the f*cking World Series. Were you?