BOSTON -- Well, shit.
I recognize that “well, shit” is, journalistically, a wholly inappropriate lede. Bright young journalism students in the very best schools may be one day compelled to read this lede as a cautionary tale. At this very moment probably, Buzz Bissinger (in his $600,000 of fancy lady clothes) is absolutely scandalized that someone would debase the English language in such a way when writing about a thing as sacred as grown men playing a child’s game.
At the same time, there is something to be said for the economy of language. If anyone can offer a superior two-word description of the Tigers' 6-5 collapse to the Red Sox Sunday night, I’d like to hear it.
Had you asked during the pregame national anthem if I would be content to see the Tigers come home for game three tied 1-1, I would have said absolutely. Three hours plus later, with the Tigers four outs away from an impressive 5-1 victory, not so much.
As disappointing as it was to witness game two’s ending, I have to hand it to Boston fans. They stuck with it through 16½ innings of (for them) gut-wrenching baseball to get to that gut-wrenching (for us) bottom of the eighth.
Shortly before Boston’s comeback, as is custom, Fenway Park sang along to "Sweet Caroline." Or tried to, anyway. The Boston faithful sounded deflated. Like they were just going through the motions with every “bump bump bump” or whatever that sound is.
Still, they hung with the game and instantly came alive at the first hint of a comeback rally. By the time David Ortiz’ grand slam literally knocked Torii Hunter out of the park, the place was ecstatic. It was like one of those Pentecostal faith-healing tent revivals only more rapturous. That whole “aah” sound for “er” (as in clam chowdaah) is just the Bostonian version of speaking in tongues.
That attitude, so much more than the facility, is what makes Fenway Park the amazing baseball venue that it is.
Look, Fenway is a cool enough old building. But, if you built a Major League park with those dimensions today, it would be dismissed as so gimmicky as to make Bill Veeck blush. What's more, Fenway has many of the same problems that plagued Tiger Stadium — obstructed views, not enough bathrooms, narrow seats, limited amenities, etc.
While the Tigers were content with Tiger Stadium’s atrocious electric blue and orange color scheme, Mr. Belvedere siding, and a perpetual layer of grime over faded and peeling paint, Boston made Fenway a into — dare I say it? — a jewel.
The place is immaculate. The contrast between that weird industrial green paint — Fenway is the same color as the squad room on Kojak — and the red seats just works. Insufficient concourse space is supplemented by Yawkey Way concessions outside. Fenway also benefits from Boston’s excellent public transit. Unlike some ballparks in neighborhoods that rhyme with Morktown, Boston didn’t nearly level an entire community to ensure fans had enough parking.
Even Fenway’s greatest weakness as a place to make money by selling baseball tickets, the lack of left field seating, has become an asset. The Green Monster section is one of the most unique spectator experiences in sports. I was lucky enough to snag a Green Monster SRO ticket for game two and it totally lives up to hype. You feel like you’re floating over the game up there, with an improbably clear view of pitches. As Ferris Bueller once said about Ferraris: If you have the means, I highly recommend it.
In short, Fenway is a park befitting the fans who pack it all season long. No matter how incongruous the situation, Fenway Park finds a way to make it work. Just as their fans seem ready to believe they’re always one pitch away from another Carlton Fisk or Dave Roberts or (now) David Ortiz moment.
Take away the ethos of Red Sox fans and Fenway Park is little more than a very nice, well-maintained AAA-size ballpark. However, from the moment when 38,000 screaming Bostonians sing along Dropkick Murphy’s “I’m Shipping Up To Boston” before the first pitch, it’s clear Fenway is unique among sports venues. Not because of the architecture, or the hype, or even the music, but because of Red Sox fans’ passion for their club.
Boston no doubt developed their it-can-always-turn-around attitude suffering though those 86 years of futility between the Babe Ruth trade and the 2004 World Series. Even today, I suspect the children of Boston learn the reality about Santa and the facts of life before they’re told that there was, in point of fact, a game seven in the 1975 World Series.
As with all passions, the Red Sox faithful require a little self-delusion to maintain their intensity. Ask anyone exiting Fenway in a red shirt Sunday night and they’ll probably tell you their team’s comeback was willed in part by the Fenway faithful and, with the series momentum in hand, the Red Sox can now dispatch the Tigers with a quickness.
It all sounds very nice, but fans don’t win games. Players do. And if momentum ever meant anything, why are Cincinnati Reds forever known as the 1975 World Series champs? How did the Sox overcome the momentum that put the Yankees up 3-0 in the 2004 ALCS? For that matter, how was Ortiz able to overcome the Tigers’ first seven innings of game two?
Jim Leyland likes to say momentum is as good as your next day’s starting pitcher. That’s being generous. Momentum is only as good as your next pitch. Just as Joaquín Benoit.
The Tigers should have won Sunday, but they didn’t. That happens. If World Series runs were easy, they wouldn’t be important. As if it matters how a man falls down, so long as the fall isn’t all that’s left . . . and all of that.
Truly great teams find ways to bounce back. It’s time for the 2013 Tigers to show themselves to be truly great.
Detroit is shipping up from Boston in a tied series, essentially giving them a home field advantage, and Justin Verlander set to take the hill Tuesday afternoon.
If they can’t make that work, then we don’t deserve October glory.
