Red Sox Fan, In Exile

BELLEVILLE, Illi­nois — You’ve never really become part of Red Sox Nation until you’ve expe­ri­enced a play­off series in the Diaspora.

That’s what I’ve come to real­ize while watch­ing the World Series here in my home­town as I deal with a fam­ily emer­gency. (My father is dying of pan­cre­atic can­cer.) Although the Red Sox, as usual, have been adding to my stress, the hap­pi­ness result­ing from each of their vic­to­ries has been off­set­ting the pain some­what. Still, the jux­ta­po­si­tion of the two emo­tions I’ve been feel­ing is typ­i­cal for a Red Sox fan (well, at least one with a pre-2004 mentality): Take equal parts hap­pi­ness and misery, mix vio­lently, and serve hot. Make sure there is enough for 181 servings.

After arriv­ing in St. Louis last week, I watched the first and last game at home. My ten-year-old brother, mother and step­fa­ther had all gone to bed, leav­ing me to cel­e­brate in the liv­ing room alone by jump­ing and pump­ing my first as qui­etly as pos­si­ble. Although I have raised my lit­tle brother to be a Red Sox fan since the day he was born, he did have school the next day. I was tempted to tell him that the Red Sox in the World Series was more impor­tant than four days of fifth grade. Does that make me a bad brother? Still, he wears his Red Sox hat with pride. I just hope that he for­gives me some­day for the pain that results from being a mem­ber of the Fen­way Faith­ful. At least it’s the good kind of pain.

I watched the sec­ond and third games at three dif­fer­ent bars with an old high school friend, Jason, who roots for the New York Yan­kees merely because they’ve been suc­cess­ful. (Who’s he going to sup­port now?) Everyone from here, of course, should be a fan of the St. Louis Car­di­nals. (That, of course, includes me — but the base­ball strike of 1994 killed base­ball for me until I moved to Boston for col­lege and got sucked into Red Sox Nation.) And, as one of my uncles says, Car­di­nals fans are viewed as cor­dial and polite. At least in my expe­ri­ence, that wasn’t exactly true.

Jason and I went to Crehan’s Irish Pub, a mix of an Irish pub and a dive bar, after Game 2 ended, and I received a neu­tral reac­tion from peo­ple there. No one noticed my Red Sox hat at all. Everyone was watch­ing a col­lege foot­ball game or lis­ten­ing to a cover band, but I con­vinced the bar­tender to put Game 3 on the big-screen tele­vi­sion. Unfor­tu­nately, we went to two other bars for that game, and I def­i­nitely received a reac­tion from Car­di­nals fans at the other two.

We first went to Cutter’s. After get­ting the bar­tender to put on the game on the big-screen tele­vi­sion, a few other guys stood near the bar and started to watch. I joined them. An older guy in his fifties on my left casu­ally looked over in my direc­tion. He did a quick double-take, looked at me and my Red Sox hat, and then stated in a matter-of-fact-but-still-pissed voice, “F— YOU!” Since I had done or said noth­ing, I was a lit­tle shocked. It had been three years since 2004. Then he repeated him­self. I laughed ner­vously and won­dered if this was how Yan­kees fans feel out­side of New York.

I walked over to the bar to order a beer, and a band that did cov­ers of clas­sic rock songs started play­ing. Since the Red Sox had gained a nice lead in Game 3, I went over to make a request: “Would you play either ‘Sweet Car­o­line’ or ‘Dirty Water’ for a Red Sox fan?” The key­boardist said that they didn’t know the songs, and I believed him – the guy’s facial or non­ver­bal cues didn’t skip a beat. But when I told the story to a friend of my friend Jason, he replied: “You’re not in Boston any­more.” After the Col­orado Rock­ies had pulled within one run, I was a lit­tle pissed. And angry. I was stand­ing near the bar and look­ing at the tele­vi­sion screen while wav­ing my hands to push bor­der­line hits by the Rock­ies into foul ter­ri­tory and send Red Sox run­ners home. Yeah, I def­i­nitely helped.

A ran­dom guy walked up and asked if I was a Red Sox fan. “Of course,” I responded. And I had never been more proud. He just smiled and walked away.

Later, as the Red Sox began to seal their Game 3 vic­tory, Jason and I went to Big Daddy’s, a swankier down­town bar. It was there that I, after liv­ing in Boston for more than nine years, became an offi­cial mem­ber of Red Sox Nation. It was there that I ran into other Red Sox fans in south­ern Illi­nois for the first time. We were in exile together. Two mil­i­tary guys, along with one guy’s wife, were wear­ing Red Sox uni­forms and star­ing at the tele­vi­sion. One was from Franklin, Mass­a­chu­setts, and both were sta­tioned at Scott Air Force base.

As soon as I saw them, I pointed and yelled, “Hey, Red Sox!” They looked over, grinned, and then ran over. We hugged and laughed like we were long-lost broth­ers who hadn’t seen each other in years. We talked about the World Series, and then the Red Sox won Game 3. We yelled, “Go Red Sox!” for a few min­utes, then we switched over to the inevitable “Yan­kees suck!” for a few more before buy­ing a round of drinks. I won­der if any Car­di­nals fans had ever heard that sec­ond cheer before.

In ret­ro­spect, I was a lit­tle embar­rassed — per­haps Jim Caple is cor­rect. But it was a lot of fun, and I’m glad that I was able to share a lit­tle bit of this World Series with other Red Sox fans. When I return to Boston, I just need to be sure that my lit­tle brother can carry on the tradition.