You Can't Win 'Em All

Editor's Note: This article was originally featured in Emerson College's The Berkeley Beacon: http://www.berkeleybeacon.com/

BY IAN TASSO
EDITORIAL. PHOTOS BY AP NEWS


The stadium was tense.

Over 42,000 stood together on their feet, their towels flapping in the air as they poured down thunderous cheers like rain from a blackened cloud. 

As their closer came to the set, he held more than just a stitched baseball in his glove. He held the hopes of a city; the dreams of a generation. 

Almost in slow motion, San Francisco's hero exhaled, his pulse thumping in tune with the hundreds of thousands watching. And then, like the ticking hand of a grandfather clock, he made his first movement, beginning his wind-up, one that seemed to take longer than the game itself. 

As he released the ball, time seemed to slow, every rotation bringing the fans closer to a dream that had been held on ice for weeks. Like a tiger eyeing his prey, the batter's eyes widened as the ball approached, his grip tightening around the bat. 

And then it all went silent-a stadium full of fans holding their collective breath for an instant.

His swing seemed to last a lifetime, thousands of eyes glued to the action, thousands more looking away. But as the ball slammed into the catcher's glove, the sound of popping leather acted like a starter's gun at a track meet, signaling a celebration that bordered on pandemonium. 

With a Giant exhale, the stadium erupted in cheers. 

Fireworks and fists shot through the air like synchronized beacons of hope, the intervals between the booming explosions filled in with excitement and screaming. 

At that moment, the near 43,000 faithful fans were one in the stands, soaking in their victory, the likes of which they hadn't seen in almost a decade. They laughed, they cried, they smiled together, as their heroes rounded the diamond, slapping fives and exchanging celebrations with their supporters.

I had never seen nor been a part of anything like it. As a 21-year-old sports enthusiast, I knew but one thing: this was what being a fan was all about. And as we poured our of AT&T Park and into the city, the celebration continued.

The streets of San Francisco were alive that day, and well into the night. A city that had endured years of torture on the diamond exploded like a lit fuse, as the Giants were finally headed for October baseball.

Boston, on the other hand, was quiet. The streets were empty as the rain pattered on the empty sidewalks, creating the only noise of an otherwise silent afternoon.

And that's because the Boston Red Sox had been mathematically eliminated earlier in the week- and logically eliminated almost a month back.

For Red Sox Nation, it was an unfortunate year. Boston's boys of summer featured the league's most powerful pitching rotation, a bullpen that could cork even the most potent offenses, and a lineup that surprised the masses by finishing second in baseball with 798 runs scored.

Newcomers Adrian Beltre, John Lackey, and Marco Scutaro looked sure to pave the highway to success, filling the holes that were so ultimately exposed only a season ago.

It was a team that showcased 40 different personalities, from the scrappy dirt-dogged Dustin Pedroia, to the quiet assassin Jon Lester, all the way to the loudmouthed fire-baller Jonathan Papelbon. Each one of them offered a different talent to a team that was picked by many as a World Series favorite.

But now, that diverse clubhouse has but one thing in common: they will all be watching postseason baseball from home.

Each and every one of them. The wounded Pedroia. The weary Lester. And the exhausted Papelbon.

Because, for all their talents and all their upside, the Red Sox also had another card up their sleeve - a Joker that had been silently dealt to them before the season began: an injury bug that would make a season of M.A.S.H. look like an episode of Scrubs.

As the calendar turned to May and June, the city of Boston lost its heroes one by one, as Josh Beckett, Kevin Youkilis, and Daisuke Matsuzaka found themselves headed for the infirmary.

Soon after, the Nation's captain Jason Varitek was writhing on the ground in pain, along with Victor Martinez, Dustin Pedroia, and Mike Cameron.

They dropped like flies strapped to free-weights, taking with them the hopes of the Fenway Faithful.

But the red and white continued to fight.

Adrian Beltre had himself a career year, while Jon Lester carried the pride of an organization to the mound with him every start. Clay Buccholz matured into a Cy Young candidate right before our eyes, and the shortstop-devouring beast that haunted Red Sox dreams seemed to finally be fed.

But it wasn't enough.

The injuries eventually took their toll and underachieving stars like Lackey and Beckett made their mark, as the Red Sox now find themselves on the outside looking in as playoff baseball begins.

It wasn't their fault. Sometimes the cold-blooded hands of fate deal you a Joker you just can't fold. Sometimes, it's out of your control.

For millions of Sox fans, it was a shocking realization that sometimes it all doesn't go your way. For millions more, it was an unfortunate return to a path that they trekked for 86 long years.

But I wouldn't have it any other way. In fact, I'm glad it happened.

Because as a sports city, Boston has become more than spoiled in recent years. The self-anointed City of Champions has been becoming more and more a collection of fans who looked at their accomplishments as a rite of passage, rather than a badge of honor.

Here's to 2010 being the season that sets Red Sox Nation straight. Because sometimes you have to lose to truly know what it means to win.

Just ask San Francisco, who has yet to see a World Series title of its own-though they probably won't hear you over the roaring of cheers and honking of horns.

Did we already forget 2004? How David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez brought tears to the eyes of an entire Nation? How Dave Roberts turned a 90-foot sprint into instant history?

And what about 2001? When a hooded coach and a young Tom Brady brought the Patriots faithful to their knees?

That's what makes being a fan so special: the unexpected becomes the expected, and the fleeting memories you see the least are the ones you remember the most.

Simply put, Boston needed this gut-check. Like Bird needed Magic and Batman needed the Joker, Boston needed to lose.

So while the streets of San Francisco, Texas, New York, and Tampa Bay ran rampant with celebrating fans this weekend, that's fine. And while the cities of Cincinnati, Minnesota, Philadelphia, and Atlanta sprayed champagne in the locker room like silly-string, that's perfectly all right with me.

Boston will sit this one out.

But we'll be back. And it will be so much sweeter when we are.