Warning: This essay is intended for serious baseball fans only. If you cannot identify something odd about the title of this article, do not, I repeat, DO NOT continue reading.
Supporters of the Red Sox and Phillies have a lot in common. Both are longtime sufferers who share feelings of helplessness, inadequacy, and, in my case, extreme isolation. Boston and Philadelphia fans are regularly mocked for their allegiance to baseball teams associated with decades, indeed generations, of failure. The Red Sox last won a World Series in 1918. Then in 1920 they sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees, giving birth to the oft-used phrase “The Curse of the Bambino.” This has haunted Boston teams ever since, especially at the end of the season when they frequently lose the pennant to the Yankees. The Phillies simply have lost the most games (9,729) in the history of major league baseball and have won the World Series exactly once (in 1980) in their 120 years of existence.
Much as I look forward to spending my summers on Vinalhaven, I must confess at times to feeling very much alone when it comes to cheering for the Philadelphia franchise. First, of course, is the fact that nearly everyone else within a 500-mile radius is rooting for the Red Sox. They don’t call New England the “Red Sox nation” for nothing. Two of my friends in the neighborhood, Ducky and Brud, listen intently to the Boston games most evenings. The next morning we have polite conversations about the results from the night before. I pretend to be interested in how the Sox are doing and we discuss important questions such as whether Pedro will be with the Boston team next year.
I’m sure that over the years a few Phillies fans have visited Vinalhaven. Fifteen years ago I remember seeing a guy wearing a red cap with a “P” on it at the 4th of July parade. When I greeted him enthusiastically, he looked horrified, quickly took off his hat and disappeared into the crowd. I was told that Robin Roberts (Phillies Hall-of-Fame pitcher in the 1950’s and my hero as a kid growing up) took the ferry to Vinalhaven last summer. I never did meet him and I’m thinking my friends were pulling my leg. It gets worse. Whereas the broadcast of Red Sox games can be heard all over New England, the signal for Phillies games fades out once you get north of Trenton, New Jersey. Maine newspapers naturally give the Red Sox a lot of coverage. On occasion they include out-of-town box scores (including Philadelphia’s), though not on a regular basis. And The New York Times, which I also see from time to time, regularly mocks anything to do with that metropolis 100 miles to its south.
But, you might ask, what about your family? Don’t they understand your feelings? Let me give you some examples of what I am dealing with. My dear wife, after years of drilling, can probably give you most of the starting lineup for the Phillies’ 1980 World Championship team. She will also tell you that Walt Dropo (Red Sox Rookie of the Year in 1950) comes from Moosup, Connecticut; something she learned on one of our many drives around New England. After this, her knowledge of baseball lore is exhausted. Our two sons left Philadelphia immediately following their graduation from high school, never to return. On top of that, both were tennis players. One son, who now lives on the “left” coast, has actually seen Barry Bonds splash a few home runs at Pac Bell park in San Francisco. Our other son dutifully drills his 12-year-old in the rudiments of baseball. Unfortunately this spring, just when the boy should have been reaching his peak as a Little League player, he couldn’t go outside because of his acute allergies.
I have two sisters. One lost her interest in baseball when her idol as a teen-ager, Larry Jansen, retired from the Giants in 1954. The other, a professional musician, is a serious horseback rider. She reminded me recently, however, that she did “have a lot of fun” playing third base on her high school softball team. I also have two brothers. The older one has lived in Portland for 15 years and keeps telling me he has plans to go to a Sea Dogs game (Red Sox AA affiliate). I have my suspicions, however, when he refers to them in his e-mails as a “Red Socks farm team.” My younger brother lives in Bangor. He has a daughter whose boyfriend is captain of the Bangor high school team; so I suppose there is some hope for his family. Finally, my brother-in-law from Boston swears he is a Red Sox fan; at least he talks like one. However, when I asked him recently what he thought of the Curt Schilling trade, he looked at me blankly.
I wrote this essay in part as a cathartic experience. Maybe now that I’ve written about the frustrations of these two teams, one of them will actually come through and win a World Series. Maybe I’ll see another guy wearing a Phillies hat at the 4th of July parade. Maybe my grandson will get over his allergies and be able to play ball after all. And maybe I’ll live to be 100.