When I was 3 years old, my father told me the Red Sox were my team. Now I’m sure he said that because of the screams I emitted every morning that there was not a clean pair of red socks in my sock drawer. He was watching the Yankees play this other team, and he pointed at them for me. I of course didn’t believe him and wandered over to our big clunker of a tv. Since this was long before color tv, the only way to accept they were the Red Sox was to see their name spelled out on a shirt. I finally got the chance and scoffed to my father that they spelled socks wrong, and couldn’t be my team. I’m still a grammar nazi.
Flash forward about thirteen years. My father had died four years earlier and we moved shortly thereafter to Northampton, MA, where my mother was to take up the job of science librarian for Smith College. The summer I was 15, all of my friends were already 16 and could get real jobs. The laws were much more strict in those days, and I spent the summer babysitting. After putting the kids down for their naps, I prepared to watch tv for an hour or so. In those days there were only three channels and they were analog. I had the choice of watching either of two soap operas or the Red Sox. It didn’t take me long to become an addict, and when I tell you the year, those who know your baseball history will understand when I say it was the year of The Impossible Dream. My new found best buddies went to the World Series that year and lost in the 7th game. My heart was not broken yet. My boys had done something marvelous and it was enough.
Now as I make my way through another baseball year where my team on paper looks bonzer, but the application to real life lets all the human foibles appear, I must be strong. I will continue to watch even the most excruciating games, because in any game they may breakout. After all, last weekend they played two very good games and came out satisfactorily ahead. Not so much today. It is hard to stay motivated to write or knit when this state of affairs exists. There is a tremendous bright spot in the reawakening of Mike Napoli. Xander Bogaerts is beginning to hit again, and well. Mooky Betts continues to shine, and Dustin Pedroia is again challenging all comers as the league MVP. I have not given up.
Which gets me to the next point, not baseball related (but watch our for flying metaphors). I have felt in a slump writing wise for the last few weeks, one might almost say the doldrums. Part of the problem is my bad luck in finding another apartment. It appears that four cats scare off even the most open-minded landlords. My four cats are less destructive than any one small dog, perchance a chihuahua. They are not noisy (with the one exception where they knocked over my vacuum cleaner, managing to turn it on). That day was the noisiest and my downstairs neighbor simply thought I was doing a large spring cleaning. Instead my cats went neurotic that day. Not that you could see any difference.
Today I wrote 2,000 words. I don’t know if they’re any good, but the ideas conveyed in them are good, and I’ll worry about getting them into shape at some later date. And the breakthrough may have come with the knowledge I conveyed in my last post, that there is the hope of subsidized housing in the future. Perhaps it is freudian, but I mistyped the word as sunsidized, which may even be better!