Flight 1986
There are certain points in history that are so important and so huge that nearly everyone remembers the exact place they were. The Kennedy Assassination, The Challenger Explosion, 9/11, and of course, Dave Roberts stealing second. Now when I say that, if you don’t immediately think of October 17, 2004, I contend you are not Red Sox fan. But alas, I digress. My story of this historic day begins in Southern Florida. I had spent the weekend in Florida, visiting the parents. The night before, I watched the most painful game in the history of Red Sox painful games at the bar down the beach (silver lining… I guess) and remember walking home thinking “I can’t believe they are going blow it again.”
The next night, I arrived at the airport and saw that my flight back to Boston was going to be leaving pretty much right at game time. I have to admit, I was almost relieved I didn’t have to watch, but I was on one of the planes with the TVs in the seats (though no Fox) so I knew I could at least follow the score on the ticker during the Sunday night football game.
This is when I sat down at the bar to watch some of the Houston-St. Louis game before I got on my plane (watching Roger Clemens pitch just to rub it in a little more) when I finally looked at my ticket closely. What’s this? Can it be true? It has to be a sign from above! I’m about to board flight 1986 from West Palm Beach Florida, direct to BOSTON! It has to be a sign! This means that they are going to win today (I’m referring to the ALCS in ’86, not the W.S. collapse, where we came back from down 3-1 to beat the Angels). Today, we are going to beat the Yankees and at least avoid the sweep, and at least make somewhat of a comeback.
So throughout the flight, I am watching the ticker on ESPN. My thoughts went something like this: 2-0 Yankees. Shit, looks like ARod hit one. Its ok, still early. Yes! Oritz has 2RBI now, and we’re up 3-2. The season ain’t over yet! Wait, what? 4-3 Yankees? Come on guys, get a run before we get to Rivera.
Then, the plane landed. I’m about a 15-20 minute drive from the airport, and it’s the 7th inning. I can probably make it home in time to see the game (season?) end. I get in a cab and before I tell the driver where to go, I tell him to turn the game on. OK, it’s the 9th inning, but we’re still down by one. Shit.
We exit the pike in to Brighton – Millar walks. There is hope! Dave Roberts is pinch running. He’s gonna steal! And Bill Mueller is up, he’s beat Rivera before (in the fight game, where my parents had my tickets and left EARLY and didn’t know the Sox cam back until I told them at dinner, but that’s neither here nor there) so we have a chance as long as he makes it. We were stopped at the longest red light in Brighton, taking a left on to Washington St. at St. Elizabeths… SAFE! Yes, we are tied! I run up the stairs to my apartment expecting to join the celebration of a victory, but alas, everyone is asleep (quitters) and we are in extra innings. I yell at the TV for 3 innings by myself, look at the clock and realize we play again… today. It ain’t over yet! And you know how it goes from there, we don’t lose again until April.
So, apparently flight 1986 was a sign that we’d be making a big comeback in the ALCS again, and give me a moment that I’ll never forget (granted I was in a cab next to the hospital, but whatever). So I ask, where were you when Dave stole second?
Stumble it!