The steeple of the First Arlington Church pierces the cloudless Back Bay sky, where the unseasonably warm air is churned by the blades of hovering helicopters. Accompanied by the drone of plastic parade horns in the key of air raid alert, the duet gives the visual and auditory effect of war-torn Beirut. But this is Boston.
Today, the helicopters are ushering an assemblage of amphibious duck boats, confetti shooters, and flat-bedded rock musicians otherwise known as the Rolling Rally, a triennial celebration of the return of The Commissioner's Trophy to New England.
From within the church belfry an iron ensemble plays a succession of notes at half-tempo that, only after considerable focus on the part of listeners, become recognizable. Take ... Me ... Out ... To ... The ... Ballgame. Love ... That ... Dirty ... Water. Sweet ... Caroline. A group of college students across Boylston Street carry the melody where the bells go silent: 'So good, so good, so good!' Their lyrics are punched with far greater certitude than during your rank-and-file seventh inning stretches of the Fenway Park regular season, for the task at hand has now been accomplished.
They said it wouldn't be, that this day would not come, at least not for another 83 years. They said the Yankees could not be held at bay as the American League East race heated with the August sun. And when they were wrong, they switched allegiances, first to Cleveland, then Colorado. Anybody but the Red Sox of their hometown Boston. They wore their Got Rings? t-shirts and smirked at this franchise that has admittedly collected fewer than its share through a tormented past. They conversed of 1927 and 1961 and especially 1978 as if it were today, right here in our diners and coffee shops. Grown men, wearing pinstriped pajama tops with the No. 2 and another man's name embedded across their backs, and they laughed.
They were the detractors of Red Sox Nation: neighbors, fellow townsmen; nonetheless, wayward satellites of the Bronx. Some tied by direct ancestral or geographical lineage, but most floating in an acentric orbit circling a concept that no longer exists, one of pageantry and tradition, of perennial champion, an easy team to buy into; their tether the tensile strength of a dandelion stem.
But today, they have scattered like so many dandelion seeds against the first breeze of morning. They have been driven out by the odd-looking militia that rolls down Boylston Street to the cheers of a liberated city. One million strong lining the streets, clad in all manner of reds and whites, and caps bearing the custom-font 'B' of the Boston Red Sox. Today is strictly for the home team.
It is a great day for partisan cleansing.
Tomorrow will be too, and the next. Since Jonathan Papelbon set down the last three hitters of the 2007 World Series, The Hub's airwaves have been sanitized of Red Sox antagonists who call in from the shadows of the Prudential Tower espousing their platform that one championship every 86 years makes one a Loser Nation. In junior and senior high schools, the student body has moth-balled its navy blue and white-lettered baseball caps — the ones they wear sideways — at least for the school term. Downtown parking lots are spared of A-Rod bobbleheads peering contemptuously through their rear window perches into our cars. Hell, even lip balm sales are down.
Yes, a revolution has been seeded from the gutters of this Back Bay parade route and carries on the wisps of blowing confetti to the corners of Red Sox Nation. From there, it goes nationwide. The time has come for cities across Major League Baseball to take back their teams.
Of course, short of winning a World Series title, the quickest way is to exile the scalawags but this is not a Lenin revolution aimed to force consensus under the threat of bloodshed. Rather, it's more a Beatles revolution, a peaceful means of rediscovering the identity within. In this case, one's baseball franchise.
Winning it all greatly enhances this search but, in the meantime, there are other civic steps available.
Like, for instance, providing a comfortable, dry home in which to play. Legislators of Florida, open up that Rainy Day Fund because, if you haven't been to Dolphins Stadium lately, it is raining. Support your namesake by putting a roof over your Marlins' heads. Perhaps this will temper owner Jeffrey Loria's perennial fire sale and any inclination to flee under the cloak of night. You will find that life is not fun as a Devil Rays fan.
Speaking of which, it would be great if Tampa Bay could go through the motions of trying to bankroll a professional franchise. No team in Major League Baseball has license to pay its collective roster less than one player can signle-handedly earn outside the organization, and this is not an indictment on Alex Rodriguez. If D-Rays management would like to see more home than visitor colors filling the seats of Tropicana Field, they will have to climb off the bottom of the salary list soon. At least get past Loria's Marlins.
If your city cannot manage to muster the cross-sport sympathy vote, your attendants are advised to usher those non-baseball icons into private suites. In addition to stroking their egos, it will keep television cameras from making them freely available for public disgust. Guardians of the Jake, let the midges sit wherever they want, but keep LeBron out of the stands; impressionable youths don't dress like midges.
And GMs, re-sign a few players now and again. Soon, the sun will never set on the Twins' or A's empires as they play the perpetually bankrupt homeowner at their own foreclosure sale. They watch powerlessly as bidders coast-to-coast cast lots for their wares and force fans to read the out-of-town box scores to keep up with their favorite players.
In time, citizens in major league markets everywhere may become reacquainted with the guys who bat last, even if they don't make $143 million — or the playoffs on occasion. For them, much toil awaits in cleansing their streets of other teams' fans. Boston, meanwhile, need only cleanse theirs of confetti.
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