I remember the first time my grandfather let me in the den. I was 11 or maybe 12. Kids weren’t allowed in the den if the Red Sox or Patriots were playing. It was a big deal.
There, next to the biggest TV I’d seen to that point, he pulled out a book, and from that, he pulled out a Red Sox scorecard dated September 28, 1960.
He didn’t explain it. He carried it gingerly, unlike almost anything else I had seen him carry. He was a big man, much like me now. I realize now it was the fact that he wasn’t whistling (he was always whistling) that provided an inverse soundtrack to the moment. He folded it into my hands and let me read it.
It was old. I read some of the names. I even recognized some. I pretended like I recognized more. The only batter tracked on the program’s scorecard was Williams, LF. (I’d be lying if I said I could score a baseball game, a fact that incited derision from Real Little League coaches during the few seasons I was able to coach my sons, but I digress). But, even with my lack of facility in the code, I could clearly see the homer marked in the eighth.
Underneath the line, scrawled in familiar block letters, it said “TED’S LAST GAME.” And underneath that, in a bold, perfect cursive as precise as his hitting and practically screaming to be written exclusively with a freshly opened Sharpie, read “Ted Williams.”
I don’t remember him telling me or not telling me the story that day. The viewing of the Teddy Ballgame signature was a ritual we celebrated often through my childhood and as such they blend together into a memorial tableau. But I do know that he handed me a xeroxed copy of John Updike’s The Hub Bids the Kid Adeiu.
I also can’t overstate that day’s impact on my life and life’s pursuits: Updike’s writing; the signature; my grandfather’s approval; really, all of it. It was all baseball cards and keyboards after that.
From 1998-2004, across a variety of jobs and titles, I had the opportunity to cover Boston sports. It culminated — somewhat appropriately in hindsight — with the breaking of the curse. My buddy and I (a former mascot turned newscaster who will remain nameless for his own protection) didn’t miss much of the heartache. (We once each bought a set of 1999 ALCS tickets from work and scalped one set in the parking lot to pay for the other, which was, by turns, both stupid and inventive).
We operated out of a former mailroom closet underneath the left third base grandstands. We’d spend the mornings at class and the afternoons in the mailroom writing stories that very few would read. (Back then, writing for a .com read - perhaps prophetically - as not real). The staircase in the back of our my office went up to the luxury boxes upstairs. Henry, who worked the door, would look the other way so we could sneak into games. It was peak Pedro and I felt consciously aware of the time and place we were in. It was electric. Every single game. In the evenings, we would drink cheap dorm room screwdrivers and change the headlines on NESN.com late night to make fun of our friends in our dorms (luckily the Wayback Machine didn’t catch any of our hijinks; I checked).
I didn’t have money for dress pants back in 1999. So I wore an ill-fitting pair of Filene’s Basement jeans to work at Fenway for the All-Star Game. My boss gave me a disapproving look and a green ASG polo.
The day before, I had climbed out on the roof near the Monster and watched Mark McGwire crush a homer that bounced off the roof of the parking garage and onto the Mass Pike during the Home Run Derby. I found a picture once where you could see my silhouette up on the roof. I wish I’d kept it.
Ted was there that day for the All-Star Game, being carted around Fenway by his son John Henry. He wouldn’t let him wear a Red Sox cap because his son couldn’t sell it. (And I’m not here to defend a man who may have gotten exactly what he had wrought when it coms to parenting).
Ted finally made it to the NESN luxury box to watch the game after the Pedro left (and after his son paraded him around). I was at the door when he came through, because Henry had given me a heads up. His son pushed me out of the way to get through . But in the commotion, as they wheeled his chair through, Ted looked a me and asked me the score of the game. I told him it was 2-1 and Pedro had five Ks. Ted smiled.
Gramps made it to 80. At the end, his illness was so suddenly that he didn’t really ever have a moment when he wasn't him. It felt like the pages at the end were just ripped out.
I remember calling him the day after that All-Star Game and telling him that I had been able to let Ted know the score of the game. He gave one of his trademark low chuckles.
All the winning of these past two decades has markedly changed my love of the Red Sox. I can still find that feeling I remember when I attend games in-person at Fenway, but the daily grind of listening to the games on the radio have long-since faded.
I think I was more in love with the romantic notion of the star-crossed underdog. That kind of passion - the sad-sweetness of it all - is gone. But being honest, at least a part of it is that I don't have Gramps anymore to share it with any longer.
In those victory-less days, we lived in the highs and lows of the team's journey. Every great play was laced with a medicinal grade faith-hope compound that I can't conjure up any longer. There was a reason to call Gramps after almost every game.
I really miss both.