You too, huh?

Yes, you. You know who you are. I saw you. This morning, at the gas pumps. You drive a green Ford Ranger with a cap on the back. I’ve probably seen you there a hundred times before today, but today, I noticed you. I saw the look in your eyes. Same as mine, same as mine. Then, when I saw it on the dashboard, I knew for sure.

What? What did I see on the dashboard? The cap, that’s what. The Red Sox cap, navy blue with the red team “B” on the front, same as the ones they wear on the field. I have one, too. Mine was on the seat of my pickup.

I almost didn’t take it with me today. Just got a haircut, don’t really need a cap. (Got a buzz cut, in fact. “Cowboy Up.”) But that wouldn’t be right, would it? We can’t hide it, can we, you and I? We’re the guys that everybody knows live and die with this team, every darn year. Oh, of course there are fans around us everywhere… but you and I, we’re different. We know that, amongst all our friends, relatives, and acquaintances, there isn’t a single one who cares more about it than we do. And the thing is, THEY all know it, too. So there’s no hiding from it, no backing down from it. We have to take it, and we have to move on. So I grabbed my Sox cap, and for good measure, I went back to the bathroom and swapped my Old Navy T-shirt for my gray “BOSTON” T-shirt, the one I’ve been rotating with the red “RED SOX BASEBALL” T-shirt every other day for, oh, forever now. (But today I put on a black sweatshirt over it. I have my limits.)

Last Friday I ordered my “Cowboy Up” T-shirt from the Red Sox’s Web site, hoping it would arrive in time to have it on for this game. I knew this game was coming. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it were to arrive today, a day late? I think that would be just about perfect. When did you order yours? I’m not sure what I’ll do with mine, now. I guess I’ll wear it “to remember the good times.” (Ugh.) Maybe I’ll just leave it in the package, put it away somewhere, hoping for another chance to wear it when it means something, someday.

You know, this is going to be a tough row to hoe for you and I these next few days. Everyone will want to talk to us about it, because everyone ALWAYS talks to us about the Red Sox. (Yesterday, I got a voicemail on my cell phone from a buddy in Colorado, wishing me good luck on “my” Red Sox. This morning, when I opened the door at my office, another friend asked, “You OK?” “No,” I said. And I meant it more than I could say.) It makes sense, of course, that folks want to talk to us about the Sox, since we know what we’re talking about. We know that Trot Nixon stands (almost) no chance of hitting Andy Pettitte or Barry Zito, and we know that Pedro Martinez makes Alfonso Soriano look foolish. We groaned and screamed at the TV whenever Sauerbeck came in to face just one lefty, and promptly walked him. We know this “kid” Arroyo really isn’t so much of a kid, but he’s still going to be one to watch very closely. We know that Jason Varitek is the difference between an 85-win season and a 95-win season. We know those two strikes that Lowe threw in the ninth at Oakland last week were two of the most perfect pitches he ever threw. And most of all, we know how good these 2003 Sox are. Excuse me, “were.”

That’s one of the hardest things about it, isn’t it, Mr. Green Ford Ranger? You and I know this was the best Sox team we have ever seen, period. I’m 35, and I’m guessing you’re somewhere around my age. That means we can barely remember the ’75 Sox (find someone else who knows that Petrocelli’s full name is Americo Peter Petrocelli) that lost in a valiant effort to the Reds, and I can definitely remember the ’78 Sox, about whom I won’t elaborate. And of course 1986, ’nuff said. This team is – er, was – better than all of them were. The ’75 team would be close, but hey, that team didn’t outslug the ’27 Yankees, did it? This team did. This team had it all, on the field and in the clubhouse. Joe Torre even admitted in the postgame interview that he “didn’t want to face the Red Sox.”

This was supposed to be the year. This was supposed to be our opportunity for total and complete redemption. The script read that the Sox would face the Yankees, straight up, no excuses on either side, and beat them. Beat them in a year when they were strong, not in an off year. Because, as any good Sox fan will tell you, the only way we can ever really break through is to beat the Yankees. Ever since baseball put in the wild card team, it’s been obvious. The road to the Red Sox promised land travels directly through the Bronx, and that road is only open in October. How does that clich? go? “If you want to BE the best, you’ve got to BEAT the best.” The thing is, if you can’t beat them in a year like this one, when you have about a hundred guys with 50 home runs and 200 RBIs each, when in the heck CAN you beat them?

No sense arguing the point, the Yankees are the best. (Puke.) Even though we both know these teams were as evenly matched as any two teams in any professional sporting arena anywhere, at any time. Of course I want to tell everyone how, dang it, the Sox are really a better team all-around than the Yankees… except, of course, for starting pitching, and the closer. Whoops… there I go again. The Sox “were” a better team. Oh, except that they lost to the Yankees. Again. And after Game Seven was in control. We could SEE the promised land… the World Series… right there for the taking. Five more outs, a three-run lead, Pedro on the mound, and a completely rested, unstoppable bullpen. But somehow, we let it get away. Again.

So now we have to ask ourselves, will there be such an opportunity ever again? It just doesn’t get any more perfect than this, Game Seven in Yankee Stadium to get that monkey off our back. You and I, veterans of ’86, realize that there’s no counting on tomorrow, or next year. That was the thing “they” always said about Ted Williams and the Sox of the ’40s and ’50s. They were world-beaters. Sure, they lost that Series to the Cardinals, but everyone figured they’d have lots more chances. Pennants aplenty. Not to be. Teddy Ballgame never saw the postseason again, and he played into the ’60s. Do you think this Sox team can repeat this performance next year? Well, I mean, repeat this performance PLUS, as Grady Little said after the game, “one more win?” One more win… five more outs… three-run lead. Everybody ready in the pen.

God, this hurts. It hurts so much. But you can’t let on, can you? If you do then you look like a fool, since it’s happened so often before. So what do you say when your 11-year-old daughter asks you, “Did you almost cry, Daddy?” Do you tell the truth, and say, “No, honey, last night I didn’t cry at all. Not even ‘almost.’ But this morning, I cried and cried in the shower.” Or do you just nod your head, or shake your head? There’s no easy way out. Admit it hurts, and everyone will say you’re a grown man investing too much in a game on television. Deny it, and you’re a liar, and everyone will know that, too. But it DOES hurt. It hurts like Hell on Earth. But only you and I really understand that, am I right? You and I are getting to that stage in life where we’re beginning to really wonder if it’ll happen before our time is up. Our Dads never saw a Sox championship. Will we?

Did you sleep last night? Yeah, I know. Silly question. I tried to. I tried to be rational about it, to fall back on my “position.” Did you do this, too? Did you tell everybody how you realized the Sox would probably lose? How you gave them a two-in-five chance at the start of the Series? I realize now I tried to chicken out a bit there. I was mouthing those words, but I didn’t believe them. Not for a second. I just knew that this setup – Sox vs. Yanks for all the marbles (American League marbles, anyway) – was too perfect. The Sox were DESTINED to win, because they were better than ever, and it’s GOT to happen sooner or later. So, when it was all over, when that fool Tim McCarver had his last words, and when NESN signed off with Bob Rodgers and Dennis Eckersley and Jerry Remy, I tried to set it aside and get some sleep. No chance.

You too, huh? Well, it helps to know you’re out there. It helps to know I’m not alone. A little bit.

Cowboy Up.

Doug Butler is a resident of Newport.