Thailand is about twenty-one hours away from the United States. Most Americans only have two weeks annual holiday and few of my friends or family traveled to the Orient, but in the summer of 2001 my dear cousin Bish was eager to visit the Last Babylon and I took the bus up to meet Bish. The Boston lawyer was wearing a suit and he was surprised to see me at Don Muang Airport. "You didn't have to come and meet me."
"You're right." I lived two hours south on the Bight of Siam with a skinny ex-go-go girl, who had worst girlfriend of 1999. "My mother told me to look after you."
"Your mother said that?" His voice choked with emotion. My mother had been gone over four years. It was typically hot for Thailand and Bish loosened his tie. Not another westerner was wearing one. I almost suggested his taking it off completely, except my cousin valued tidiness above comfort.
"It wasn't her dying wish, but she did tell me before she went into the hospital that last time." My youngest sister constantly accused me of fabricating family myths to amuse the dinner table. This one was true. A lot of the others weren't, but people laughed at the right parts. "Now give me that bag and let's hail a cab."
"No cabs for us. We're taking a limo." Bish hired a Mercedes. He was a big earner in Boston
As we sped on the tollway, he handed me The Boston Globe's sports section, "Sorry it's a day old."
"Don't matter, Bish." My late Uncle Dave had give him this nickname and I couldn't let the tradition die and read the headline of the Bosox win by the light of a purple dawn.
"I'm surprised after so many years away from Boston you're still a hometown fan."
"Always will be."
I scanned the American League standings. The Red Sox were classically trailing the Yankees by double-digits.
"Damn, they're going nowhere this year."
"So you care about them? The Babe Ruth Curse, Jim Lonborg's blister, Tony C's career-ending beanball, trading away Carlton Fisk, the ball between Bill Buckner's legs in Shea or Bucky Dent's unfathomable home run in 1978 should have broken your faith."
"I watched the 6th game of the 1975 Series with my brother and younger sister. She insisted that one of us stole her lucky seat. She gave up when the Sox were down late. After Bernie Carbo hit his home run, my brother ran upstairs and pulled her downstairs. She stayed in that green vinyl chair, until Fisk hit the game-winner. All they had to do was win one more game." Don Zimmer had insisted on playing Cecil Cooper even though he had batted 1 for 23 in the Series, instead of substituting Bernie Carbo. Just on principle.
"Like in 86 against the Mets." My cousin stated and I nodded in agreement.
Buckner should have been pulled for a defensive player." Another cousin lived near the retired first baseman. We thought about egging his house, but Buckner should have been pulled for a more defensive player and Bucky Dent had only hit two homers during the season."
"A wiser man would have walked away from the team."
This taunted optimism was a mortal curse for New England and I explained, "When my sister's father-in-law was buried, the rabbi surprised the mourners by saying, "Herb was a good man for his family, community, and country. The one hole in his life was the Red Sox. Let's pray before the end of the century, they can win a World Series and let Herb rest easy in peaces, so like Herb I guess I'm a sucker for the Sox."
"And that's why I brought you this.' My cousin reached into his travel bag and pulled out a Red Sox hat and t-shirt. He dropped both on my lap." "Pedro Martinez's on the mound and Manny Ramirez is slugging home runs. This might be the year."
"Possibly." I thanked Bish for his gifts and he leaned against the window to fall asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming either of a successful victorious October Series or his vacation in Pattaya, the Last Babylon.
Throughout the week we followed the exploits of the hometown team in the Bangkok Post, Herald Tribune, and USA Today. The Red Sox stubbornly struggled against mediocre team withNomar watching from the DL and Pedro Martinez's aching arm.
Sitting in a bar on Walking Street I expressed my concerns to my cousin, who said, "Believe me, this team isn't playing in October. Babe Ruth can go to Hell."
"Pedro said the other day, if Babe Ruth was playing, he'd stick a fastball in his ear."
"You're not talking about the Red Sox, are you?" A red-faced man in his fifties shouted with a North Shore accent. His crooked hand hands tremors around a glass of whiskey. "I was born in Lynn. I saw Pete Runnel, Tiant, Yaz, Dewey, Lynn, Rice, Clemens and no one believed more in the Red Sox than me. They'll never win the Big One. Never."
"What makes you say that?" As a teetotaler Bish had little patience with drunks.
"I heard a story one day that broke my heart for good."
My cousin's nod indicated he had heard enough, however I was still had a half a Chang Beer and the whiskey drinker said, "I usta tend bar in Boston. A strip club called the Two O'Clock Lounge."
"On Washington Street. I drove cab during college and finished my night hanging out in front of that go-go bar. Always hoping to drive a stripper home. They tipped nice."
"Here is Heaven, but the Combat Zone was paradise, but closed after some stupid state trooper got himself killed on LaGrange Street." His eyes drifted off us to a passing trio of bargirls.
I vaguely recalled the story and said, "I don't think any Red Sox involved."
"No, after that I worked at this bar on Newbury Street. Good money. Good crowd. Famous people. TV people and sports figures. One day Mickey Rivers walks in. Along with Willie Randolph, a total class player. To show no hard feelings about 1978 I sent him over a few drinks. He toasts me and we talk. Mostly bullshit, finally I say, "I can't understand how Bucky Dent hit a home run in that play-off game."
"Hey, Mike Torrez played for the Yankees and Bucky anticipated his pitch," Mickey said low enough for only me to hear. This was a Boston bar and I guess he wasn't interested in instigating a riot, I leaned forward and said, "Bucky had two home runs that year."
"You've been a nice guy, so I'll tell you a little secret." Mickey checked the nearest table to insure no one else was listening. "The TV shows the home run and Yaz's popping up in the replays. Nothing else, but if you see the full game, Bucky breaks his bat. You're asking yourself, "So he breaks his bat?" When he goes to the dugout for another bat, I hand him mine."
"And?" I asked him and Mickey answered with a sly smile, "Well, my bat was corked."
"Needless to say I was shocked and Mickey Rivers walked out of the bar before I could ask him another question." The whiskey drinker drained his glass and feebly waved for another round.
I had watched that game in the Edison Hotel on Broadway and easily recollected that awful sinking feeling, as Bucky's homer soared into the left field screen.
"Perhaps Mickey was kidding."
"Nope, I'm from Lynn. We know truth when we hear it, especially bad news.."
Bish, a lawyer by profession, cross-examined the drunken North Shorite, "You see a tape of the game?"
"Nope, what"s the point? Mickey wouldn't have lied and I don't care about the Sox."
"One year we will beat the Curse.
"Dream on."
"Fuck Arrowsmith."
"Fuck Johnathan Richman."
He threw a pile of 100-baht bills on the bar and stumbled into a go-go bar. My cousin asked, "You believe him?"
A member of the Baltimore Colts had told me that a gambler had compromised a very important offensive player during Super Bowl III, except Bish looked in need of illusion, so I said, "This town is full of bullshitters."
"Would we be better people if they had won?"
A sweetness the taste of molasses seeped through my veins.
"It wouldn't have changed anything."
"Okay, enough with the what ifs." Bish raised his hands in surrender. "Being losers has made us the men we are today. You ready to give up on Red Sox?"
Nevah."
"Then I guess we're doomed and I couldn't think of being doomed in a better place than Pattaya."
The Bishop paid for our drinks and led me to young people had a good time.
I felt better for telling him the lie, for the truth won't stop Bucky Dent's homer or the baseball bouncing through Bill Buckner's legs. We should have won those games and in the mind of a Red Sox fan this knowledge had no small value, at least until the curse is over in the hopefully near future and the Red Sox Nation was too stubborn to die before that date.
