Brotherhood is undoubtedly a special kinship. And I'm not just talking about the "Cowboy Up" camaraderie of the 2003 Red Sox, either. The common background that brothers share facilitates a greater understanding of each other and encourages a stronger sense of comfort in being able to relate to one's joys and sorrows.
My brother and I have co-existed on this earth for 21 years, for better or worse, and nothing has brought us closer than the tumults of the Boston Red Sox. The location of our hometown just 40 minutes from Boston and the inherent likeability of the perennial underdog are more than ample reason to have latched onto them so fervently.
Like birds flying south for winter, the brother and I experience a similar instinctual calling each year to flock to our beloved BoSox. That call was stronger than ever this year, in light of our attendance at "The Worst Thing Ever," otherwise known as game seven of the ALCS, last fall. Just as we were present to witness last year's demise, we felt compelled to be at Camden Yards Sunday night to usher in this new season.
Having acquired tickets through quasi-legitimate means, we donned our "Grady Little Sucks" T-shirts and made our pilgrimage to Baltimore. There was a strong baseball atmosphere in the air to welcome our national pastime back into our hearts. There incidentally was also a gusting, 30-mph wind in the air to lower the wind chill to the 20s. It did not matter, however, as the brother and I are were still numb to physical sensations in the aftermath of the "Worst Thing Ever."
As we traversed the Baltimore crowd with our shirts that revealed the true qualities of Grady Little, it was another in a series of bonding moments. Those shirts received an astounding response rate, leaving literally hundreds of baseball fans either laughing or crying in our wake. It rings home because it's true.
The game was a debacle (and really cold), and Pedro's pitching and post-outing performance, in which he left the ballpark before the game's conclusion, were disheartening.
This was another bonding moment in a series of fluctuating feelings of ecstasy and hardship induced by the Sox. The brother and I share such things on a daily basis: the phone messages consisting entirely of drawn-out chants of "Nomah!!!!", the spring rite of dispensing nicknames to the new supporting cast of Sox, the recollection of anecdotes of obscure Sox of yore and the postgame discussion of nearly every contest on the 162-game schedule (and our ability to manipulate every loss so it reverberates like an especially painful one).
There is also the annual winter/spring/summer/fall ritual, in which we scour daily every Boston newspaper for any tidbit of information about the proceedings of the Red Sox in the free agent market/spring training/regular season/playoffs. We take the opportunity to scrutinize every morsel of information, twisting its meaning in an effort to explain why this might be/might be/might be/wasn't the year. It's a yearlong process, people.
Sadly, however, after Aaron "Bleeping" Boone touched home plate in the "Worst Thing Ever" last fall, the brother and I have become more and more convinced that last year was the year. That leaves us in a precarious situation on the dawn of this new baseball season. On paper, the Old Towne Team is improved from last year. Unfortunately, Nomar Garciaparra's ailing Achilles tendon, Trot Nixon's herniated disk, Keith Foulke's spring training ERA of 15.00 and Pedro Martinez's consistently sub-90 mph fastball are all too real. Their achievements from last year are now but mere paper records. Of course we're still enthusiastic, but we worry greatly about our Sox.
Certainly there is great appeal solely in our adoration of the Red Sox, even if it is a strained team-fan relationship at times. But I also realize that a lot of the magic stems from the brotherhood among all citizens of the Red Sox nation. It's all about a mutual ability to relate, and that's what I cherish most about my brother.
Of course, he and I would be kidding ourselves if we didn't say that we'd trade each other without hesitation for just one World Series title.
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