Harry Potter and Voldemort.
Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.
Snoopy and The Red Baron.
Jean Val-Jean and Javert.
The Redskins and the Cowboys.
Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham.
The Red Sox and the Yankees.
These are just a few prominent examples of arch-enemies and antagonistic relationships without which life would be, well, boring. I mean, imagine Harry Potter without He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Or the white-robed Luke Skywalker without the Master of the Dark Side. Or the Red Sox without the Yankees.
Without the one, the other simply is not as exciting or compelling. Without the one, there is no real story, no conflict that keeps us us interested, that commands our attention, that forces us to choose sides.
Which is why, now that the Yankees have been unceremoniously dropped from their annual pursuit of a World Series crown, I feel somehow that the excitement has gone out of the baseball playoffs.
Without the Yankees, I don't have a true antagonist at which I can direct my ire. Of course I'm still pulling for the Sox, but a defeat over the Indians just won't bring the same joy, the same sense of triumph, that would a victory over the Yankees.
I believe humans need antagonists to experience our full range of emotions. We need antagonists to grapple with and try to solve vexing challenges. We need antagonists to grow, emotionally and psychologically. Antagonists not only add spice to our lives, they also help us to reach our full potential as individuals.
Showing posts with label Red Sox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Red Sox. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Help Me! I've Caught Red Sox Fever!
Dear Mom,
Since I left Washington, DC for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I have had this strange, tingling feeling. It starts in March, as the brutal and gray winter recedes, and the news reports reach us from a faraway place called Florida, where (we're told) the grass is green and Spring training is about to begin.
The tingling feeling intensifies as news organizations across the Commonwealth provide excruciatingly detailed reports about pitchers pitching, catchers catching, and prospects, well, prospecting. Strange names blare from the TV and radio: Big Papi, Papelbon, Manny, Youk, cereal ads for Coco Crisp?!... I think I am hallucinating.
March gives way inexorably to April, and the tingling climaxes on a hallowed mark in the Commonwealth's calendar called "Opening Day." While the remaining snow clings stubbornly to the sidewalk and the nascent buds hide on the trees, awaiting the inevitable April freeze, Fenway's pristine infield and immaculately raked dirt beckon; sirens drawing sailors to their doom. Play ball! they say, and my fever becomes a constant companion over the ensuing months.
April, May, June, July and August pass in a pennant-race induced haze; I grow familiar with the names and they become part of my daily ritual, background noise and visuals to the mundanities of daily life. The All-Star break arrives: If we are in first my fever subsides for a few days, only to return with the games--for as long-suffering Sox fans have told me, we always collapse after the All-Star break.
August eases lazily into September; people return from The Cape and the yellow buses once again parade the streets. Summer clothes reluctantly return to the basement; fall and winter clothes take their place. I see my breath sometimes during my morning runs, and there's a foreboding chill in the air. Days grow shorter and the lights brighten Fenway's still-green fields ever earlier.
Our lead dwindles and my fever heightens. The virus from the South--the dreaded Yankees--inch closer, and my anxiety spikes. Finally we win the division, narrowly avoiding snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, and enter the playoffs.
Beckett throws a shutout and for one glorious October night, my fever is gone. I sleep and dream of one, two, three, ten more victories until I finally rid myself of the fever... Until next March, when I know it will return.
I miss DC and the odd sense of security that comes with pulling for a perennial cellar-dweller. I happily trade that for pulling for a winner, yet as I have discovered The Cause comes with The Curse and other peculiar insecurities.
I have become what I have long mocked: A Red Sox fan, and to my surprise, the name seems to fit.
Since I left Washington, DC for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I have had this strange, tingling feeling. It starts in March, as the brutal and gray winter recedes, and the news reports reach us from a faraway place called Florida, where (we're told) the grass is green and Spring training is about to begin.
The tingling feeling intensifies as news organizations across the Commonwealth provide excruciatingly detailed reports about pitchers pitching, catchers catching, and prospects, well, prospecting. Strange names blare from the TV and radio: Big Papi, Papelbon, Manny, Youk, cereal ads for Coco Crisp?!... I think I am hallucinating.
March gives way inexorably to April, and the tingling climaxes on a hallowed mark in the Commonwealth's calendar called "Opening Day." While the remaining snow clings stubbornly to the sidewalk and the nascent buds hide on the trees, awaiting the inevitable April freeze, Fenway's pristine infield and immaculately raked dirt beckon; sirens drawing sailors to their doom. Play ball! they say, and my fever becomes a constant companion over the ensuing months.
April, May, June, July and August pass in a pennant-race induced haze; I grow familiar with the names and they become part of my daily ritual, background noise and visuals to the mundanities of daily life. The All-Star break arrives: If we are in first my fever subsides for a few days, only to return with the games--for as long-suffering Sox fans have told me, we always collapse after the All-Star break.
August eases lazily into September; people return from The Cape and the yellow buses once again parade the streets. Summer clothes reluctantly return to the basement; fall and winter clothes take their place. I see my breath sometimes during my morning runs, and there's a foreboding chill in the air. Days grow shorter and the lights brighten Fenway's still-green fields ever earlier.
Our lead dwindles and my fever heightens. The virus from the South--the dreaded Yankees--inch closer, and my anxiety spikes. Finally we win the division, narrowly avoiding snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, and enter the playoffs.
Beckett throws a shutout and for one glorious October night, my fever is gone. I sleep and dream of one, two, three, ten more victories until I finally rid myself of the fever... Until next March, when I know it will return.
I miss DC and the odd sense of security that comes with pulling for a perennial cellar-dweller. I happily trade that for pulling for a winner, yet as I have discovered The Cause comes with The Curse and other peculiar insecurities.
I have become what I have long mocked: A Red Sox fan, and to my surprise, the name seems to fit.
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