Nation of one

1967, 1975, 1986 . . . 2001?

by Jerry Fraser

I have faced two addictions in my life: cigarettes and the Boston Red Sox.

Cigarettes I conquered, but there’s no beating the Red Sox.

My relationship with the Sox began in my youth, at a time when they were given absolutely no chance of playing in the post season. This was during the 1960s, and there were no league championship series or wild card berths into which pretenders might sneak. You won the pennant or came back next year to try again.

I was a freshman at Mount Hermon School, in Massachusetts, during the spring of the Impossible Dream year of 1967. The Sox had finished in last place the two previous years, and television was not part of the curriculum, so being a fan involved little more than keeping up with Carl Yastrzemski, once it became clear that Billy Rohr’s first major league start — in which he carried a no-hitter into the ninth inning — was an accident. My friend Steve from Littleton, New Hampshire, got a newspaper every morning and we’d check the box scores to see what Yaz had done.

In the fall, when I came back to school, I was no longer a freshman and Steve was no longer a classmate, but the Sox were in a pennant race. Yaz was closing in on the triple crown and Jim Lonborg was well on his way to a 22-9, Cy Young season.

Sophomores lived in remote but dingy Overton. It was old and austere. Lighting was from a film noir about drug addiction, the toilet stalls were without doors and the showers were creepy, but there was a television in the basement lounge.

On the final day of the season the usual contingent of glue sniffers was slouching about the Naugahyde when a couple dozen of us trooped in to watch baseball. The wastrels weren’t happy, but they knew what was good for them and skulked away. For good measure we kicked them like dogs as they wormed past us.

The Sox were tied with Minnesota and a half game ahead of Detroit. They hadn’t played a World Series game in our lifetimes, and now after two atrocious seasons were standing on the brink. What a time to be on the verge of puberty.

Among our number, it turned out, was a kid from Chicago who wanted to watch football. He walked over to the TV and changed the channel. He put his finger to his chest rat-tat-tat as he spoke. “Baseball is . . . jive,” he said. “Anybody touch that TV and they gonna have to kick” — he referred to himself by name — “in his ass.” About 15 guys, their feet already warmed up, immediately stood. The 16th walked over and put the Red Sox on.

The Sox came back from a 2-0 deficit to win. Later that afternoon Detroit lost to the Angels, and the Red Sox had a pennant. In October they took the St. Louis Cardinals to game 7, if in vain.

Sox fans will forever talk about the World Series game sixes: How the Sox won Game Six in 1975, or how Bill Buckner blew it in Game Six 11 years later. For my money, though, the 1967 World Series was baseball at its finest, whatever the outcome. Lonborg won two games and came back to pitch game seven on two days’ rest. Bob Gibson pitched three complete games for St. Louis, including game seven, winning all of them with an ERA of one.

Still, my memories of the game sixes are vivid. Back in 1975, people like me who lived on the Tatnic Road in Wells went to bed early, but we burned the midnight oil that night. No one who saw it will ever forget Carleton Fisk waving his 12th-inning shot fair, but what I remember is having been certain that Bernie Carbo was going to tie it up in the bottom of the eighth with a pinch hit (three-run) homer — his second of the series.

I think Fisk’s ball was still rolling around in the screen when I looked out the window and watched the lights wink out in Tatnic.

I broke my leg in 1986 and watched more Red Sox baseball than I ever had. I’d quit smoking cigarettes the year before, but I hadn’t quit thinking about them, so I bummed a butt from someone to celebrate the victory I was sure was at hand in Game Six.

I have never blamed Buckner for losing that game, and I never will. He should have been in the clubhouse with his teammates drinking the champagne that was already on ice. Even if he’d fielded Mookie Wilson’s grounder, instead of letting it limp under his glove, the damage had been done. Wilson should never have come to the plate. The Sox had a two-run lead and Calvin Schiraldi had Ray Knight down 0-2 with two outs. Knight wiggled off the hook and hit a broken-bat single, driving in a run and bringing the Mets within one. Then a passed ball from Bill Stanley, who was brought in to face Wilson, allowed Kevin Mitchell to score from third.

No, don’t blame Buckner. Blame me. I should never have lit the goddamn cigarette. But I’d seen too many Red Sox games, and so I sat there as the scoreboard flashed “Congratulations, Boston Red Sox, 1986 World Champions,” and let the moment get away from me.

You never saw Red Auerbach sit on his hands when victory was imminent. He fired up his stogie and made it official, and I’ve learned from that.

So if you see me at Brian Boru’s early this fall and I’m puffing away on a Kool, don’t worry about the standings.

It’ll be in the bag.

Jerry Fraser can be reached, as long as the Sox aren’t on, at cfraser@maine.rr.com.