Musing: We Had 'Em All The Way

By Dick Flavin

Boston Red Sox Poet Laureate

and New York Times Best Selling Author

We Had ‘Em All the Way

Listen, my children, I’ll tell you the reason

The Red Sox won all those ballgames this season.

They fulfilled our dreams, they answered our prayers

Because they have got some pretty good players.

They’ve got J.D.Martinez, plus Mookie Betts,

Bogaerts and Benny, as good as it gets.

Chris Sale is pitching every fifth night.

Porcello is mellow, Eovaldi’s all right.

Jackie will catch everything hit his way,

The bullpen will save the game and the day.

Brock Holt’s the best substitute in the land.

Our own Alex Cora is leading the band.

If they continue to prove they’re the best,

The playoffs could be an Octoberfest.

And when that World Series flag is unfurled,

It will say, “Boston Red Sox, the Champs of the World!”

I plead guilty.

I did it, I take full responsibility for my actions, and I’m sorry. Really sorry.

My sin is that I temporarily lost my faith in the 2018 Boston Red Sox. After the first two

games of the ALDS series against the New York Yankees the two teams were even at one

win apiece, but to me it felt like the Sox were down two games to none. After getting off

to a hot start in the first game they barely hung on to win against their hard-charging

nemeses. We all held our breaths as the bullpen staggered through the final innings. It

didn’t feel at all like a victory. Not even a little bit. In the second game the Yankees

quickly disposed of David Price, our two hundred seventeen million dollar man, and won

in a walk. We were headed to New York all tied up, but I was in the depths of despair.

We were going into the belly of the beast, Yankee Stadium.

Everyone has his or her faith shaken at times, but to deny that faith is another matter.

That, I’m afraid, is what I did. In my heart of hearts I conceded the series. I had lost all

hope.

Confession is cleansing for the soul, and mine needs a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

I confess that I prepared a column on what I fully expected to be an ignominious defeat at

the hands of the Evil Empire. I looked up Bart Giamatti’s famous quote – you know, the

one about baseball breaking our hearts? that one - and I wrote the essentials of a

majestically funereal piece on the end of the Red Sox season. The only thing it lacked

was the rueful details of the final loss, which I would fill in as they unfolded.

Then, in the fourth inning of Game Three, my faith was miraculously restored. A 10 to 0

lead will do that; it has divine spiritual powers. I was back in my pew (or was it my

couch?) in the Church of the Holy Pastime. I said a prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Abner

Doubleday, the patron saint of all things baseball. I continued praying as the born-again

Red Sox increased their lead to 16 to 1 and as the immortal Nate Eovaldi and the much

maligned bullpen dispatched the mighty Yankees with the authority of a firing squad.

I continued my prayerful posture as Game Four unfolded and the Sox jumped into an

early lead. Rick Porcello was every bit the sharpshooter that Eovaldi had been. I

increased the fervency of my prayers to Saint Abner when the bullpen took over for the

final four innings with the good guys ahead, 4 to 1. I even promised the good saint that I

would never think another negative thought about the Red Sox for as long as I lived if

only he would only guide us through the next few innings. Matt Barnes threw a perfect

sixth inning, and Ryan Brasier did the same in the seventh. Then Chris Sale, known to the

faithful as Christopher the Great, came on in the eighth and mowed them down in order.

We came down to the last of the ninth. The closer, Craig Kimbrel, was warmed up in the

bullpen. We had a 4 to 1 lead. What could possibly go wrong?

I decided to wriggle out of my vow never to think another negative thought about the Red

Sox. You never know when one might come in handy; you know what I’m saying? I sent

a message to Saint Abner, “Take the rest of the night off. I’ll take over from here.”

Kimbrel came into the game, yanking many of his pitches to the left. He promptly walked

Aaron Judge, and Didi Gregorius hit a sharp single to right. Then Giancarlo Stanton, he

with the contract even heftier than that of David Price, struck out and looked awful doing

so. One down. But Kimbrel was quickly back on his game; he walked Luke Voit on four

pitches, loading the bases. I looked arround desperately for help, but Saint Abner, like

Elvis, had left the building. Then Kimbrel yanked another one, hitting Neil Walker on the

foot and forcing in a run. Red Sox 4, Yankees 2, bases still loaded. I began gasping for

breath. Then Sanchez hit a long fly to left which was caught by Benintendi, but

Digregorius scored easily from third. Two away, but it was now 4 to 3. Only my

laundryman knew how nervous I was. Torres then topped a soft grounder to the left of the

mound, Eduardo Nunez raced in from third, scooped it up and threw off balance to first,

wide of the bag. But Steve Pearce somehow kept his foot in contact and grabbed it a

millisecond before Torres’ foot reached the base.

It was over! We’d done it! Had ‘em all the way! Bedlam in the Church of the Holy

Pastime! We live to fight another day! And I have no intention of keeping my promise to

Saint Abner.

See you in church.By Dick Flavin

Boston Red Sox Poet Laureate

and New York Times Best Selling Author

We Had ‘Em All the Way

Listen, my children, I’ll tell you the reason

The Red Sox won all those ballgames this season.

They fulfilled our dreams, they answered our prayers

Because they have got some pretty good players.

They’ve got J.D.Martinez, plus Mookie Betts,

Bogaerts and Benny, as good as it gets.

Chris Sale is pitching every fifth night.

Porcello is mellow, Eovaldi’s all right.

Jackie will catch everything hit his way,

The bullpen will save the game and the day.

Brock Holt’s the best substitute in the land.

Our own Alex Cora is leading the band.

If they continue to prove they’re the best,

The playoffs could be an Octoberfest.

And when that World Series flag is unfurled,

It will say, “Boston Red Sox, the Champs of the World!”

I plead guilty.

I did it, I take full responsibility for my actions, and I’m sorry. Really sorry.

My sin is that I temporarily lost my faith in the 2018 Boston Red Sox. After the first two

games of the ALDS series against the New York Yankees the two teams were even at one

win apiece, but to me it felt like the Sox were down two games to none. After getting off

to a hot start in the first game they barely hung on to win against their hard-charging

nemeses. We all held our breaths as the bullpen staggered through the final innings. It

didn’t feel at all like a victory. Not even a little bit. In the second game the Yankees

quickly disposed of David Price, our two hundred seventeen million dollar man, and won

in a walk. We were headed to New York all tied up, but I was in the depths of despair.

We were going into the belly of the beast, Yankee Stadium.

Everyone has his or her faith shaken at times, but to deny that faith is another matter.

That, I’m afraid, is what I did. In my heart of hearts I conceded the series. I had lost all

hope.

Confession is cleansing for the soul, and mine needs a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

I confess that I prepared a column on what I fully expected to be an ignominious defeat at

the hands of the Evil Empire. I looked up Bart Giamatti’s famous quote – you know, the

one about baseball breaking our hearts? that one - and I wrote the essentials of a

majestically funereal piece on the end of the Red Sox season. The only thing it lacked

was the rueful details of the final loss, which I would fill in as they unfolded.

Then, in the fourth inning of Game Three, my faith was miraculously restored. A 10 to 0

lead will do that; it has divine spiritual powers. I was back in my pew (or was it my

couch?) in the Church of the Holy Pastime. I said a prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Abner

Doubleday, the patron saint of all things baseball. I continued praying as the born-again

Red Sox increased their lead to 16 to 1 and as the immortal Nate Eovaldi and the much

maligned bullpen dispatched the mighty Yankees with the authority of a firing squad.

I continued my prayerful posture as Game Four unfolded and the Sox jumped into an

early lead. Rick Porcello was every bit the sharpshooter that Eovaldi had been. I

increased the fervency of my prayers to Saint Abner when the bullpen took over for the

final four innings with the good guys ahead, 4 to 1. I even promised the good saint that I

would never think another negative thought about the Red Sox for as long as I lived if

only he would only guide us through the next few innings. Matt Barnes threw a perfect

sixth inning, and Ryan Brasier did the same in the seventh. Then Chris Sale, known to the

faithful as Christopher the Great, came on in the eighth and mowed them down in order.

We came down to the last of the ninth. The closer, Craig Kimbrel, was warmed up in the

bullpen. We had a 4 to 1 lead. What could possibly go wrong?

I decided to wriggle out of my vow never to think another negative thought about the Red

Sox. You never know when one might come in handy; you know what I’m saying? I sent

a message to Saint Abner, “Take the rest of the night off. I’ll take over from here.”

Kimbrel came into the game, yanking many of his pitches to the left. He promptly walked

Aaron Judge, and Didi Gregorius hit a sharp single to right. Then Giancarlo Stanton, he

with the contract even heftier than that of David Price, struck out and looked awful doing

so. One down. But Kimbrel was quickly back on his game; he walked Luke Voit on four

pitches, loading the bases. I looked arround desperately for help, but Saint Abner, like

Elvis, had left the building. Then Kimbrel yanked another one, hitting Neil Walker on the

foot and forcing in a run. Red Sox 4, Yankees 2, bases still loaded. I began gasping for

breath. Then Sanchez hit a long fly to left which was caught by Benintendi, but

Digregorius scored easily from third. Two away, but it was now 4 to 3. Only my

laundryman knew how nervous I was. Torres then topped a soft grounder to the left of the

mound, Eduardo Nunez raced in from third, scooped it up and threw off balance to first,

wide of the bag. But Steve Pearce somehow kept his foot in contact and grabbed it a

millisecond before Torres’ foot reached the base.

It was over! We’d done it! Had ‘em all the way! Bedlam in the Church of the Holy

Pastime! We live to fight another day! And I have no intention of keeping my promise to

Saint Abner.

See you in church.