As some of you may already know, I have been a Boston Red Sox ever since Mike Greenwell's 1987 Donruss player-card was on top of my first baseball card-deck.
I revised the history of my Red Sox fandom later on in life when I told people that I was originally a New York Mets fan (truth) and while watching my first World Series (1986, still fuzzy about the accuracy, I probably did watch it, but the first WS that I remember was the Dodgers/A's in 1988) I felt so much sympathy for the Red Sox after Bill Buckner's Game 6 blunder that I decided to abandon my Tri-State area roots and become a tortured member of the Red Sox Nation.
Looking back, even though I always found myself exceptional, that was a lot of heavy decision-making for a 7-year-old kid.
But I was always on the outside-looking-in. Being different just suited my contrarian personality.
Now, you can say: Hey, Anthony, why didn't you root for the Yankees? Italian-American. New Jersey. How can you call yourself a true Italian if you didn't like DiMaggio and the pinstripes? Your name is Anthony for Christ's sake?!?
I have an answer for that. My parents were fairweather Yankees fans. They followed the Yankees precisely because they were Italian and from Northern New Jersey. Back then, that was it. It was an insult to the family if you didn't like the Yankees. I can just picture my Mom arriving @ Ellis Island in 1961 and getting a Yankees hat as a concilation prize for entering the good ole' US-of-A.
That always rubbed me the wrong way. Why must I be pigeon-holed to be a Yankees fan solely because of my place-of-birth and my familial heritage? Why didn't I have a choice?
Also, my Dad was never a die-hard baseball fan. In fact, he never really cared about sports at all. His favorite sport was Work. More often than not, a Son becomes a fan of a particular team because his Dad is devoted to watching a team through their ups-and-downs.
So, since I loved the sport of Baseball first, I decided upon myself to choose my favorite team. It was perfect-storm of random scenarios: a) Mike Greenwell's baseball-card; b) Red Sox loosing to the Mets in the 1986 WS; c) Reading my first Baseball Encyclopedia and learning that the Red Sox hadn't won a World Series since 1918 after they traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees; and d) Not wanting my bloodline to determine my fandom.
That being said, I was a Red Sox fan because of Mike Greenwell, a Raiders fan because of Tim Brown, a Spurs fan because of David Robinson, and a Blackhawks fan because of Jeremy Roenick.
After finally returning to Northern New Jersey for good in 2004, I started to shed those teams in favor of Local teams. First, it was supplanting the Raiders for the Jets. That was easy, I hated Al Davis and their management and team attitude never sit well with me. The Spurs and Blackhawks quickly turned into the Nets and Devils (considering I was never a BIG basketball or hockey fan anyway, that decision was instantaneous).
But I always told myself that the Red Sox were here to stay, afterall, my final screenplay in college was an epic 212-page Ted Williams biopic!
Then, 2004 happened and the Red Sox won the World Series. I still remember the moment when Keith Foulke tossed that baseball to Doug Mientkiewicz as if it that ball carried the weight of the world. I was elated. I hugged my brother (he too a Sox fan), we woke up his 8-year-old son Marshall, and we ran around the house like we just won World War II.
I called my friend Matt and he told me he had to call me back because he was talking to his Dad. I called my friend Bob and he told me he had to call me back because he was talking to his Dad.
Finally, Matt called me back and I could hear it in his voice. He was on another planet. He couldn't believe it. He thought it was a dream. And he kept on telling me how happy he was that he could share that experience with his Dad.
Something clicked in me during that conversation. Here was the moment I had always been waiting for. The Red Sox FINALLY won the World Series. The Curse of the Bambino was shattered and I didn't feel a darn thing. Sure, I was ecstatic that they finally won but I was never emotionally moved to tears.
Having lived a life of being a sports-outsider, I didn't feel the full-magnitude of the moment like my friends Matt and Bob did.
It didn't change my life.
When the Red Sox won yet-again in 2007 over the Rockies, I actually didn't care. I had already moved on.
Fast-forward to NOW.
My son Luke is 3-years-old and he LOVES baseball. Not only that, but he has a classic inside-out swing and he has tremendous opposite-field power. He is entering that tender-age when understanding baseball coincides perfectly with playing in the backyard with his Old Man, me!
Now, you can say: Hey Anthony, he can still be a Red Sox fan, just fork over some money you cheap-skate and buy the MLB Package? Hah. Easier said than done. Btw, have you met my wife Rebecca? Her former-lives include: Grand Inquistor Tomas de Torquemada, Cardinal Richelieu, Nero, & Bloody Mary. (If you're reading this honey, I love you and yes, I will do my own laundry next week).
Back to my son Luke. I decided it was the right time to introduce the young-lad to America's past-time. I was teaching him how to hold his bat, how to turn his hips, and to always, always keep your eye-on-the-ball. Well, the kid is 3-years old and he did whatever he wanted to do and swung the bat and hit my in the shins.
I turned on the TV and flipped to SNY and lo-and-behold, the Mets were on. Luke had this winkless stare for a few minutes while John Maine sputtered a 86-mph fuzzball way-outside to Rod Barajas. I told him I was going to change the channel and he told me, "No wait!" He watched another pitch, he saw the batter swing, and he was ready to play. After a week of nightly practice, the kid is already the second-coming of Kevin McReynolds (C'mon, I'm realistic, I'm not going to say he's the next Pujols, I'm pretty sure the kid is going to top-out @ 5'11''/a-buck-85, if he's lucky).
And guess what? He wants to watch the Mets when they are on. He wants to play baseball while the game is on. In fact, after the game last Saturday, we went into the backyard and played and the kid smoked a ball on top of the roof!
For any of you fathers out there in my position, let me give you a little bit of advice. 3-year-olds whine, and scream, and cry, and kick over the smallest, least important things in the world. You throw a ball that is outside the strike-zone and the kid falls to the ground and has a tantrum that pierces your eardrums. Best solution? Cue-up Tom Hanks's "There is No Crying in Baseball" scene on youtube and show it to your son at least 10-straight times.
Believe me, it works. Luke has stopped throwing tantrums, the bat, his glove, and any other projectiles if he fails to make contact.
Proof-in-point: After Luke smashed a comebacker toward me and it skipped past my glove, I sighed incredulously. Luke snapped, "Daddy!"
"Yes, Luke."
"There is no crying in baseball."
Cut-to: An ear-to-ear smile of a proud father.
Seque to: Ike Davis. Who is Ike Davis, you say? Well, Ike Davis is the rookie first-baseman for the New York Mets. What does Ike Davis have anything to do with your son liking the Mets?
He's his favorite player. Go ahead, ask him? "Luke, who is your favorite player."
"Ike Davis. There is no crying..."
"...in baseball, I know, I got it. Why do you like Ike Davis?"
"Hmm...Ike Davis."
That settles it.
My wonderful wife (the one with the infamous former-lives) asked me why it was so important for Luke to like a National League team and not an American League team?
"Purity."
"Purity. That's your BIG answer?"
"Yes."
I have always preferred to watch National League games. I like a pitcher who hits, I like the strategy of a double-switch, I like sacrifice bunts and situational hitting.
Abner Doubleday created baseball with a pitcher who hits. The advent of the Designated-Hitter in the American League in 1973 stripped the game of its purity. Also, look at every other major sport in America (Football, Basketball, and yes, let's include Hockey for the sake of argument)and count how many conferences have radically different rules in their respected leagues. Short answer, none. They are the same game. Baseball, however, decided to institute the DH-rule after a decade (the 60s) of microscopic ERAs, low home-runs totals (the chicks and ticket-buying fans, the lifeblood of baseball, dig the long ball) and the Second Dead Ball Era was a thing of the past.
I want my son to know the rules of the original game, not the bastardized designated hitter position, that in my opinion, fueled the rise of performance-enhancing-drugs in the Canseco-80s.
Finally, the last, but-not-least, reason why I will raise my son to be a Mets fan: Geography.
I plan on taking my son to his first baseball game this Summer and going to CitiField is ten-times more likely than packing-up-the-fam and shooting up I95 to Fenway Park.
While we're on Geography. It was tough to grow up as a Red Sox fan in this area. I got hounded all the time, especially when the damn Yankees started winning World Series in High School and College.
But most importantly, I want my son to be a Mets fan so he and I can have a shared-experience with a baseball team.
I hate to get all sappy at the end, but you know that closing scene of "Field of Dreams" when Kevin Costner plays catch with his Dad? Yeah, that one. That always affected me more than my other friends growing up because, although I did have a Dad, he never had the time to play catch. He would come home at night and be totally gassed from working his tail-off all day at work, and some nights, after he would inhale his dinner in four-bites, the man would kiss my Mom and go back to work to finish what he started.
I want to make the time to play catch with my son. I want him to learn how to play fundamental baseball from a local team. I want to him to call me one day in the future and share that moment when the Mets winning their first World Series since 1986.
And when Luke Jackson La Pira gets drafted in 2025 by a lucky baseball team, you can say that you heard it here first.
Oh yeah, if by chance he gets drafted by the New York Yankees instead of the Mets, well...
...I am Italian-American and I did grow up in Northern New Jersey!
