Going to the game, I always told myself it didn’t matter if they won. I was just happy to be at a live ballgame. That worked until June 2nd, 2005.
On that day, I caught a rain check day game at the Fens. Baltimore was in town, and Keith Foulke (who was pitching like crap that year) blew a tie game in the top of the 9th.
The Sox were down 4-3 with Orioles closer BJ Ryan (who was pitching lights out that year) on the mound.
With 1 out, my jersey’s namesake, Mark Bellhorn walked.
With 2 outs, Renteria bunted for a hit.
That brought my cat’s namesake, David Ortiz to the plate.
With 2 outs and a full count, Big Papi blasted one into the right field bullpen.
Seeing a game live is fun, win or lose, I had told myself. That thought vanished forever from my mind as I watched the ball sail over the fences. I saw it in slow motion, saw the spin. I felt the wind whistle around the threads of the ball. I saw the right fielder give up on it, and I saw the crowd explode.
It was better than sex.
It was like sex with 35,000 people, all of us coming at once.
It was cool.