Watching the Yankees-Red Sox game this week brought back some particularly fond memories for me, because I remember what it was like back then: those two teams were like Athens and Sparta, in the words of the great Peter Gammons, and every game they played seemed to affect the dynamics of the entire sport.
And every moment seemed rife with the potential for fireworks — and more.
And it wasn’t just the players, it wasn’t just the fans. Here’s the story. I’m not particularly proud of this story. But it happened. I have to accept this story. And now, all these years later, I have to say, I think this is an accurate reflection of the situation at the time.
October 12, 2003. The day before, we had covered one of the truly epic clashes between the Yankees and Red Sox, in which Pedro Martinez nearly hit Karim Garcia in the head, Roger Clemens fired a ball at Manny Ramirez’s head in “retaliation” that never quite reached his head, or so Ramirez thought, and the whole thing culminated in a famous showdown between Pedro and Don Zimmer.
It was a surreal day, a culmination of more than 80 years of bitter feelings. Those of us who cover these things love to report on every detail and couldn’t wait to see what Game 4 would bring.
But it started raining in the morning. Heavy, torrential rain. All morning. By the afternoon. A few of us got in a taxi to head to Fenway Park, and just as we got there it started raining heavily. We got to the press box gate, and it was closed. We thought the security guards would have mercy on our souls.
“We open at 3,” they said. Someone had a watch. It was 2:57. I begged them to please think logically, because I was drowning in the pouring rain.
“Three o’clock,” he repeated.
Then, right behind him, we saw a strange sight. There was Dan Shaughnessy. There was Bob Ryan. There was Tony Massarotti. The Boston reporters were certainly comfortable and dry. We pointed this out, but were ignored. We continued to get soaked and were finally allowed in at exactly three o’clock.
As I mentioned, we were soaked and we all rushed inside. We were all in the same bad mood, so another security guard (who actually had been with BPD for 30 years) decided to “play dumb.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You can still get your free meal upstairs.”
And one of us (guilty) didn’t think it was all that funny and was sick of feeling like a soaked platypus: I might have just proposed an anatomically impossible challenge.
The security guard didn’t like it. He replied the same. Joel Sherman, cool with himself, stepped in. It was an ugly sight. I felt bad for a moment, but that was it. Soon we were in the press box wiping the drops off.
Then an American League official approached me.
“Follow me,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You’ve been kicked out of the stadium,” she said.
“What have I been doing?”
“I heard he assaulted a security guard.”
Verbal, yes, and the Chaminade brothers would have locked me up for two months for what I said, but assault?
“come with me.”
What could I do? I packed my bags and headed for the elevator. This was during the fierce Post-Daily News feud, and the Daily News sent a reporter along to cover the story. I left Fenway, walked to Boston Beerworks (in the rain again), sat down at a table, and started watching the Giants-Patriots football game (there was a room full of Patriots fans, celebrating Patriots 17-Giants 6).
And then I started to worry: How would I explain to my boss that I couldn’t cover the game? Would I end up looking for a job in mixology by Monday?
Then my flip phone rang. It was Greg Gallo, sports editor at The Washington Post. I braced myself for bad news.
“This is wonderful!” he said in greeting.
“Really?”
“Right now I see on the back it says, ‘Our man banned in Boston!’ I can write a column from a bar! Awesome!”
(Unbeknownst to Mr. Gallo, he and I had just invented the remote workplace, a concept 16 years ahead of its time.)
I’m not sure he would have been any happier if I’d told him my prediction to win Race 6 for Aqueduct. So I grabbed my laptop from my bag, ready to take center stage on the back pages of the paper. That’s when my phone rang again. It was Joel.
“Two things. First, the game has been canceled. Second, the American League has looked into it and said that if you and the security can work it out, you can go back to work.”
We did. I apologized (and will apologize again if he’s reading this). He kind of apologized. Life went on. The Yankees-Red Sox rivalry survived. Thankfully, so did my career. Ahh, I miss those days.
Vac’s Smash
Ed Kranepool was not only a great baseball player for 18 years with the Mets, but he was also a rare athlete who understood that most fans only meet their favorite players once or twice in their lives, and was determined to make each of those encounters something that fans would remember with a smile for the rest of their lives. He was a great baseball player and a great person. I wish him the best of luck.
My only problem with Max’s Alex Gibney’s two-part documentary on “The Sopranos” is that I wish it had been eight parts.
It’s baseball. Francisco Lindor’s home run on Wednesday was the most inspiring moment I’ve seen in years among the Mets fans I know. And Aaron Judge’s grandma’s home run on Friday night had the exact same effect on my Yankees-fan friends. It’s baseball.
I second Muschnick’s suggestion from last week: If you’re a Giants fan, you should definitely check out “The Pope of the NFL: The Story of Andy Robustelli and the Family Who Loved Him,” edited by Peter Golenbock. It’s well worth the read.
Fighting back against Vac
Vito Pesce: Tua Tagovailoa is a tragedy waiting to happen. This issue needs to be resolved. Hopefully Tua is wise enough to call it a day.
Vac: Tua’s shocking collision with Damar Hamlin may be the most poignant PSA ever.
Scott Wolinetz: Bill Belichick becoming a football commentator is like Nurse Ratched becoming a cheerleader.
Vac: Well, if she was rooting for 17 different teams and schools at the same time.
@LaurenComiteau: Dear @Giants, I was gifted tickets to the Munich game with my daughter. After the opening game, not only do I not want to go, I don’t think you should either. Jet lag is not an option. And many other things.
@MikeVacc: The German translation of “disaster” is “katastrophe”, which is interesting.
JR Roberts: In 1977, the Yankees sneaked in Jazz Chisholm for Mickey Rivers. Mickey’s on the racetrack. Shhhh…
Vac: I don’t know if I 100% believe that comparison, but I’m all for anything that gets people talking about Mick the Quick again.