Seasonal depression

By Brian McGrory, Globe Columnist, 8/22/2003

Byung Hyun Kim had just blown what appeared to be an insurmountable lead against the Oakland A's Wednesday night when an otherwise ordinary looking man rose to his feet in the expensive seats along shallow left field.

"Every year!" he hollered, his voice -- more frustrated than angry -- filling the mournful silence like Taps at an untimely burial. He repeated himself, a little softer the second time, more resigned. "Every year."

You have to wonder if Kevin Millar might have heard him from his perch over at first base. If he did, you have to wonder if he grasped the depth and meaning of the words.

You see, it was Millar, a genuinely good guy on a team that seems to be full of them, who popped off before Wednesday's game that the Boston fans and news media were needlessly bashing the Sox during this August slump.

"I want to see somebody cowboy up and stand behind this team one time and quit worrying about all the negative stuff and talking about last year's team and 10 years ago and 1986," he said.

Interesting idea, and if I should ever move to Atlanta or Arizona, Denver or Detroit, I'll be sure to give it a try. Fortunately or unfortunately, I'm in Boston, so what he's proposing isn't much of an option.

Millar means well, but it's him, not us, who fails to understand. Kevin, the Red Sox are, as a used car dealer might say, "new to you," but to everybody else around here, they've been an integral part of life since the beginning of time.

We remember well the impossible joys of 1967, the pure poetry of Jim Lonborg's wind-up, the achievement of Carl Yastrzemski's triple crown. We remember as if it were yesterday the 1975 World Series, the greatest ever played.

We remember the unthinkable ending of 1978, the adoration and agony of 1986, Pedro striding in from the bullpen against Cleveland in 1999. We remember the great unraveling of August 2001, the renewed hope ushered in by the new ownership last year, the rocket ride that was the first half of this season.

And now this. August in Boston, a time of torment. Nomar, an extraordinary player, hasn't had an RBI since Charles Taylor was president of Liberia and John Kerry led every New Hampshire poll. There are surprise blisters, hanging curve balls, errors at the plate. The bullpen is a collection of poodles.

So, "cowboy up"? Kevin, there are men and women in their 80s and 90s who sit in their dreary rooms at Marian Manor in Southie or Elihu White in Braintree waiting all day for the game on TV. There are fathers who spend more money than they have to take their kids to Fenway. There are Little Leaguers who think Nomar's obsessive compulsion in the batter's box is chic.

All of them, every one, share a hope, and it's for another World Series in their lifetimes. They want to see the blimps high in the crisp autumn sky, gaze at the Prudential building glowing with the number 1, feel the heady sense of a destiny that has never before been ours. More than anything else, they want to share the commonality of victory.

They've spread hope and emotion in this team over their entire lives. They rue the bad, cherish the good, and always wait for their hearts to be broken, because it's all they've ever known. They want to learn that it doesn't have to be that way, a simple concept, really, even while it's not.

You're a wonderful ballplayer, Kevin, smart and full of heart, and you play on what has been an exciting team. Yet it doesn't seem to matter, because that guy in the box seats Wednesday night had it pretty much right. Every year.

While we appreciate the counsel, you'll forgive us for ignoring it. But here's some back at you. Don't tell us that we're wrong. Prove it. At that point, these will be the most adoring fans you will ever know.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.