After the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, I knew I had to go to Boston University for my higher education. Coming from Anaheim, Calif., my relationship with Major League Baseball consisted of going to Angel Stadium for Bar Mitzvahs and Aerosmith concerts. Even though they could be seen from my bedroom window, I rarely saw the fireworks that went off when any of the players hit a home run. And sure, it’s awesome that starting pitcher Kelvim Escobar lives in the house next to mine, but he doesn’t exactly have the energy drink-sponsored ragers that a baseball player should be throwing every night. He also doesn’t have a lot of fancy cars parked in his driveway, which is continually disappointing.
Sure, the Angels won the World Series in 2002, but I can’t be sure that anyone really cared that much. I can’t even be sure that anyone really knows that Angel games aren’t just about waving stuffed monkeys in the air for three hours. Disappointed with my state’s lack of devotion to its teams, I knew Boston would be the place for me to spice up my relationship with competitive sports. However, I didn’t know that the reason Boston sports are so spicy is because Red Sox fans are invincible, immortal mutant-beasts.
I’m not talking about a mutant that grows gills in the sunlight or feasts on virgins for fuel — Red Sox fans look like humans, but have some sort of comic book-like aura that lets them do whatever they want, whenever they want, without objection by the laws of physics. You see it all summer: They cross any part of the street and somehow avoid getting hit by moving vehicles. Even the T unwillingly stops for them. Not once have I seen a Red Sox fan even check which way the traffic was coming. It’s like they’re all Magneto, but more powerful because not all of them have wheelchairs.
For instance, I excitedly went to Kenmore after Game 7 last Sunday night, expecting group hugs and fist pumping for all. When I arrived, the Red Sox fans had used their superhuman strength to climb streetlights, telephone poles and trees. I tried as well, but came to the conclusion that unless one was being chased, it was simply not humanly possible for anyone not of Red Sox-fan caliber to climb that high.
A group of boys insisted that they flip over a car to show off the bulk of their alien muscles compared to my feeble, mortal bones. While their bodies changed to Hulk proportions, they chose a 1997 black Mazda with a “Healey 2006” sticker on the bumper. The car flipped over and shattered into a million little pieces. The Hulks, now completely green and twice their original size, hugged to share their joy in one another’s strength. So that’s what the Big Green Monster is. I never knew.
I decided to test one of them to see if they really were mutants, but how? Should I hop on their backs to see if they could fly me over the walls of Fenway and into the arms of my love, Varitek? If I poured beer on them would they grow venomous spikes like Chia pets? If I wore my “Officer Naughty” policewoman costume from Halloween last year would they sacrifice me to their gods?
I went with the beer. Venomous spikes sounded awesome, and the crowd was fighting each other anyway — why not add weapons to the mix? I ran into Game On, grabbed a Sam Adams OktoberFest and searched for the king of the mess of beasts. Finally I saw him: crazy eyes, angry, a little ‘roided out, but strikingly handsome. Some say it was Jonathan Papelbon. I say it was the leader of the Red Sox X-Men.
But Crazy Eyes grabbed the beer from me and poured it on his red Under Armour and boxer briefs. “Dance with me!” he growled. Feeling like Beauty dancing with the Beast, I watched as the gigantic creature channeled the legendary Michael Flatley through his bare legs. I thought I was watching Riverdance for a moment, not a crazed buff guy with protective goggles on his head.
When I saw what looked like Predator walking toward me with a broken champagne bottle, I decided my research was done and it was time to run home like the Orange County pansy I am. The monster I had taken for Predator may have been Manny Ramirez (with that hairstyle, you can never tell for sure).
As I sprinted away across Commonwealth Avenue, I had no time to stop for red lights or illegally turning police cars. But I noticed a bus had halted in front of me and was honking. Could it be that I had become a Red Sox fan with the power to manipulate vehicles? I was invincible. I walked in the middle of the T tracks the whole way home.
If Danny Glover made a movie about the Angels being angels, he should probably make one about Red Sox fans being superheros. Traditionally, superheros should have a weakness. However, considering how many times the Red Sox have lost and that these mutants are still able to keep their powers probably means that they are the ultimate deities. Maybe one day they’ll rule the world. Regardless, I’m just glad I’m here among the supernatural instead of the mere mortals in Orange County.
Sarah Shanfield, a junior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at [email protected].