BOSTON AND HOOKSETT, N.H. — I am deep in my nearly yearly August dog-day ritual, which is escaping the hellish heat of Texas for the northern climes of my youth.
A couple of friends have accompanied me. We elected to spend two days in Boston, two days in my native New Hampshire and finished up with two days in York, Maine, where my family vacationed when I was a kid growing up in Allenstown, N.H.
This is the time of year I begin to closely follow my beloved Red Sox, catching any game broadcast on the local cable channel. There is a tight Eastern Division race this season between the Yankees and the Sox. As I write this — reveling in 70-degree temperatures and an ocean breeze while swatting murderous Maine mosquites from a canary-yellow Adirondack chair plopped in front of a motel in York — the Sox are about to battle their foes again.
A few days ago, we toured Fenway Park, my favorite secular shrine. I've watched a couple dozen games here during the past half-century, including Game 1 of the 2007 World Series. But I've never toured the park.On this breezy morning, stagehands are setting up for a concert by Paul McCartney that night. The Sox are out of town for nearly two weeks. Catching a game wasn't possible given our vacation window-of-opportunity.
The tour was delightful, led by a young woman who memorized the park's storied history. I sat in the pressbox, along with the other paying customers, during the tour. Likely that's the first and only time I'll sit in Fenway's pressbox. Hey, at least I got to do it once.
That night, we flop into the Day's Inn in Concord, N.H. about 10 p.m. My companions are soon asleep. I flipped about the tube and found the New England Sports Network — all Red Sox, all the time.
The Sox are in Florida, playing the defending AL champion Rays and lead 2-0 in the top of the eighth. Alas, Tampa Bay ties the game, which goes into extra innings. About 1:45 a.m., the Rays break it open and win 4-2. I fell asleep in the rolling desk chair and woke up just in time to see the Sox lose.
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The next evening we're sitting in the living room of my childhood friend, Bruce Courtemanche. We've known each other since we were 6 or so. Bruce lives less than a mile from the elementary school we both attended until I was whisked away to Longview, Texas, after seventh grade in 1968. We were great buddies. Though we see each other rarely these days, we're invariably able to take up where we left off. Tonight, we're reminiscing about going to Fenway for the next-to-last game of the 1967 season. As we do so, the Sox are losing yet again on Bruce's flat-screen behemoth television, the sound off.
My dad bought tickets early in the season for that 1967 game. The tickets were cheap since the Sox had finished next-to-last the previous season. Nobody expected them to be in a pennant race in September. Back then each league had exactly 10 teams. Life was simpler.
We arrived at Fenway in late September 1967 with Boston a game behind Minnesota. Two games remained. Beantown sportswriters dubbed it the Impossible Dream. The team was led by Carl Yastrzemski, who won the Triple Crown that year — a feat unmatched since.
Bruce and I crafted a crude "Go Sox!" banner out of a bedsheet and electrical tape, hoping to get on television. Remember, we were 12. One of our relatives — I can't remember who — claims to have seen us. Amazingly, Bruce says he hung on to that banner until a few years ago.
The Sox won our game, and then the next, to clinch the American League pennant. As we watched in dismay from the Allenstown Elementary cafeteria, where school was suspended in the afternoon to watch the games, the St. Louis Cardinals, led by Bob Gibson's superb pitching, beat the Sox in the World Series in seven games. It would be 37 years before the Red Sox would win a World Series.
Along with countless Sox fans, Bruce and I suffered for decades, waiting for that sweet moment. As he said the other night, "I didn't think they would win a Series in my lifetime." Same goes for me. I have a number of diehard Red Sox relatives who went to their heavenly rewards never watching the Sox win a Series.
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It was late on a work night, time to let Bruce go to bed. He handed me a book that David Halberstam wrote a few years back. Bruce surely doesn't know that Halberstam, who died in a tragic car wreck in 2007, is one of my favorite historians. But he's an inveterate reader, as am I.
The book is titled "The Teammates," and it chronicles the late-in-life relationships of four famous Red Sox players: Ted Williams, Dom DiMaggio, Johnny Pesky and Bobby Doerr.
"Here," he said. "I've already read it. Figured you might like it."
I'm sure I will, Bruce. Thanks.
Gary Borders is publisher of the Longview News-Journal. E-mail: gborders(at)longview-news.com.