He's Doing That Poetry Thing Again

I watched a movie last night called Game 6, an eponymous title referring to the 1986 World Series. It's tagline is "Where were you on that night?"

Since I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing that night, I wanted to focus more on the general theme of the movie.

But in case you're not familiar with Game 6 of the 1986 World Series and its overall significance, here's a quick primer.

The Boston Red Sox, led by George Herman Ruth, won the World Series in 1918. The next year, the owner sold the Babe to the Yankees in order to finance a Broadway play. Over the next 14 years, the Yankees produced Murderer's Row (going to the World Series 7 times, winning 4 of them) while the Sox produced bupkes. The continued tradition of Red Sox futility and Yankees dominance is generally referred to as the Curse of the Bambino.

Several times the Sox have come close to either winning the pennant or the championship title. Each time, the Sox have imploded and grabbed defeat from the jaws of victory. Enos Slaughter, Bucky Effin' Dent, Mm-Mm-Mm-Mm-Mookie, and Aaron Effin' Boone helped perpetuate the Curse of the Bambino.

In Game 6, the Sox were twice one strike away from winning the World Series. Some bad managing, a hot streak, and two bad knees cost them the title. With two outs, Mookie Wilson hit a weak ground ball to Bill Buckner. Catch the ball, game's over. Instead, the hobbled first baseman didn't get low enough and the barely trickling ball passed between his legs. Mets win; Curse extended.

In the movie, Michael Keaton plays a distraught New York playwright. First, his personal life is in shambles. Second, his opening play is expected to get seared by the city's harshest critic. Third, he's a Sox fan.

He figures that if his team wins the game and the Series, his own personal curse will be lifted as well. So, he skips the opening night of his play in order to watch the game at a bar.

Ordinarily, the viewer of the movie knows the outcome of the game beforehand so there's no major surprise.

It was the final scene that stood out to me. Keaton is a nervous wreck in the latter stages of the game. He can sense eminent doom as he's witnessed it several times before. The lingering thought in my head is how people (read, me) often add importance to the output of games.

In many ways, I identify with Keaton's character. Many times in my life have I thought that my own personal Fortuna and destiny were linked to a fourth quarter buzzer beater, a full-count bottom-of-the-ninth pitch, or a 72nd-hole putt.

Maybe it is a bit puerile. Maybe it's what also keeps us young at heart.

I do know this, however - I may not be able to tell you what I ate for dinner last night, but I will never forget the night of October 25, 1986.

In 1989, A. Bartlett Giamatti (yep, Paul's dad) wrote a brilliant, poetic, and inspiration book about the nature of sports, particularly baseball, entitled Take Time for Paradise. In it, he explored the intellectual side of baseball - the baseball diamond as geometric exactitude, the Homeric nature of running bases and getting "home" safely, and the urban baseball park as an edenic retreat.

At its best, baseball is a narrative of our finest pursuits. A tradition that celebrates teamwork, but honors individual success.

It's what makes April my favorite month and October the gloomiest.