Missing the Good Old Days

I'm sitting here in front of my television and I'm watching former Red Sox fan-favorite Bronson Arroyo pitch in a playoff game against the Philadelphia Phillies. I saw Roy Halladay fire a no-hitter and Tim Lincecum deal his way to a 2-hit shutout. Big home runs and intense situations, all on the diamond and under the beautiful October sky. And I'm envious of all the fans in Tampa, Texas, Minnesota, Philly, Cincinnati, Atlanta, and San Francisco (not so much New York, because I would never want to be a New York fan... ever). Why? Because they're watching meaningful baseball in conjunction with football, hockey, and basketball. Everything is in harmony, and I absolutely miss those days here in Beantown.

Aside from a couple of long-shot possibilities that arose against the Yankees in the final few weeks of the season, we got the smallest dose of meaningful baseball that we have in quite some time this season. After watching that ESPN documentary, 4 Days in October, I was really overcome with an incredible sense of nostalgia. I miss those days. I miss that team. And despite all those posts I made this year defending my beloved Red Sox, I do have to admit -- the golden days have passed. For now, anyway.

Hop in your time machine and go back to those days. I used to work my schedule around getting to see Pedro Martinez pitch (I even did the same when he was with the Phillies) or see Manny Ramirez take an at bat. Pregame shows and interviews were just as entertaining as the ball game itself with our old group of "idiots" that doubled up as players and entertainers night in and night out. The chorus of Sweet Caroline being sung loud and proud from the Fenway faithful actually did instill magic into the stadium. I would be anxiously waiting all week for a weekend series with the New York Yankees and fully expected bad blood and tempers flaring.

Return to the present. Forget working my schedule around it, I hardly know the team's schedule week by week. There literally are no players that I absolutely love to watch. If a game starts at 7, there's no chance I'm tuning in for the pregame at 6 to watch the Batter's Box or whatever other tricks NESN has up their sleeves. Sweet Caroline is still a tradition, but where has the magic gone? Elsewhere, that's all I know for sure. And when it comes down to a weekend series with the arch rival New York Yankees, I don't even find myself hesitating to watch the Dolphins and Jets on Sunday Night Football instead. The rivalry has lost its steam. The team has lost its magic. The fans have lost their excitement.

And here I am, still sitting in front of the TV. As I watch, I know that for one fan base, there will be a player -- or several players -- who bring eternal gratification. A Dave Roberts will be reborn in the hearts of one team's faithful followers. A generation of teenagers will have a memorable break from school as they attend a championship parade. Joe Buck will say one line -- just one simple, elementary line of commentary -- that will be etched in the souls of millions forever. Millions from one of eight cities remaining. Boston? Absent from that list. I miss the old days, and I dearly hope they return before long.