Below is another article in a series I’m writing as a candidate for president of Red Sox Nation. This article originally appeared on my other blog at Crawdaddy Cove.

It
was the 5th inning when my 8 year-old son’s bedtime rolled around, but
because Clay Buchholz had a no-hitter going, I told him he could stay
up until the O’s got their first hit. I knew he’d start to fall asleep
on the couch by the 7th inning anyway. And I was right. It was
hilarious watching him struggle to keep his eyes open. Then in the 8th,
realizing history could be made and wanting some company for a possible
celebration, I actually took measures to help my son stay awake. Turned
on all the lights, sat him up straight, got him some cold water. He
drifted off between the 8th and 9th, but when I yelped after young Clay
K’d Roberts to begin the 9th, he was up for good, eyes bloodshot but
adrenaline flowing, pacing in front of the TV.

We jumped up and down screaming after that nasty curveball froze
Markakis to end the game. It was as though we were there, at Fenway,
witnessing the historic moment in person from the blue seats in section
25. (We realized we were NOT at Fenway when my wife, who had rushed out
of bed, appeared on the stairs imploring, "What’s wrong!? What’s going
on!?") We watched Buchholz’s teammates mob him and we watched his
speechlessness during his interview with Tina Cervasio, then my son
said, "Daddy, I should probably go to bed now."

But the kid could not fall asleep. In the dark, as I sat beside his
bed, he kept commenting on the unlikely feat we had just seen. "Daddy,
it’s amazing, I mean, Roger Clemens has never thrown a no-hitter, and
Buchholz did it in his SECOND START OF HIS CAREER!" Then he put down
his head, and three minutes later: "I mean, it’s not just luck when you
throw a no-hitter, you actually have to be GOOD to do that, Daddy."
Then he lay there, eyes closed, not moving for another four minutes,
and jumped up: "And he struck out nine guys, Daddy, nine guys. I mean,
when you throw a no-hitter at age 23, it means you’re definitely GOING
TO BE to be a great pitcher. In fact, it means you’re going to be great
AND YOU ALREADY ARE GREAT." Finally, with visions of #61 (a mere 15
years old than my boy) achieving the seemingly impossible dancing in
his head, my son fell asleep.

Perhaps my son’s enthrallment with Buchholz’s no-hitter is genetic,
for I have always been fascinated by no-hitters and perfect games.
Obsessed might be a better word for it. Before I had kids (and so was
free every summer night), I had a rule that I would never turn down an
offer of tickets to a Red Sox game, because what if I were to miss a
no-hitter? And ever since I was a little boy, a dream has been to throw
a no-hitter. I did come close…twice.

In fifth grade, I threw a one-hitter at Soule Playground in
Brookline (6 innings). I remember the one hit was a hard ground ball
into right field off the bat of my best friend, John Sax, who legged
out a double. (Why do I still remember this? Because it’s the closest I
ever came.) I pitched another one-hitter on July 22, 1994, a few weeks
shy of my 26th birthday, at Jefferson Park in Jamaica Plain vs. McKay
Club (7 innings). The one hit (with two outs in the 5th inning) remains
a painfully vivid memory. I had been successful all night with just my
fastball and curveball, but I decided to try to surprise the
right-handed batter with a slow sidearm slurve. He was fooled by the
speed, but slowed down his swing just enough to hit a soft liner about
a foot over George Leung’s leaping attempt at shortstop. Base hit.
Dream deferred.

Watching Buchholz in his interview with Tina Cervasio, I was
struck by the notion that this kid had achieved his (and my) dream, yet
a part of him wasn’t really ready to achieve it yet — his self-image
hadn’t yet caught up with his incredible talent and the reality of his
accomplishment. Heck, just being in the Majors hadn’t sunk in
yet, and he went out and did something many Hall of Famers have never
done. His performance was years ahead of his own (and perhaps everyone
else’s) timetable for his success. No wonder, then, that when Cervasio
asked him how he felt, he said, "It’s all a blur right now," and when
she asked him how he had stayed within himself, he said, "I don’t
really have an answer for that one either." Good answers. What else
could he say? He was more stunned than any of us were.

I really wish I’d been at Fenway to see Buchholz’s no-hitter. I’ve
never seen a no-hitter or perfect game in person. (Saw Wake come close
once, though.) But seeing it on TV with my fanatical son was a
wonderful thing. And you know, most of our most priceless Fenway
moments take place right in our own living rooms. Even though we’re not
AT Fenway, Fenway possesses us through the beams of our TVs and we’re
suddenly there, side by side with 35,651 screaming fans, one gigantic
Nation united in elation, inspiration, and wonder.

Below is another article in a series I’ve written as part of my campaign for president of Red Sox Nation. This article originally appeared on my other blog at Crawdaddy Cove. 

From little league/youth baseball to high school to college to the Yawkey League,
I played 22 baseball seasons and perhaps 500 games. Unlike Wade Boggs
(whom I loved watching play, growing up), I don’t know any of my
batting stats from my baseball career – except one. Total home runs:
ONE. It happened when I was 14 years old, playing in Brookline’s Babe
Ruth League at the playground next to Lawrence School, which is about 1
1/2 miles from Fenway Park.

I remember there were no fences – so any four-bagger
would have to be legged out. I don’t remember the pitch but it was
probably a 57 mph fastball right down the middle. When I struck the
ball on the sweet spot of my ultra-light, 29 oz aluminum bat and saw
its impressive arc, I knew this was my chance. As I sprinted towards
first base, I was already focused on beating the throw to home plate.
Nearing third, I saw my coach frantically waving me home, but the look
on his face told me it was going to be close. I saw the catcher
awaiting a throw from the cut-off man. He caught the ball, I slid, he
tagged me, and there was a cloud of dust.

The next moment, before the umpire made his call, is what I remember
most clearly. In my memory, time stopped. I recall thinking, "That was close. Was I out or safe? Out or safe? PLEASE say safe, PLEASE say safe." Then time resumed. "SAFE!" yelled the teenage umpire.

HOME RUN. I had done it. Skinny little Rob had hit an
honest-to-goodness dinger. "So this is what it feels like to be Fred
Lynn," I thought. It felt really good. And I never got that feeling
again, the rest of my days as a ballplayer.

After the game, walking to my car with my parents, an old man whom
I’d noticed had been sitting in a lawn chair near third base called out
to me. "Hey," he said, "Good hit. You wanted that homer as soon as you
hit it, didn’t you? I could see by the way you ran the bases. You were
hungry!"

Isn’t it funny that I remember that old man’s comment? I suppose
that, just as Henry Aaron will always remember everything about his
715th, and Yaz will always remember everything about his 400th (I was
there), I’ll always remember everything about my first…. and only.

To read an article about my candidacy that appeared on the
front page of The Brookline TAB and The Wellesley Townsman on Thursday,
September 6, click here.

The following article (which originally appeared on my other blog at Crawdaddy Cove) was written by my brother, Benjamin Crawford (left), the greatest Red Sox fan I know, who lives with his family just outside Washington, D.C. He liked my ?four stages of Red Sox fan evolution? but felt that HIS stage was missing…

Stage 5 is the stage where you move away from New England and Fenway, lucky to see the place even once a year, yet still impart the fandom to your kids…and, in my case at least, wife. This is the stage that a large number of the 40,000 fans at Saturday night’s game in Baltimore come from….and my sister’s family in Allentown, Pennsylvania….and of course, me. We highlight the days on our calendars when the Red Sox will be playing at a stadium within driving distance…we travel five hours with our small children to see the Sox play an exhibition game?..we teach our kids that the blue hat with the red "B" (and, of course, the red hats with the B and the green hats with the B and the pink hats with the B) is the one we root for, despite being surrounded by "W" hats or O’s hats or, in many cases, the dreaded interlocking NY. We miss work (don’t just go in late) to fly around the country to see the Sox play in the postseason. We read the Globe and Herald every day online….even in January. And when we read the Globe, we wish Peter Gammons would go back to doing what he does best, the Sunday notes, and stop his ESPN gig. We teach our kids to sing "root root root for the RED SOX" during Take Me Out to the Ballgame. We cover the walls of our basements with pictures of Fenway, and old timers in Red Sox hats (in my case it’s autographed photos of Ellis Burks and the immortal Butch Hobson). We hang Red Sox/Fenway stuff in our offices…prominently. We stand out as Red Sox fans.

Fenway Park is a place we only see on our TVs (many people in RSN, in this stage of fandom, panicked when it appeared that DirecTV would be the sole carrier of MLB extra innings) and hear through our radios (thank you, MLB.com!). Our Red Sox experiences these days are in far away ballparks. With that in mind, we revel in walking around a visiting ballpark and seeing the people who make up Red Sox Nation, and of course their Red Sox paraphernalia (evidence that there really is an article of clothing out there for everyone). With a mix of amusement and pride, we laugh as the home fans get increasingly annoyed as they look around and see themselves surrounded…and drowned out…by Red Sox fans. We giddily discuss the vagaries of this year’s squad with our neighbors in the stands…because we can. Where I work, nobody cares about whether Dustin Pedroia is leading off or hitting second. But these people do. My neighbors don’t care that Francona went with Delcarmen instead of Okajima in the eighth inning in a game RSN at Camden Yards the previous week…but these people do. It’s our cross to bear and our badge of honor to overanalyze every minute detail of the team.

Perhaps more than anything, we get goosebumps when we hear a non-Fenway stadium rise up in chorus, "Let’s go Red Sox" (and are pleased to note the beautifully harsh Boston accent…"Sawx" instead of "Sox").

My college roommate, Mike Mahoney, grew up a member of the Nation on the coast of New Hampshire. He left New England eight years ago to take a job in Chicago, and since then has moved to Philadelphia. By his own admission, he hasn’t been to Fenway in years. However, by his count he has seen the Sox play in both Chicago stadiums, Milwaukee, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Yankee Stadium, Busch Stadium (Game 4…he was there!), and Seattle. This is what he has to say about stage 5:

"I have good friends who are still in New England, and of course I am jealous of them when they go to Fenway. But I also love calling them when I am in a ballpark somewhere else and I know they’re back home watching on TV — jealous of me. And I tell them that there is no way to fully understand the power of Red Sox Nation until you’ve seen it in another ballpark. It is one of the most amazing things I’ve experienced, and it is probably the thing that makes me proudest of where I grew up. It really is an identity. To be honest, I look forward to getting the schedule each year now because I see it as an opportunity to visit a new place, using the Sox as my excuse. Because no matter what city you are in, if the Red Sox are in town, it feels like home.?

"I sometimes watch the Red Sox players in other ballparks and wonder how they view this, if they ever talk about it with each other. Even more, I watch FORMER Red Sox players who are now on the other side…a guy like Millar with the Orioles…and I wonder if they have more of an appreciation of their days in a Sox uniform. It really is a traveling carnival. As an Oriole, Millar will play the Blue Jays or the Devil Rays in front of about 10,000 fans. When he was a member of the Red Sox, every game in every stadium was a sellout…and most of the people were there to see him and his teammates. What an amazing thing!"

Below is another article in a series of blog entries I’ve written as a candidate for president of Red Sox Nation. This article originally appeared on my other blog, Crawdaddy Cove.

My last article discussed stages
1 and 2 of the four stages of evolution of a Red Sox fan. Now, it’s
time to take a close look at stages 3 and 4. As I said earlier, no
stage is better or higher than another (indeed, I wish I’d stayed in
stage 1 forever) and all fans at all stages are equal in their Red Sox
Nation citizenship. (Did you go through a stage that could be described
differently? I’d love to hear about it.)

Stage 3: Prioritization, Re-calibration, Sacrifice 

Stage 3 is the hardest one to enter, because it requires a complete overhaul of one’s habits and values regarding focus
on baseball. This is the stage when we learn how to integrate our
passion for the Red Sox with our desire for solid, long-lasting
relationships with people who don’t share our Red Sox obsession. Some
consider stage 3 to be evidence of fan regression, not evolution. (I do
see their point.)

When our spouses, significant
others, and children (who, although we love them, are occasionally
"significant interruptors") request our undivided attention when the
game is on; when we’re absorbed in the pages of the Sunday Globe or Herald;
when the World Series pre-game show has just begun; when we’ve got
tickets and we’re running out the door — we are facing a stage 3
moment. In this stage, a Red Sox fan can either take a deep breath and
calmly engage with the significant interruptor, or cling to the
die-hard-fan mentality, blow-off the significant interruptor, and
strain or destroy his/her relationships. A genuine stage 3 fan has
learned to manage his expectations about how much time he will be able
to spend "being an active fan," and recognizes the moments when he’s
torn from his fan experience as "critical relationship-defining
junctures" and ?necessary baseball sacrifices.? Every fan who enters
stage 3 and re-calibrates his priorities is destined for long,
contented interpersonal relationships, a degree of baseball starvation,
and a dependence on Tivo.

I had a stage 3 moment last
Tuesday night after my wife and I had finished putting our four
children (ages 8 to 1) to bed. While enjoying the fifth inning of the
Sox-Orioles game on NESN, one of the four kids woke up, came
downstairs, and asked me if she could watch a Dora The Explorer video.
(She had fallen asleep at 5:00pm and we were hoping she’d sleep through
the night…) The stage 2 fan in me felt a twinge of resentment and
even wanted to say, "Nope, sorry darlin’," and just endure the little
girl’s woeful sobs. But the stage 3 fan in me won out, and 30 minutes
of Dora’s Pirate Adventure ensued. I was proud of myself. For my "evolution." 

Stage 4. "I am one with baseball."A
stage 4 fan is one who, with an endless archive of Red Sox memories,
has developed a philosopher?s appreciation of The Game; whose passion
is ignited by the way a third baseman kicks the dirt between pitches;
who knows the Red Sox will win another World Series in his/her
lifetime, and it won?t be because of a particular managerial move or
trade, but because the stars align and the players get on a roll; who
sees baseball as a metaphor for numerous truths and paradoxes of the
natural world; who can thoroughly enjoy watching any major or minor
league team play, and indeed, can get as much enjoyment from watching a
local little league game as from a Red Sox game; who reveres a
slick-fielding, reliable shortstop with superior range (regardless of
his ability to hit) as much as a dominant closer or triple-crown
contender; whose number-one reason for not wanting to miss an inning of
any game is the fear that something will happen, the exact nature of
which he’s never seen before; who understands completely that the Red
Sox are a business, but who still sees the magic in baseball
and the majesty of Fenway Park; who is grateful for the chance to watch
Derek Jeter play, even though he’s a Yankee; and who is deeply moved by
baseball?s unparalleled capacity for enchantment,
particularly in the hearts of children, and is on a quest to recapture
his/her own innocent, child-like appreciation for the game (stage 1).

Stage 4 is sort of like becoming a
baseball buddha. Of course, stage 4 encompasses all the other stages,
because the stages are cumulative to some degree. But at the same time,
stage 4 is absolutely distinct from the other stages. And by the way,
only those of us who were fans in 1918 were able to access stage 4
prior to the last out of the 2004 World Series. (Now, we all can.)
Perspective, appreciation, and sagacity are impossible when you’ve only
experienced heartache your whole life and you actually wonder if curses
are real.

Being the father of an 8 year-old Red
Sox fanatic has launched me into the realm of stage 4. While my love
for the Red Sox remains very personal, the most joyful aspect of my fan
experience involves my oldest son (the other three haven’t caught the
baseball bug yet). I am re-living stage 1 through him, and loving it
even more this time around. I have witnessed first-hand how baseball
has led my son to dream big dreams and believe anything is possible;
how baseball fills his afternoons with hour upon hour of serious play;
how being at Fenway engrosses him and engages his imagination in
spectacular ways; and how Red Sox baseball has become essential common
ground in our very close father-son relationship, ground to build on
for years to come. (And now, I understand how much fun my parents had
with me and my three siblings when we were stage 1 fans.)

Are you a stage 5 fan? If so, let me know what’s in store for me. Many, many thanks…..

Below is another article in a series of blog entries I’ve written as a candidate for president of Red Sox Nation. This article originally appeared on my other blog at Crawdaddy Cove.

 

I’m a different Red Sox fan now than I was as a kid, and before I had kids, and before 2004. Is it possible that all Red Sox fans go through an evolutionary process? I’ll go on the record asserting that there are four distinct stages
in the evolution of a serious Red Sox fan (at least, there have been
four for me). No stage is necessarily better or higher than another
(indeed, I’m striving to return to stage 1), and all fans at all stages
are equal in their Red Sox Nation citizenship. Here’s how I’d define
the first two stages.

Stage 1. Discovery, Innocence, Optimism 

This
is the stage in a Red Sox fan’s life when he/she is awakened to the
existence of the Red Sox and Fenway Park, and when everything about the
team is joyful and thrilling. (Stage 1 fans could be six year-old
children, or college students from outside New England, for example.)
People in this stage have feelings for the team that resemble an very
intense crush. They have a favorite Sox player whom they idolize,
treasure the Sox posters in the Sunday Globe, and cannot conceive of a scenario where the Sox fail to win the World Series this year (they are overflowing with hope.)

For me, this stage began in
about 1976 when I was in second grade and it continued through high
school and the 1985 season. I kept a few journals for school during
these years, and half of my entries focused on the Red Sox and the
Sox-Yankees rivalry. All entries were cheerful. The journal entry I
wrote the day after Bucky Dent’s homer in ’78 (I was ten) hints at more
melodrama than pain. My eight year-old son is in stage 1 now, and I
pray for him that it lasts as many years as possible. These are the
wonderful years of baseball innocence.

Stage 2. Identity, Obsession, Vulnerability

This is the stage of the "die-hard" fan. These fans have several
emotional Red Sox memories (or scars), and their excitement about the
Red Sox has blossomed into a full-fledged addiction. They cannot miss a
game. Or even an inning of a game. People in this stage throw their
souls at the mercy of the Red Sox’ fortunes. They experience
unparalleled euphoria when things are going well, but are vulnerable to
deep depression when the team disappoints. Every win or loss is taken
personally and somehow reflects their own self-value. Some fans choose
to never leave this stage, and we admire them for that.

For me, stage 2 began when I
went to college in New Hampshire and was surrounded by people from all
over the world, but mostly from New York and New Jersey. The Red Sox
served as the core of my identity. I felt like a full-fledged member of
the team. I would travel very, very long distances, stand in long lines
(even overnight), pay money I didn’t have, and change any long-standing
plans (such as participating in a relative’s wedding) to watch them
play in person. Like I say in my song, it’s a kind of insanity. (Most fans in stages 3 and 4 re-enter stage 2 when the Sox play the Yankees, or are in the playoffs and World Series.)

Coming soon, the definitions of Red Sox Nation citizens in stages 3 and 4 of their fan evolution.

Below is another article in a series of blog entries I’ve written as a candidate for president of Red Sox Nation. This article originally appeared on my other blog at Crawdaddy Cove.

I was a mediocre
pitcher for Brookline High, a 130 lb. reed with infinitely more heart
than talent. Greg McMurtry was the stud of the the state champion
Brockton High School squad, the future Michigan Wolverines legend, #1 draft choice of the Boston Red Sox,
and third round choice of the New England Patriots. In the spring of
1986, for six pitches, the divergent paths of our baseball careers
crossed. It’s funny how vividly I remember that encounter, like a movie
I’ve seen a thousand times…

The day was May 16, 1986. I was playing left field and Brockton’s
lead was something like 19-3. Major league scouts perched along first
and third baseline fences, waiting for another glimpse of McMurtry’s
majesty. I and the rest of the players there that day hungered for a
chance to do something heroic in front of the scouts, to begin our
dream-like march to the bigs and the Baseball Hall of Fame. But by the
sixth and second-to-last inning, it didn’t look like I was going to get
that chance.

Then, the first three or four Brockton hitters reached base to start
of the bottom of the sixth inning, so I was summoned to the mound to
quash yet another Brockton rally. I remember trotting in from left
thinking, When is McMurtry coming up? As I threw my warm-up
pitches, I overheard a scout ask my coach, "What’s this new guy’s
name?" The last few warm-ups were the hardest fastballs I had ever
thrown.

The first batter I faced waved his bat at three smoking fastballs, missed them all, and sat down. Holycrap, I thought, I just wasted that guy in front of twenty major league scouts. I’m gonna be a pro!  As
I watched the next Brockton player step into the batter’s box, I heard
some scouts buzzing. One, in an Astros cap, help up his radar gun and
pointed it at me. I was being noticed.

The next batter watched the first two fastballs tear by him for
strikes, fouled off a curveball, then swung mightily under a high
heater for strike three. I tried to stay calm. OhmyGod. I’m blowing away the best hitters in the state and twenty major league scouts are watching. I looked over at my father. He was beaming and talking with a rotund man in a Dodgers cap who was holding a clipboard. I’m gonna be a Dodger!

The next batter stroked my first pitch to right field, a clean, line drive base hit. No problem, they’ll forget about that when I nail this next guy. But
I walked him. And the next batter singled, loading the bases. And as
another Brockton batter walked to the plate, I saw the marvelous figure
of Greg McMurtry swagger to the on-deck circle.

He carried a black bat with a red donut on it and stared at me, calm
but fierce, like a panther patiently eyeing a rabbit he wants to maul.
Relaxed, he swung his bat one-handed over his left shoulder, then
switched hands and over his right shoulder, showing beautiful, hard
muscles like in a Michelangelo sculpture. I forced myself to avert my
eyes and focused on my catcher, looking for the signal.

I knew I would fail to retire this batter. That McMurtry would come
to the plate seemed inevitable. I could feel the two of us being tugged
toward confrontation by the strings of fate. (I seriously doubt Greg
felt the same thing.) Sure enough, the batter preceding McMurtry hit a
ground ball that squeaked through the hole between the third baseman
and shortstop. A couple of runners scored, and Greg McMurtry stood at
home plate to give them high-fives.

The scouts adjusted in their lawn chairs and pointed their video
cameras towards the batter’s box. McMurtry stepped to the plate with
the confidence of a superhero. Sweating and trembling, I faced the
awesome challenge standing sixty feet, six inches before me.

The catcher put down two fingers, signaling a curveball. Good idea, he won’t expect that. High,
ball one. I was relieved I had survived the first pitch and I relaxed a
little. Again, the catcher called for a curveball. Ingenious idea, he certainly won’t expect another curveball on a 1-0 count. High, ball two. The catcher tossed the ball back to me as the scouts moaned, worried that I would give McMurtry nothing good to hit and issue him a walk.

Hold on a second, this is Greg McMurtry. Don’t play around with him, I scolded myself. This is your chance for glory, the moment you dreamed of in every wiffle ball game growing up. Wake up and go after him. For Godsakes, don’t walk him! I realized I had made an error of, perhaps, historic proportions in the annals of the Crawford family.

Looking in for the catcher’s signal, I got the sign I wanted, a
single finger, then I blazed a fastball over the outside corner.
"Stee-rike!" yelled the ump. Suddenly, I had a shred of
self-confidence. The count was two and one. I had to throw another
fastball. I knew it, my catcher knew it, and Greg knew it. I threw the
heater, this one with extra juice, right down the heart of the plate.
McMurtry coiled then swung majestically and we all held our breath for
an instant. Thwack! The ball met the catcher’s mitt and Greg
McMurtry, for the first time all day, was mortal, stumbling momentarily
to regain his balance after a frighteningly robust swing. "Stee-rike
two!"

Holycrap, I’m one pitch away from striking out Greg McMurtry in front of twenty major league scouts. I
looked over at my coach. He was pacing and smiling, arms crossed,
savoring the possibilities of the next pitch. "Go get him, Robby!" he
said. "One more, one more, kid!" I looked at my father. He smiled at
me, winked, and pumped his right fist. With his left hand, he wiped the
sweat from his forehead. I looked in for the sign. McMurtry leaned in a
little more over the plate to protect the outside corner. The
perspiration on his steel forearms glistened in the sun. The catcher
put down a single finger and I threw the ball as hard as I could.
McMurtry stepped into the pitch but held his swing. Outside and low.
Ball three.

"Full count!" bellowed the umpire, who was obviously auditioning for
the majors, as well. I got the ball back from the catcher and closed my
eyes. Please God, don’t let me walk him, don’t let me walk him. I
glanced over at my dad. He and the Dodgers scout were chuckling, the
scout carelessly and my father nervously. Our eyes met and his seemed
to say, "Oh boy, Rob, you’ve really gotten yourself into a situation
here!" McMurtry started at me. I could tell he wanted a chance to show
those scouts that his futile swing had been a fluke. He wanted to take
me deep.

The catcher didn’t even bother with a sign. It was fastball all the
way. Just hum it in there and see what happens. I looked at the mitt
and tried to focus. I tried to block out my teammates, the scouts, my
coach, my father, even Greg McMurtry. I tried to block out the full
count and the fact that the next pitch would be remembered and talked
about in my family for years to come, regardless of the result (and it
has been!).

Then, pulled along in the current of time and fate, I wound up and
delivered my pitch, a fastball that I tried to guide with my will as it
approached home plate. The scouts watched, my father prayed, my coach
grinned, and Greg McMurtry checked his swing as the ball crossed the
outside black of the plate. "Ball four," said the umpire non-chalantly,
rising from his crouch. I shrugged as McMurtry glided toward first
base. He proceeded to steal second before one of his teammates flew out
to end the inning.

I walked Greg McMurtry.

That summer, the Red Sox drafted him in the first round, but he
chose college instead and starred for Bo Schembechler’s Rose
Bowl-winning Michigan Wolverines for four years. He was drafted by the
Detroit Tigers (27th round) and New England Patriots (3rd round) in
1990, and played wide receiver for the Patriots and Bears for five seasons, during which he had 128 receptions for 1,631 yards and five touchdowns. He was out of major pro sports at the age of 27.

I never saw another athletic moment as important or dramatic (to me)
as my 3-2 pitch to Greg McMurtry. That day, that situation, was the
closest I ever came to my dream (and every kid in Red Sox Nation’s
dream) of being drafted by the Boston Red Sox. Greg McMurtry wouldn’t
recognize me if I walked right up to him and introduced myself. But the
image of his chiseled body, his confident glare, and his one elegant,
lusty whiff at a Rob Crawford fastball will be with me always.

Below is another article in a series of blog entries I’ve written as a candidate for president of Red Sox Nation. This article originally appeared on my other blog at Crawdaddy Cove.

Before every little league
game I coach, I remind myself that what’s about to unfold on the field
might be forgotten by me and other spectators within a day, but that
for one or two of the kids playing that day, something might happen
that will be carved in their memories forever. The memory might
be marvelous (home run), and it might be torturous (bonehead error),
but it will endure in the player’s mind the rest of his days. If you
ever played organized baseball at any level growing up, you know what
I’m talking about.

One of those baseball memories I’ll always carry around is of a game
that took place my sophomore year in high school, in 1984, as a member
of Brookline High’s JV baseball team. I was a skinny kid with a decent
glove and strong throwing arm, but no bat. I was either the last or
second-to-last player to make the team (and I still have the stubby
stick I picked up off the ground and rubbed like a good luck charm as
Coach Cohen read the names of players he was keeping on the last day of
tryouts), and I knew I’d see very little playing time that year. That
was OK with me. I was happy just to wear the uniform, to go to baseball
practice after school every afternoon, and to sit on the bench with the
guys, munching sunflower seeds and talking baseball.

Little did I know I wouldn’t see any game action until midway through the season, and that when I did finally play, the game’s outcome would depend on my
individual performance. That moment came on a wet, overcast afternoon
at Amory Field in Brookline, which is located just off of Beacon
Street, about a half-mile from Fenway Park. It was the top of the last
inning, we were ahead of Waltham High by one run, and they were batting
with two outs and the tying run on second base. A beefy left-handed
hitter approached the plate as I blissfully played catch with another
sophomore behind the bench.

"Crawford!" rang Coach Cohen’s voice. I was jolted by the
sound of my name and it took a full second for me to realize the coach
needed me to do something. Pick up the helmets or straighten the bats,
I assumed. But there was urgency in his voice. "Crawford! Get in there for Jeff in right field. His arm’s sore. And if the ball comes to you, throw it home!"
I grabbed my glove, pulled my hat on tight, and glanced over at my
father, standing in his usual place behind the backstop. He smiled,
winked, and pumped his fist, communicating wordlessly his faith and
encouragement.

I sprinted towards right field, imagining myself to be rocket-armed
Dwight Evans. "Two outs, Rob!" said Justin Walker, the second baseman,
as I chugged by him. (Justin, front row, second from the left, later
went on to an acting career and had a major role in the 1995 movie, Clueless.
By some amazing coincidence, that BHS JV team’s first baseman, Joe
Reitman, back row, far right, next to me, also went on to an acting
career and also appeared in the movie Clueless.)
It wasn’t until I reached my post in right and turned to face the
diamond that I realized the dreadful mistake I had made before taking
the field.

As I peered towards home plate from my unfamiliar post in right
field, everything looked foggy. I blinked, but the fog remained.
Suddenly, my heart stopped. My God. I forgot to put on my glasses. The
reality of my plight spilled over me like icy water. My saliva tasted
metallic and my legs wavered. I was too embarrassed to call time out. Oh God, please let that big lefty hit the ball to someone else. Please God, I begged silently. But God had already finalized his plans for that big left-handed hitter, the baseball, and me.

The big Waltham kid swung at the first pitch. Ping! The ball
shot up into the sky and, to my horror, it entered the air space above
me. All eyes turned to me as I jerked forward, believing the hit to be
a shallow bloop. But three running steps forward and a new perspective
on the white blur above me revealed a drastic error in my calculations:
the ball had been socked, not blooped!

Trying
to change direction, I slipped on the muddy turf and fell to one hand
and one knee. But I kept my eye on the hurtling white puff and bounced
to my feet. Back, back, back I stumbled until I hit another wet spot
and lost my balance. I fell backward, with my glove arm outstretched.
Then, at the same moment I landed flat on my back in the cold, muddy
outfield – plunk – the ball fell into my glove, and I squeezed.

Rising to my feet, I held the ball proudly above my head, showing
the umpires, my teammates, my coach, and my dad that I had caught it.
We had won. Within seconds I was mobbed by my screaming, disbelieving
teammates. What a moment! My father, who retells this story every time
our family is together, recalls that, as Coach Cohen walked over to the
Waltham coach to shake hands, he put his hat over his face as if to
say, "Did we just see what we just saw?"

What does this story have to do with Red Sox Nation? Maybe something
about how we all wonder how we would perform under the same pressure
our Red Sox heroes face regularly. Or maybe it’s about the snapshots we
all carry around about our own triumphs and failures. Or how the Red
Sox bring out the dreamer in all of us. I don’t know. Maybe you do.

I have written a few Red Sox songs this summer. (I guess you could say writing baseball songs is a hobby — but the truth is, these tunes just come to me when I’m driving or hacking on my guitar.) One is called, There is Nothing Bettah, Than Beating Mariano Rivera. My kids like that one. Another is called, On the Corner of Brookline Ave and Yawkey Way. This is the song I invited my songwriting friends, Dan Page and Michele Page, to come listen to about a week ago to help me write some lyrics. Just before they got to my house, the tune and first line of, I’m A Member of Red Sox Nation came to me. When Dan and Michele arrived, I didn’t even bother playing the Brookline Ave and Yawkey Way tune for them — I knew that the Nation song was the one we needed to work on. And we did.

It was a good time. We filled pads of paper with Red Sox images, phrases, memories, and ideas, referred from time to time to our thesaurus and rhyming dictionary, wrote and rejected about 250 lines — and a few days later, the song was complete. I stayed up late a few nights recording/engineering it on my iBook (using Garage Band software and the Mac’s built-in mike) in my basement, which is also my kids’ playroom. Surrounded by Play-Doh, dolls, and Pokemon cards, I perched the laptop on the surface of our air hockey table, and if you listen to the song carefully, you can hear our loud basement fridge droning in the background.

A week after the basement sessions, my good friends Bob Little and Michelle Rufo, along with about ten other day camp counselors at Summer@Park, taught the song to about fifty campers and organized them for an informal recording session in the lobby of the school’s gym. The kids’ enthusiastic singing was added to the last verse, along with their favorite Red Sox cheer, "Let’s Go Red Sox!"

The song was played at Fenway Park between the top and bottom of the fifth inning last Wednesday, July 18. If it has been played since then, I haven’t heard about it. Whether or not I’m elected president of Red Sox Nation, Dan, Michele, and I hope this song is good enough and gets enough play to get stuck in people’s heads across New England for years to come, making them smile every time they hear it.

I’m A Member of Red Sox Nation, by Rob Crawford, Dan Page & Michele Page

(Chorus)
I’m a member of Red Sox Nation, it’s a kind of a family
Wherever I roam, my Fenway home, that’s where I long to be
I’m a member of Red Sox Nation, it’s a kind of insanity
Yeah, I’ll live and die, with Red Sox pride, for eternity

(Verse 1)
I fake a smile, November until Opening Day
Suffering baseball withdrawal around the clock
When April comes, hey, meet me down on Yawkey Way
That’s when Red Sox Nation starts to rock

(Chorus)

(Verse 2)
I sleepwalk through the days when there’s a West Coast swing
Married to the TV and the radio
For tickets in October I’d give anything
Still payin’ Red Sox debts from long ago

(Chorus)

(Verse 3)
My mama told me bedtime tales ’bout number nine
My daddy taught me how Yastrzemski tracked down flies
Dirty Water, Tessie, and Sweet Caroline
Now I sing them to my kids as lullabies

(Chorus)

Writing about how great athletes talk to themselves got me thinking about my favorite athletes of all-time. Four of the individuals on my distinguished list rise above the rest because of the place they hold in my heart, and because of the influence they had on me as a teenager and young adult. And, looking at the quartet, I am struck by the similarities between the three and the common characteristics they taught me to admire and emulate. The magic foursome is: Doug Flutie, Larry Bird, Jim Barton, and Nomar Garciaparra.

Doug Flutie. I was sixteen in 1984 when he threw the hail mary pass to Gerard Phelan to lead Boston College to victory over University of Miami. His 21-year pro career was just like his college career: he was smaller than every other NFL quarterback, but he found ways to win, time after time. And he never did it the same way twice – he was the king of improv.

Larry Bird. I was 17 that spring the Celtics beat the Lakers in the NBA Finals (1986). My dad always used to say, "Remember Larry, because you won’t see anyone like him the rest of your life." It’s not Larry’s clutch shots and passes I remember first, it’s his hustle, diving to the floor to grab control of a loose ball, slamming his chin on the court. Larry was a warrior.

Jim Barton. Jim was a star basketball player at Dartmouth College in the late 1980s when I was a student there. He could catch a pass and get off a shot in one instantaneous motion — and it always went in. His heroics made me lose my voice every game. He was among the nation’s scoring leaders, and at the time, I had never witnessed a more electric athlete in person.

Nomar. As a member of the Red Sox, his love for playing baseball was obvious, and even though he was an all-star, he was humble and appreciated his success. He seemed to be hustling every minute of the game, even in the dugout (mentally). He was my first son’s first favorite Sox player, which has cemented him among my top-four favorite athletes. At the age of 5, he cried when Nomar was traded to the Cubs. He still wears his Red Sox-Nomar shirt, as well as his Cubs-Nomar shirt, and at the time Nomar signed his glove, it was probably the greatest moment of his young life.

Nice list, but why does it matter?

These great athletes were also great teachers of mine. Through countless emotionally-charged athletic performances, they helped develop my world view: the belief that anything can happen if you can imagine it; that the game isn’t over until it’s over, so you must never quit; that calm, confident focus can tame the highest-pressure moments; that spectacular results hurtle towards us when we’re "in the zone;" that the team’s goal of winning supercedes individual accomplishments; and that there is nobility in playing hurt and hustling on every play.

Who are your most beloved athletes, and how have they helped shape your world view?