Note from Cyn: Tru wrote this before last night’s Red Sox win, Tampa Bay loss and Tim Wakefield finally hitting the 200 mark.
I phoned 911 the other night, begging for the police to come and save me.
The calm and assuring voice on the other end of the line asked what was happening and not to worry, she would stay with me. Â I told her that my weekend began early Friday afternoon, and not on a particularly good note.
â€œStart from the beginningâ€, the voice saidâ€¦
Well, I brought my sports coats, slacks and tie to the office, where I would don them Friday afternoon before heading into Boston for dinner at the exclusive St. Botolph Club. I have a lifelong friend who became a noted architect and is now a member of this collection of artists, writers, musicians and other men and women, who have done much in and around Boston for the arts.
I noticed that the right sleeve of my coat had a hole in it, possibly getting torn by a suitcase zipper from my last business trip. I was unable to get it repaired in time for the evening, and did not want to show up looking like I didnâ€™t belong there, even though I know I didnâ€™t â€“ at least entry was as an invited guest as opposed to an alternative method of entry I might have considered in some besotted state. So my next thought was to buy a new sport coat, which Iâ€™ll always get use from.
I stopped at Kohlâ€™s, who seems always to have plenty of clothes at reasonable prices, and looked for an appropriate color blazer â€“ which they did not have. So now Iâ€™m running out of time, do not wish to be late and buy a pair of slacks, tie and new blazer. The whole cost is less than a pair of socks at Brooks Brothers, and so I think Iâ€™m golden.
The two gals at the checkout were amused and happy to assist me with tag removal and equipped me with a pair of scissors to remove the cardboard band around the new Jerry Garcia tie. In my haste to get to Boston, I cut through the band on the back of the tie, which I know can be repaired, but irritates me to no end.
The Club is near the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Exeter Street and so I park in the garage next to Lord and Taylor and proceed to bash in my right rear bumper. Great, I thought, Iâ€™m on a roll â€“ really canâ€™t get much worse, can it?
The tour of the club by my host was fascinating as I learned the history of the beautiful mansion; saw many of its older features from a glorious time gone by. The drinks went down easily, and the food from the private kitchen was superb, as was the wine. The dining facility was exquisite and tables were far enough apart to hold intimate conversations, and that is exactly how people spoke â€“ in hushed tones. Cell phone use is frowned upon, as the tranquil environment is of paramount importance to the membership.
Midway through the delicious dinner, I felt my phone vibrating in the pocket of my new sport coat. Trying to be casual and go unnoticed, I took the phone out and saw a text from a fellow Sox fan from Maine, who used language that would blister the beautiful wall paper in the ornate dining room. John Lackeyâ€™s name was in the middle of the sentence and I thought it funny and chuckled. My host noticed, asked me what was so funny and I felt that I had betrayed his invitation by looking at and using the cell phone.
He looked at me observantly and then after some hesitation agreed with the person who sent me the message. He did not admonish me for having the phone on, or using it.
Dessert was excellent.
I woke on Saturday and went with a friend to a farmerâ€™s market, then went to the Hampton, NH Seafood Festival with my youngest daughter. It was a good day, and the weather was perfect, although the approach of fall was in the air. I went home filled with seafood, content and looked forward to the Sox, and their rookie pitcher. I went to sleep that night thinking Daniel Bard is snake bit and perhaps this season, a man named Francona was getting paid back for leaning so heavily on the kid.
Sunday looked to be another picture perfect weather day, and I boarded the train destined for Bostonâ€™s North Station at 9 AM. I met the author of the blistering John Lackey text message and we spent time along the way wondering about salvaging the weekend series with the Rays. Lester was on the hill, and all we really needed was for the bats to show upâ€¦ This easily would be our best chance for a win and keep the pesky devil fish at bay. Yeah, today felt different and better.
After a bloody Mary near the Chart House, we made our way over to Remyâ€™s near Fenway Park. We were a bit early and several other people were joining us to watch the game. The young gals at the reception desk asked how many in our party and we said 6 ~ 8 in all, and could we be seated near one of the TVâ€™s that would be showing the Sox game. Looking at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head, the hostess informed me that today; football would be on all the TVâ€™s. Somewhat stunned by her statement, I asked if I was at Jerry Remyâ€™s. Jerry Remy, the former Red Sox baseball player. Jerry Remy, the current NESN analyst for Red Sox baseballâ€¦ you know, THAT Jerry Remy!?
The manager approached and made â€˜an accommodationâ€™, giving us a table and what appeared to be the smallest screen amidst a sea of large, high definition wide screen TVâ€™s. Â And then Jon Lester threw 43 pitches in the first inning while Curt Young seemed glued to the bench, apparently by accident from a wad of Franconaâ€™s chewing gum.
After the fourth inning and 111 pitches, Lester was out of the game, trailing 4 ~ 1.
Iâ€™d had another bloody Mary and was now working on a glass of chardonnay.
I looked at my Sox friends and called the Albers Grand Slam, which would naturally be followed by a K. It was as foretold, and Albers entertained the crowd. All five of us. As for other 90 or so patrons? They seemed oblivious to the fact the Red Sox were playing on TV at Jerry Remyâ€™s football bar.
By the time the damage was over, I noticed Dave Magadan and Demarlo Hale holding down Aviles and applying stickum to his cleats.
What was a mere week ago a commanding lead in the wild card race and a hairâ€™s breadth from recapturing first for the AL division lead had suddenly become a horrible nightmare. Panicked and shaken, I phoned the local police and felt certain that the Red Sox were trying to inflict lethal harm upon me. With temples pulsing and elevated heartbeat, I made that call, and spoke too quickly, nervously while sweat cascaded down my neck.
â€œSirâ€, the voice said in even tones, â€œWe have been receiving these calls since last Thursday, and to tell you the honest to goodness truth, the Red Sox are not outside your door and will not do you any harm.â€
I insisted she send a patrol car.
None would be coming.
â€œSir,” she continued, Iâ€™m hanging up now. â€œYou are not in mortal dangerâ€.
I went to bed and thought that, okay, footballâ€¦ yeah, itâ€™s the first day of the new season and Dallas is playing Buddy Ryanâ€™s mouth. And so, to take my mind off of the Sox misfortune, Iâ€™ll watch the game.
And then it happened â€“ I was back on the line with the voice.
â€œBeatrice Arthur is not dead!â€ I screamed into the phone. Sheâ€™s wearing a headset and posing as a defensive coordinator for the Cowboys Â The voice insisted it was Rob Ryan, twin brother of the Jetâ€™s head coach.
I kept at the voice and was not going to be so easily put off â€“ â€œOh no, she has the same facial hair and looks like she hasnâ€™t aged at allâ€.
The patrol car rolled up to my house at around 11:30 and took me over to Edgewood Center, where I was placed into the custody of a substance abuse counselor. Â They say Iâ€™ll be fine â€“ just need a little rest and quiet.
Thank God I still have my cell phoneâ€¦