Home Movies
How much would you give to see Mike Timlin’s movie? An arm, a leg? A deer gave its life, apparently, at the end of the film, which was Trot Nixon’s favorite part. (I’m neither a PETA fanatic nor a “Charlie Moore Outdoors” viewer, just someone who is nonchalant about hunting, so I won’t be soapboxing today.)
Another part that they say brings goosebumps (or “chicken skin,” in Hawaiian Creole English) is the October 28th bus ride from Logan Airport to Fenway Park. “It’s the best,” said Kevin Millar. “You see all the people bowing down and getting out of their cars and trucks.”
Returning to those recent days of splendor, I have an embarrassing story to tell. I forgot my dad’s birthday, October 27th. I called Hawai‘i that weekend, apologetic. He said, “Well, I guess I raised my daughter right.” My parents had visited me earlier that year in July, right during the Yankees series at Fenway. He almost bought scalped tickets for us one day, and was later sorry that he didn’t. On July 24th we visited a different battleground, Minuteman National Park, and listened to some of the game on the radio on the way home. We got home in time to see the extra innings and the Mueller home run.
Before he visited Boston, my dad hadn’t watched baseball since his teens. Football was the sport we bonded over. But while he was here, he started to appreciate the game again. I’d come home from work, and he’d have a Red Sox gift for me. One day, a “Red Sox Fan Parking Only!” sign for my parking space. Another day, pictures of Ted Williams’s first and last at-bats. My landlord (who didn’t mind the sign being put up, thankfully) and Yankee fan said, after the World Series, “Your dad broke the curse!”
Needless to say, I won’t ever forget my dad’s birthday again.
Another strange coincidence: when I went to pick up my parents from the airport, they had a champion on board their plane. Bill Russell came to Boston the same time they did. We saw him waiting for his baggage. He wore one of his eleven rings. I wonder which year it was for? I didn’t get close enough to check.
Eleven. That’s Bill Mueller’s number. Cue “Synchronicity” by the Police.
