Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.