My story begins in Boston, in the year 1986.
If you know your history, you know what that means. It means the Celtics becoming the first team ever to win 16 NBA Finals titles. It means the Patriots appearing in their first Super Bowl. It means BC legend Doug Flutie finally breaking into the NFL. And it means one of the most unforgettable seasons in Red Sox history.
The 1986 Red Sox were known for a lot of things-Roger Clemens coming out of nowhere to win an MVP, Tom Seaver finishing out his career in Boston, and Wade Boggs winning his third batting title in four years. And oh, yeah-they were within seconds of winning their first World Series in 68 years. Of course, you all know what happens then. The Mets rally in the 10th inning of Game Six, Bob Stanley throws the wild pitch, Mookie Wilson hits the little roller up along first, and Bill Buckner ruins his life in a split second.
But here's what you don't know. While the Red Sox were off in Queens destroying the hopes and dreams of millions, my mom was back in Boston, almost nine months pregnant. Her unborn son, to be named Evans after his grandfather, was due on November 3, which coincidentally was also the 35th birthday of Red Sox slugger Dwight Evans. Before I had even been born, I had been given my first nickname: I was "Dewey."
On October 27, the Red Sox and Mets took the field in Game Seven. Pitching for the Mets was Ron Darling, who had recovered from a nightmarish NLCS to pitch masterfully in the World Series. For the Sox, it was Bruce Hurst, who had pitched brilliantly all year and was poised to earn his fourth win of the postseason. Darling allowed just one hit in the first (a single from some guy named Buckner), and Hurst put the Mets down in the first, one-two-three.
In the second, all it takes is one pitch for the Sox to break the game open. The lead is theirs, thanks to a solo homerun by none other than Evans. Back in Boston, my parents' phone is ringing off the hook, and the verdict is unanimous-it's a sign. I'm ready to be born.
The phone calls were right. My mom is in labor. Two miracles-the miracle of birth and the miracle of the Red Sox winning in October-are happening at once. Hurst is mowing down the Mets one by one. Carter, Strawberry, Mitchell, Wilson, Hernandez: they've got nothin'. And at the same time, the contractions are getting quicker and quicker. Six minutes apart. Five. Four. Three.
Around the fifth inning, my parents are arguing over whether to call the hospital, and the sportswriters at Shea are busy debating which of the Red Sox should win the World Series MVP. My parents continue watching the game, and the writers at Shea settle on Hurst. One could definitely make the case that both decisions were mistakes. In my parents' case, because the contractions were just two minutes apart and at Shea, because "Bruce Hurst" anagrams to "B. Ruth Curse," and that's just asking for trouble.
Hurst implodes in the sixth, as the Mets torch him for three runs to tie the game. Calvin Schiraldi, who had earned the loss in Game Six when he let Ray Knight get on base in the tenth, came in to pitch the seventh. Of course, Knight was the first batter he faced, and one swing was enough to put the Mets up for good. They went on to win the game 8-5, and win the Series.
The game ends, my parents call the doctor, and he tells them to hightail it to Beth Israel Hospital. They arrive at about 12:30 in the morning, and at 4:18, I am born, in Boston-the son of one man, one woman, and one failed postseason run.
So whenever anyone asks me why, after spending 16 years of my childhood in central Virginia, I choose to remain a Boston sports fan, I have a story to tell. Some people choose a favorite sports team because of geography. Others make rely on family or friends. For me, it was destiny.
Evans Clinchy is a sophomore who has not yet declared a major.
