Back! And Trying to Catch Up…

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Life can be odd at times; no, let’s face it – life is odd all the time, but the weirdness seems to slip on by if you’re not keeping a watchful eye. I’m back in Memphis (though, after a move from place to place, a bit further East than weeks past) after a weekend that can only be described, if I were cruelly forced to boil down such an adventure into one word, eldritch (impress your friends with that one tomorrow!).

If there’s anything on this planet that fits the strict definition of the word “disorienting,” it most certainly is sleeping for only a handful of hours, working a full eight hour day, and then immediately climbing onto a Greyhound bus for the next eleven hours of your life. The combination of lack of sleep; strange, new (and often frightening and/or disconcerting) people and smells; and being stuck for extended periods of time in seats that could only have been designed for Chinese contortionists has a way of toying with one’s mind. Luckily for me, my obsessive-compulsive nature about arriving early finally paid off, as I found myself fully checked in, ready to board the bus a full ninety minutes before loading time; to my delight, however, Memphis’ bus station is located in the heart of downtown, as are approximately two hundred bars, one of which sits directly across from the bus station (coincidence? Methinks not.), which leads me to the next part of this saga.

I’ve never been a sports fan. I always found watching games, whether they be basketball, football, baseball, soccer, etc…, incredibly, bewitchingly boring, save the Super Bowl, which for some reason has always fascinated me to the point of annually throwing parties for the occasion. Recently, however, I’ve begun to feel that I’m missing out on a crucial aspect of life as a result of my stubbornness; and so, as of about eleven days ago (I wish I had marked the inception with some sort of grandiose event), I am an avid Boston Red Sox fan. And I mean avid. I went to my local library that afternoon to check out books on Red Sox history, I watch every game and keep detailed statistics, and, of course, sporadically raise my arms and shout “BOSOX!!!” in crowded public areas, which is what I assume Red Sox fans do (correct me if I’m wrong here, please).

Why the Red Sox? Hell, why even baseball, might you ask? Well, I can tell you – The decision to opt for baseball was easy. Baseball is so deeply intertwined with American culture that it’d be damn hard to choose anything over it. More importantly (and poetically), however, the Greats of baseball are legends. I’ll say it again for emphasis: Legends. Regardless of how long this planet survives, the name “Babe Ruth” will forever be mentioned in discussions about home run hitters. Hell, Hank Aaron, a figure himself never to be forgotten, claimed, as he approached Ruth’s career record of 714 home runs, “I can’t recall a day this year or last when I did not hear the name of Babe Ruth.” The Babe aside, however, Ty Cobb, Honus Wagner,Ted Williams, Cy Young, Lou Gehrig, Joe Dimaggio – these men somehow surpassed mere mortality and slipped into mythos.

And the Sox? My grandfather, born and raised in Boston, has been a Red Sox fan his entire life, the majority of which he sat watching them lose year after year, the cursed pendant slipping through their hands each and every time; when they finally did break the curse, he was so elated I thought he may expire from a heart attack. So, after opting for baseball, the choice to follow Boston came naturally.

As I squeezed into a packed restaurant and parked myself at the only seat left at the bar, trying to waste an hour or so before boarding a creaky charter bus, the true allure of baseball revealed itself.  No sooner had I sat down than the man next to me inquired, “Ya know when the Sox play, by chance?” As a matter of fact I did (and told him so), after which he, his wife, and I spent the next hour sharing drinks, stories, and generally just….enjoying each other’s company. We parted ways, me having to catch my bus and the two of them going to meet friends for the Cardinals game across the street, and I was emphatically denied the opportunity to pay for my own drinks.

Sit for an hour, discuss baseball, and make friends for life, it seems-

And after that, waiting to board the bus, I noticed the passenger in front of me reading a biography of Shoeless Joe Jackson, a worn Red Sox hat slung around his left wrist. Over the next several hours I learned this gentleman was a native of Holland, and, after several years of “university,” as he described it, had dropped seemingly everything and launched a trip literally around the world, stopping along the way in cities deemed historically musically relevant (thus his presence in Memphis). He was, naturally, a huge Red Sox fan, though he was unable to actually visit Fenway during his Boston stay due to illness; it seems the curse transfers to the fans occasionally, as well…

And friend, if you’re reading, as I hope you are, as I bestowed a “Your Neighborhood Reverend” business card upon you during our bus trip together, I apologize – I simply don’t remember your name. So please (please!) drop me a line.

For the rest of you, drop by The Songs of Sam Cooke, for though I can’t recall the name of my newly befriended weary world traveler, I do remember that that is his website. Go figure-

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ball game (pronounced bawwl) to catch.

PS: Thanks to all for keeping up with me even in my absence! I can’t express enough gratitude for the folks I’ve met along the way here-

Author’s edit: Upon further reading, my foreign friend’s name is Martijn, and Martijn, I apologize to you, sir-

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