Only 84 to go.

I know a young guy that became hooked on the Red Sox during the 2004 season.

No, he wasn't one of Those Fans, the ones that jumped on the bandwagon to wave new Sox hats during the victory parade. C had been a youngster without prior proper introduction to the hometown team. 2004 provided his first trip to Fenway - relatively early in the season - first chance to gobble up statistics and the first opportunity fall in love with a baseball team.

He got lucky. He spent a season getting to know a baseball team. That team won the World Series on what amounted to his first try. As if the fates weren't smiling down upon him enough, Game 4 fell on his birthday.

We all laughed about it at the time, the way he would one day get a dose of reality and learn the other side of the team he loves. He was going to have to realize what it's really like to be a Red Sox fan.

And here we are.

Yesterday was my third consecutive "first Monday in October" spent in Massachusetts, the first time in those three years that I didn't stand in line for a seat at Fenway Park. I thought in June that the day's events were set in stone -- I attend Rally Monday once again, my baseball team off on a post-season quest, visible through live video feeds on the big screen. I'd have a towel to wave, Jerry and Don would be sitting atop the Red Sox dugout and Larry Lucchino would be pissing me off with his smarmy "look, I'm an approachable guy" shtick.

I spent my day elsewhere. The season over, ended a few innings early on account of rain, a few weeks early on account of team implosion.

Interesting, really. There's a lot of discussion about when things started to go wrong and when they officially took a turn toward disaster.

Many point their fingers at either A) the Yankees series or B) the Blackbird Game as the latter. In a season that left fans searching for silver linings, saying that one was at the Aug. 1 game when rock bottom became visible signifies grasping at straws.

It wasn't pretty, but I stuck around until the end of that game, man. I sung "Sweet Caroline." I kept on cheering. I rally-capped. I wasn't one of those that gave up and left AT THE TOP OF EIGHT (Ahem).

You take what you can get.

A few months ago, I remarked on a team that was leading the AL East by four games, had gone 12-0 with 16 straight error-less games. "Two ten-win pitchers, stellar defensive play and run support. Even when Wakefield takes the mound," I wrote before I described the feeling such a team evoked.

"I almost can't enjoy it. ... I still instinctively hold my breath when a ball is hit to shortstop. I half expect simple throws to first to sail wide. I worry that the throw from the outfield will miss the cutoff man. Now? I'm worry about when that's going to happen. We already had our magical season."

Something had to go wrong. We'd been trained to expect it. And after the All-Star break, they delivered.

EVERYTHING went wrong. The fairytale notion of a twenty year Sox/Mets reunion fell to the wayside as the team slowly staggered over to the disabled list, Tito began coughing up blood and Theo's gleaming veneer started to tarnish.

The blackbird tried to steal third base; the Red Sox dragged themselves to third place.

So now I wait for next year. I think of the amazing games I witnessed, and I grimace over the painful games I wanted to ignore. I prepare to miss Dirt-Dog Nixon in right field, I keep my fingers crossed for Loretta and Lowell. I say my goodbyes to Papa Jack and Dave Wallace, waiting to hear about who else is heading out. I roll my eyes at any word of Manny, and I start to root for Minnesota to take the Series.

And I make a note to check in with the youngster, see how he's holding up and officially welcome him into the fold.

Red, blue, green, orange

Are there rules? Of course there are rules. You're talking to the person who set up rules for the Vice Favorite Red Sox Player position. Hello.

The rules for seeing a much-loved former Red Sox player battle against his old team are pretty simple, though. Easy to understand and to follow.

Overall Objective: To see Player do well. NOT to see Player win.

Offense: Player is encouraged to hit the ball well and get on base. A strong offensive effort is supported by Fan, assuming, of course, that this offensive effort does nothing to score Player's Current Team any runs. Home runs are hereby forbidden. Player is not allowed to cross home plate or pick up any RBI's. Stolen bases, if applicable, are encouraged.

Defense: Player is encouraged to demonstrate precisely why he earned Favorite Red Sox Player status during Boston seasons, but only if Current Red Sox team is enjoying a lead. Diving catches are always cool.

Outcome: Player makes Fan proud. Rightful Team (Red Sox) win game. No Fan loyalties tested.

Kevin Millar followed most of the rules on Tuesday night. He did cross home plate, but such an oversight was far more Timlin's fault than Millar's. With a good lead racked up midway through the game, I was free to enjoy Millar's turns as Baltimore's DH, cheering him while hollering for the Boston boys to bring home the win (I did in fact proudly wear my No. 15 Boston shirt to the game, one of only two that I saw at Camden Yards that night).

Everything was glorious, if you ignore the near disaster that was the bottom of the ninth. We won. Let's focus on that.

For those who haven't made the trip to Baltimore, you should. Particularly if you're a Red Sox fan. With a team that hasn't done much of note since that World Series in 1966, Baltimore has become a haven for opposing teams' fans looking for a good ballpark and easy ticket acquisition. The city is laidback and accomodating, the fans are game for seeing superstars roll into town and Orioles Park is breathtaking. Tuesday marked my third trip to the park (first since moving back to Vermont after the District City days) and the third time my jaw dropped at the beauty of it all -- the factory stretching the length of Eutaw Street, the markers for home run balls, the brick and green steel color palate...

We were seated in Section 262, halfway between third base and the foul pole and, unbeknownst to us, a swanky area of seating. A private entrance, Hall of Fame Lounge directly behind us and waitresses ready to take whatever orders we wanted so we didn't have to miss a moment of the game. I left my seat once.

Oh, and the beer is better than it is at Fenway. And cheaper.

Trying to compare Fenway and Camden is akin to a showdown between (Granny Smith) apples and oranges, I know. Old/new. Tradition/innovation. Obstructed view risks/no bad seats in the house. Sellout crowds/bargain night specials.

It's really no contest anyway -- I'm a girl in love with her Yawkey Way. But were Fenway not around? Camden would have my heart, no question.

What makes it even easier is that the place might as well be Fenway South. Different color scheme, fancier scoreboard, no "Sweet Caroline," but the place still echoes with cheers for the Sox when they're scoring, boos when Timlin's walking off the mound after nearly tying the game in the ninth. You see more red and blue than orange -- a fact that I'd almost feel badly about, were the Orioles fans not so excited to see the Red Sox themselves.

Millar. Millahhhhhh. Couldn't we bring him home with us? I don't think it would have required much arm-twisting. Pre-game, I raced to the Os dugout to find Millar laughing with his old teammates; hearing that cackle made my face instantly break into a grin. I've missed him. Sure, the fielding was spotty. Yes, I know the hitting was streaky. But I loved the X factor he brought to the team -- slow baserunning, frosted tips and all. Millar is, in my mind, still a Red Sox player displaced.

He was why we were there. After the move, seeing him once more at Fenway was out of the question. We opted for Baltimore instead. And after the chaos and tension of the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Rooms, the ticketbuying process had been glorious. Might as well have come with a backrub and a Pina Colada, pink umbrella included.

The ultimate stress-free baseball experience.

Baltmore itself was surprisingly new, not at all what I'd expected. We spent the entire day in the Inner Harbor, which I admit lends itself to overall city juding much in the way Back Bay belies Boston, Adams Morgan falsely represents DC. But I was expecting to see a city with a little more historical meat on its bones, presented instead with modern structures of turquoise windows and brick, with a huge Hard Rock Cafe guitar serving as the cherry atop the former Power Plant building.

I'd gone looking for Edgar Allen Poe and found space more befitting Nicole Ritchie instead.

That said, not at all bad. Far from it -- actually quite enjoyable and lovely (guitar aside). As we walked the quiet city streets, we encountered Sox fan after Sox fan, making me wonder if the city residents proper had decided to take a few days off and head to the hills once they learned Boston was coming into town.

(Also, several things should be quickly noted:

- Ellipsies in text messages = rather bizarre. Doesn't that go against the very nature of the quick communication process? That said, thank you, cell phones, for letting me laugh from my bleacher seats at a Monster Seat friend during Sunday's home game.
- Hector on Stilts. Band out of Western Massachusetts that I caught at Bill's Bar on Friday night. OUTSTANDING. A friend described the band earlier in the day as "really smart, just really good indie pop." He was right. Go catch 'em live. The lead singer reminds me of Scott Weiland crossed with Gene Wilder, circa Willy Wonka. In a good way.
- Read Bill Simmons' "Now I Can Die in Peace" cover to cover during the trip from Baltimore to Boston yesterday. I highly recommend.)

Now, back from this set of adventure, I prepare for tomorrow's -- Austin and all that comes with it. Bags are packed (I think), itineraries set (as much as they can be) and the promise I made to myself to get to sleep early tonight.

I have a hunch that that will be easier said than done.

I'd been wondering when the mental Plinko game would come to an end and next week's events would actually register with me.

As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.

Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.

I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.

The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."

It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.

I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.

So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?

Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.

(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)

Texas, baby. Texas.

Memo

To: Boston Red Sox
From: Vix
Subject: Tonight's game

Are you serious?
You bastards.
I love you.
xoxo - V

In related news, the blackbird was signed to a two-year contract with the Red Sox, where it will serve as a pinch runner ala Dave Roberts

Last night was weird.

It was hot, and those who filed into the ballpark were sweaty, a little ornery and ready for the home team to justify the trip out into the oppressive heat. I suspect that many of the crowd were in our position - having purchased tickets in a frozen January, not knowing that Game Day would be one of Boston's hottest in a looooong time.

Varitek was out, and as of game time, we weren't sure of his situation. Johnson had been called up from Pawtucket because Snyder had to be pulled into Monday night's game; the Sox had hit at least four home runs the night before. The natural inclination was to worry that weak pitching and an exhausted offense suggested a frustrating kind of game.

So our pitching's shaky, the rock behind the plate is missing in action, the bats were tired and no one would actually be psyched to play baseball in this kind of weather.

Awesome.

But I decided to shake off the sense of foreboding and make the best of it. I was in Boston. Yes, it was broiling hot, but I was going to Fenway with friends, there was ice cold beer on tap and I was going to take in my first personal view of the team in a couple of months.

How bad could it be?

As Gordon Edes' Globe story succinctly sums it up today:

Instead of roaring for another walkoff home run by David Ortiz (bloop double and squibber single), the sellout crowd of 36,328 was reduced to directing its ninth-inning encouragement at the bird, which made it back to second and hopped toward third. In the middle of the ninth, the bird occupied center stage, appearing on the video scoreboard, while the PA system played the Beatles' ``Blackbird," at the behest of Dr. Charles Steinberg, the Sox executive vice president of public affairs.

`On a night like this," Steinberg said, ``this is what people go home and talk about. `Hey, were you at the game with the blackbird?'"

A quick sputter of a rally - thanks to Gonzo for making it interesting - but otherwise, the highlight was realizing that we had a lovely breeze blowing on the upper bleachers, while the box seat occupants were probably sweating themselves silly.

Ha. Take that.

It was just very, very strange. At one point early on, the bleachers were flooded with more beach balls than I've ever seen at the park (accompanied, inexplicably, by an inflatable Tootsie Roll?). I think someone on the third base side caught - or almost caught - a foul ball with a cup of beer, judging from the spray visible from our perch. The blackbird situation - which really did get the entire park chanting "Bird! Bird! Bird!" as loudly as if we were at the Garden in the 80s - and the worry over Lowell's foot...the fact that I wasn't yelling or chanting nearly as much as I typically do...

Weird, weird, weird.

The day itself was, well, hot. Damn hot. Insert-"Good Morning Vietnam"-sound-clip-here hot (ten points if you know what I'm talking about). And of course, it was the day that I wound up running all over Boston. Started in Central, stopped in Chinatown, rested in the Common, headed to Newbury and then, oh wait, went to Fenway.

It was a little spastic - by the end, I was busy apologizing to everyone because I was trying to make sure we could all meet up - and I cursed Mother Nature for being the spiteful bitch that she is, but I had fun. The best was probably being called a brat after casually mentioning that I was in town...

Ha. Good times.

But if it's this hot next time I'm in town (next weekend's CP/deSol boat cruise/Guster doubleheader), I'm going to throw down.

Or just beat someone with a water bottle.

Whatever works.

(more photos, as per usual, are up on the flickr)

Ben Affleck gets jeered for not breaking up a foul ball catch during tonight's game.

The difference between watching an ESPN Sox broadcast and a NESN broadcast:

ESPN (channel on which the game was broadcast): "Let's comment on this throughout the rest of the game, supplying our television audiences with copious shots of Affleck and Jennifer Garner sitting in their seats right by the dugout. We will show replays and discuss whether Affleck looks dejected or not."

NESN (channel on which the game should have been broadcast): "Aw, man. That Affleck. If Damon was here, he totally would have taken one for the team."

"Honestly now, when this weekend will you wear your Red Sox hat?"
"I don't go on a trip without my Sox hat. It just doesn't happen."

Twelve in a row. Sixteen straight without an error. Four game lead in the AL East, two ten-win pitchers, stellar defensive play and run support. Even when Wakefield takes the mound.

I almost can't enjoy it. Don't get me wrong - I'm loving it. But still.

The other night, I listened to a Mets commentator who'd stopped over to say hi to the NESN guys during that evening's broadcast. During the conversation, he mentioned that the Red Sox are head and shoulders above the other AL teams New York had faced during interleague play. No question, absolutely, by far the best team.

It was great to hear, but I felt an urge to reach through the television and hit the guy.

You can't SAY that kind of thing about Boston. They'll go and screw it up.

Watching the team execute textbook-gorgeous double plays and congratulating each other with every run scored is a joy for anyone who knows the nightmare the team has been in past seasons. Despite being quite the fan of Gonzales, I still instinctively hold my breath when a ball is hit to shortstop. I half expect simple throws to first to sail wide. I worry that the throw from the outfield will miss the cutoff man.

Now? I'm worrying about when that's going to happen. We already had our magical season. Actually, wait. We had our magical fall - because anyone who was there throughout the 2004 season knows that at this time that year, we were ready to bang our heads against the walls.

Only two years later, they're playing with a professional poise and icy strength that leave me wondering "Could they actually...?"

Which makes me nervous. Remember, in 2003, I couldn't even watch the playoff games, for fear of jinxing.

Old habits die kind of hard.

June 26, 1999.

Visiting family in Massachusetts (this was back in the day when Boston-area trips for me were rare), my father, brother and I decided to embark on one of those random adventures that always left my mother shaking her head in amusement.

"You're going to go pay money to stand at Fenway?"

Four words, Mom: It's a Pedro Game.

The game against the White Sox proved to be the only time I saw Martinez pitch in person. It was a massacre - 17-1 final score, an 11-run first inning, five Boston home runs (including two by then-favorite Nomar), and Pedro dominating in the five innings he pitched. Our standing spot was on the third base side, but the back row of seats was empty, so we decided to use them until their owners arrived -- which wasn't until the fourth inning. By the end of the game, T and I had made our way to seats in the second row behind home plate, sitting among the folks touting radar guns.

(Those were the days, huh?)

Our crew of three arrived back in Beverly with beaming grins, and my brother and I overlapped each other as we recapped the game for the amused family members who had stayed behind.

"TWO STRIKES, but I just KNEW Nomar would connect -"

"- you should have seen V's face as Dad picked on her about him -"

"- because he just doesn't have as much FAITH in Nomar as I do -"

"- you should have seen HIS face when Nomar hit the homer!"

"I never thought I'd actually almost get tired of the Red Sox scoring runs!"

I complained when Pedro left, but I'm now just looking forward to seeing him take the mound back at Fenway. The big question today has been "How would you greet him, if you had tickets to the game?"

Well, I'm going to be perched in front of the television at home, cheering for him.

That said, it would be glorious to see another Red Sox slaughter.

My nostalgic tendancies only go so far.

Update:
Dear Pedro - Sorry, dude.
Dear Red Sox - Whoo hoo! Many thanks!
xoxo - Vix