Unite, Fans of Boston Strugglers

Help me. Please, help me. I am suffering. I am in agony. The pain cuts to the bone and shoots to the heart. It lingers there and finally breaks it in two.

I am old, and respected, and refined, but when in need of help, no one is there for me. No one comes to my rescue at the last possible minute. No one soothes me with cold compresses and reassures me that everything is going to be all right.

I know that it is not going to be all right. It is never all right. I go on and on, hoping for the best, desperate for good news, yearning for relief, but the anguish continues. It never lets up.

I’ve grown accustomed to sad faces. For years I have borne the countenances of everyone around me, cheerful come springtime, miserable come fall, watching with hopeful eyes, then wiping the tears from their cheeks. My own cheeks are damp. They always are, this time of year.

I am not certain why no one is able to ease the discomfort. There is a perceptible sensation that I am never going to be able to shake this thing, that it will nag me the rest of my life, attach itself like a leech, never let go. I am destined for distress.

I am sitting here today wondering what I ever did to rate such a fate, why I deserve the unhappiness that the gods of the game have bestowed upon me. I am sitting here wondering why Fenway Park, our green-walled Valhalla, the place where we go to toast the souls of those who have fallen in combat, must strip away the ribbons and bunting and maintain a mortuary’s gloom.

I am part of this country, same as anyone, anywhere, and older than most. I am richly American. I am the son of a farmer, who was the son of a statesman, who was the son of a poet. My ancestors were tea drinkers and revolutionaries. I have Olde England in me and New England in me. In my bones. In my blood.

I am the seafarers who docked at Plymouth Rock, and the colonists who ditched tea crates over the side, and the hoods who pulled the Brink’s job. I am the gang practicing medicine at St. Elsewhere, and imbibing for medicinal purposes at Cheers.

I am Paul Revere, looking for a lamp in a steeple, or at least for a pitcher in a faraway bullpen who can get somebody out. I am the Kennedys of Hyannisport, asking not what we can do in the ninth inning for you, but what you can do in the ninth inning for us.

I am Henry David Thoreau, thinking this morning about plunging head-first into Walden Pond and ending it all. I am Julia Child, thinking about tossing my peanuts and Cracker Jack in the garbage disposal and putting my head in that oven.

I am Joan Benoit Samuelson, considering the possibility of running and running and running until I find myself hundreds of miles from the ballpark, safe at home. I am Charlie on the MTA, riding and riding and riding until I am absolutely certain that I am never going to get off.

I am Sweet Baby James Taylor, depressed by snow on the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston, though the Berkshires seem dreamlike on account of that frostin’. I am Emily Dickinson, the belle of Amherst, wondering if, true to my word, a discerning eye can make the divinest sense out of this much madness.

I am George Plimpton, a Harvard man, ready to go out there and play if they need me. I am A. Bartlett Giammatti, a Yale man, not yet ready to rejoice for the league that I now run.

I am Tip O’Neill, reconsidering retirement, determined to speak one more time to the House about injustice. I am Ted Williams, prepared to go to war to fight for justice if necessary.

I am Rocky Marciano and Marvin Hagler of Brockton, and we will knock the block off the first person who makes a crack about this latest knockout. I am Howie Long of Milford, and I will personally attack and sack you, patriot or no patriot.

I am Stephen King, buried alive in Maine, wondering if this horror story will ever end. I am the Boston Strangler, bringing new meaning to the word choking.

I am Professor Kingsfield, still chasing paper, wondering if we will ever learn our lesson. I am J.D. Salinger, secluded as always, reluctant to agree with the world that we could use another catcher.

I am Capt. Ahab, setting sail at New Bedford, depressed that the big one always seems to get away. I am Hester Prynne, ready as always to take one, letter-high.

I am Ellen Goodman, wondering where I can write to complain about this. I am Cotton Mather, and when I preached to you about the virtues of Calvinism, it had nothing to do with young Schiraldi’s ability to hold a lead.

I am Jeff Reardon of Pittsfield, and Steve Bedrosian of Methuen, and Mike Flanagan of Manchester, and I wish we could have been there to pitch in. I am Richie Hebner of Norwood, the grave-digger’s son, and I wish I could be there today to assist with the services.

I am Oliver Barrett III, ready to write a check if you need money, and Frank Galvin, ready to defend you in court, and Thomas Banacek, ready to help you recoup all your losses, and Eddie Coyle, ready to beg, borrow or steal on your behalf.

I am Tom Yawkey, and Bud Collins, and Arthur Fiedler, and Jim Lonborg, and Ann Beattie, and John Kelley the Elder, and Doug Flutie, and Kevin White, and Tom Lehrer, and Haywood Sullivan, and Gordon Edes, and Charles Emerson Winchester III, and Hawkeye Pierce, for that matter.

I am Bunker Hill, and Beacon Hill, and Heartbreak Hill, and Calvin Hill, gaining yardage for Yale. I am jazz at Newport, and sand at Cape Cod, and lobsters at Bangor, and sharks at Amity.

I am a yelp from Oil Can Boyd’s lips, and a limp from Bill Buckner’s legs, and a teardrop from Wade Boggs’ eyes.

I am Boston.

I am the Commonwealth.

I am New England.

Loser of the World Series once more.

New York City, have pity.

Let’s play five out of nine.