On Wednesday night, in the bottom of the ninth, with the Redsocks leading 3-1, my father
handed me the July/Aug issue of Smithsonian. He told me I should read the
article about vice presidents. On page 30, there was juju,
personified by Raul Ibanez, drilling a liner into the rightfield seats.
"Keep reading," insisted my father. It's good luck." My
father is 96. "good luck" is his generation's version of juju.
My hand stiffened through another bases loaded failure, then through a second
inning of Soriano and through more weak hacks in the bottom of the tenth. My
father asked why I was such a slow reader. I was on about the fifth
reading of the malfeasance of Spiro Agnew when my hand began to spasm. I rested it
briefly on my lap as one veep after another mocked the office they had held and
Cervelli failed to corral Lowe's wild pitch.
I shook my hand, held the mag steady on
page 30.
I wavered slightly - distracted -Alexander and
Catalano even advertise here in Binghamton.
Back to Alban Barkley Then John Nance Garner -- then Ichiro -- Then
Nelson Rockefeller and Andrew Johnson. Then Derek.
Then Humphrey, Gore, Quayle,
And Swisher with a liner to left and ARod
and the rest of us robbed by a
centerfielder with a name like a prep school polo player.
Then, Chaney.
Pain crept toward my elbow. The
bird-delay served to distract everyone enough for me to flex my fingers, and as
the warmth of relief flowed into my fingers, juju reenergized, the once
banished Francisco Cervelli kept juju alive with the biggest base on balls of his career,
then moved to second when Grandy walked and made Raul the Cool the hero on the
field as the juju inspired Ibanez slapped a grounder between 3rd and short. Cervelli's diving slide across home plate ended the agony for all of us.
"Why are you still reading?"
asked my father, as the Smithsonian fell to the floor. "It's over."
* The Juju Rules: Or, How to
Win Ballgames from Your Couch: A
Memoir of a Fan Obsessed,
Hart Seely
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