I spent some of my childhood in Boston, something I haven’t talked much about in recent years or particularly during this presidential election. This morning, of course, I am a native son.
If ever there was a time in sport that screamed that it is never hopeless; never give up; battle every inch until you no longer have breath—it is the impossible victory of the Boston Red Sox over the New York Yankees in seven games, after being down three games to none. It isn’t just that there has never been a team to overcome a 0-3 hole in postseason play. The Red Sox had never beaten the Yankees in the post season. That’s a never never.
The Red Sox were one pitch, one swing, one out away from elimination several times in games five and six. Game seven was a blowout for the Red Sox, but it still carried enormous tension because of the history. Somehow the Sox would finally lose. The curse of the Bambino. The mystique of the Yankees. All that.
All that didn’t matter, and although it’s just baseball, the great lesson is that facing even the longest odds, the most impossible situation, the worst history, the understanding that everything must go right for you and just one thing needs to go right for the other guy—even then, it is not hopeless.
It can make one an optimist, even a guy from Boston.