Thoughts
on the Big Unit from The Goliard Online
When some of the Goliard
staff first moved up to Seattle back in the early 90's, we did
so as die hard, tried and true Boston Red Sox fans. Having
grown up in Vermont we didn't have much of a choice in the
beginning seeing as how it was in our New England blood and
one of our first enduring memories of early life was the 1975
World Series when Yaz, Dewey, Chub Fiske and the boys lost a
heart breaker to the Big Red Machine of Rose, Bench, Griffey
and Foster. Once we left New England for more exotic climes we
followed the Sox religiously from afar, suffering through all
the ups and downs as we traveled about, never missing a chance
to check the box scores in local papers from Minnetonka to
Maui and catch them on game of the week when we had access to
a television. Tried and true as we said and the thought of
ever being a fan of another baseball team never once crossed
our minds.
One of the many things that
made Seattle attractive in those days, just before it's
reputation for good music, good beer, good coffee, and good
software came exploding onto the scene dragging the resistant
and rainy city onto the national map and making it a
destination for the nations hip, was the fact that it was a
major league baseball town but relatively few people in town
cared much about the major league team that played there. The
Mariners had never made it to the playoffs, rarely even
mustering a winning record and, as a result, the fans mostly
stayed away. "This is a football town!", people said
when we first got there, even though the Seahawks weren't
actually all that much better than the Mariners. Go Seahawks.
Go U-Dub Huskies baby. Perennial contenders in college
football.
For a fan of baseball and the
Red Sox however, what this lack of enthusiasm meant was that,
81 times a year, a person could easily attend a major league
baseball game. All it took was to head down to the park, grab
a cheap scalped ticket and catch a couple innings with almost
no hassle at all. And roughly six times a year, we could
expect to enter the old Grey lady that was the Kingdome, order
a draft Redhook or Hefeweisen way before they were available
at any other park in the nation, and sit basically wherever we
wanted to watch the Red Sox beating up on the Mariners during
yet another playoff run that they would ultimately bobble away
in some mind boggling and gut wrenching fashion. We found that
we could feel good about rooting for the Mariners the rest of
the time since they were never a threat to the Sox chances and
often playing a team that was. They were perpetual underdogs
that managed to pull out a feel good upset victory here and
there and the players were a bunch of play hard, likeable guys
with a couple rising superstars in their midst. Baseballs
would fly around the yard to a smattering from the half full
stands and the concrete roof kept the rain off as you lolled
in the outfield bleachers, often with a whole section to
yourself. Life was good up until that summer of 1995. And then
something totally unexpected happened. The Mariners began to
win.
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