Game 6
By Today is the 20th anniversary of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. At the time, I was a high school junior attending a journalism conference in Charlottesville, Virginia. A Red Sox fan by virtue of my father’s Massachusetts roots, I inherited all the affiliated pathologies. When the ball rolled through Buckner’s legs, I threw a chair, four or five ashtrays, and a small metal garbage can into the pool of the University Inn, where my high school newspaper and yearbook staffs were staying. I had grabbed the television set and was attempting to drag it off the hotel dresser when cooler, more sober heads intervened.
For two decades, not a day has passed in which I have neglected to feel like shit for at least two or three minutes because of this game. I don’t hold Bill Buckner responsible for this. Rather, I blame John McNamara, Calvin Schiraldi, Bob Stanley, and (most of all) God.
I still can’t watch the whole inning, even when someone cleverly reproduces it on his Ninendo: