tears of rage

There are things, dear reader, that have been known to make me cry. The odd toe stub certainly, as well as the new houses for poor people show hosted by Ty Wiggington (formerly of the New York Mets, right?) which, if I'm hungover and emotional enough, will reduce me to quiet tears on a Sunday night while I eat pizza and contemplate my life of relative privilege.

But I've discovered that one of the most wrenching and beautiful things to watch is old footage of no hitters. This will - nearly without fail - reduce me to tears. I was watching recently a repeat of Clay Bucholz's no hitter for the Sox this season. Let it be known that I dislike the Red Sox and their rabid fans, and yet, and yet...watching young Bucholz achieve what is one of the rarest feats in baseball was mesmerizing, even though I knew what was to happen. Even denied of the novelty of the suspense, the suspense of the event remains. There are, to be sure, other accomplishments in baseball that are deserving of our attention. But there are no others deserving of our tears. And that is because the no hitter is the greatest team accomplishment. Yes, the pitcher goes in the record books, but it would be impossible without the perfect play of his teammates. And no other feat is as mythical as the no hitter, with its accompanying Macbeth-like superstitions, nor is there one as dramatic, that has fans and players alike rooting for it to happen.

Watching Bucholz's teammates rally around him during this game and coming up with big plays to preserve this young no name's shot at immortality was completely riveting. They don't do it because they like him, or because he's their ace, or a veteran deserving of extra effort. No matter who takes a no hitter into the 7th inning, and the beauty almost increases with the unlikeliness, everyone wishes to preserve it - the perfection, the impossibility - and there is a palpable tension on the field, in the stands, in our living rooms.

Watching this rerun of Bucholz, I looked on open mouthed on the edge of my seat as Dustin Pedroia ranged impossibly to his right and stabbed out of the air a sure hit, and then scrambled to his knees and threw with every ounce of strength to just beat the straining runner. It was miraculous. And I had a glimpse there of selflessness, of sacrifice, of noble effort.

Watching this, on my couch, on a random Tuesday night, I found myself with tears in my eyes.

And then when young Bucholz did it, when he recorded the final out and his catcher Varitek came running out awkwardly to hug him and hoist him in the air, and the players, all of whom had been watching dedicatedly, came running out from the bench, from the bullpen, from their positions, to celebrate, again I found myself wiping my eyes thinking here, here at last, is something really joyful.

There is, yes there is, joy, real joy, out there in this cold world of ours.