Art of Immeasurable Brilliance

 

It occurred to me late last night that my writing career is on life support. It was a 'Jerry Maguire' type moment, waking up in a cold sweat, hands shaking, the perpetual motion of life seemingly faster than usual. Fortunately, in tossing this over and over in my head, I was able to put my finger on the problem at hand.

I am not a Red Sox fan.

The fact that two such different ideas, that I’m a failure as a writer and that I don’t root for the Boston Red Sox, could be associated may confuse many of you, but I can assure you that my theory is not unfounded.

Some might dispute this claim by stating the obvious, such as the fact that I work long hours that don’t leave much time for personal writing, that I often lack the focus necessary to completely commit to an idea, or that I’ve spent much of my career outside of the literary profession, thus making it harder to break in. Some of you may even go so far as to psychoanalyze me and say that the only thing holding me back is my own fear of failure.

I feel that that is neither here, nor there. That’s just crazy talk.

John Cheever once declared that, "all literary men are Red Sox fans,” and there are facts to back this statement up. For instance, I could mention how many noted authors and journalists list the Red Sox as their favorite team. If I was to do this I would begin my list with names like Stephen King, John Updike, and William Faulkner. If I chose an obvious path, I could even list some of the best sports journalists of the past and present, people like Peter Gammons, whose reporting evokes classic baseball erudition, or ESPN’s Bill Simmons, whose use of humor and irony tackles the modern sports world in an all together unique fashion.

With evidence this strong we must rule out coincidence as a factor. There must be a reason why so many eloquent professionals root for the same team. And examination of each individual might aid in our search, but I chose to instead focus on the similar underlying motivators for each.

The best writing often conveys an intense understanding of the human condition. Without that, a writer could never grasp the depths that human emotions can fall to anymore than they could dream of the heights that we all aspire to. Successful authors write best from what they know and it is the experiences that shape them that often spur on their most creative leaps. Unfortunately, lives lead by such men and women are often fraught with pain and anguish, and the literary journeys that they undergo often stem from the ill-fates of their own lives. The evidence for this fills every volume around us, whether they be in the words of James Joyce or Mark Twain (whose last name it should be noted was actually Clemens).

Of course, one need only turn to the tragic end that befell one of the master’s of conveying the human spirit, Ernest Hemingway, to understand the how depressed one whose work is tied to the complexity of humanity often becomes. I could continue, but to list those with artistic merit who have met an untimely end would be an exercise in exhaustion. Needless to say, Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in the oven while trying pull out her latest batch of brownies.

And so it becomes obvious that a full understanding of the human condition, which along with it brings a deeper view into the human soul, can only be accomplished by someone who shares a familiarity with pain and suffering. And thus a theory is born.

Had we experienced a World Series win from the Sox since 1918, the history of this storied organization might read more like that of many others, and we might be more inclined to think of the moments granted us great Teddy Ballgame and his magical .406 season, Yaz’ and the last Triple Crown in MLB baseball history, or the mastery of the mound shown in the Cy Young seasons of Clemens and Pedro.

But the Sox have not won a Series, and so those memories are obscured, as we choose to focus on the continued eulogy of No No Nanette and the ill-fated Ruth deal, Bucky Dent and the Green Monster, the ball rolling through Buckner’s legs, and Aaron ‘$%#!’ Boone.

Enduring these hardships, season after season, undoubtedly shapes men of great talent. The Red Sox are the trampled dreams of the proletariots. The Red Sox are the mighty whale that eludes our capture. The Red Sox are the great love that we never realize. And with each passing collapse, we feel great pain, and with each collapse we discover art of immeasurable brilliance.

Though I’m not a Red Sox fan, I’ve had my Red Sox moments. I’m sitting underneath a gorgeous cherry blossom tree on a breezy spring day. I’m holding my love in my arms one moment, then suddenly she pulls back to speak of the outcast classmate she slept with the night before. The one she is leaving me for. I’m the failure of Mike Torrez.

Years later, I’m friends with a woman of incredible passion who draws me into her web. She is bi-sexual, but declares devotion only to me. I know that being with her is wrong. That this can only end badly. And yet I am convinced to trust her. And soon she leaves me. For a woman. I am the foolishness of John McNamara.

I sit at my desk each day, at once feeling less and less sensation in my body, and yet more and more pain in my soul. I am not writing. I am not doing what I am meant to do, yet I excuse my fear as practicality, taking in another paycheck, all in the name of escape. Time continues to pass and the only change I sense is the metamorphosis of my dream of into an overwhelming nightmare. I watch and I do nothing to stop the onslaught. I am the inevitability of Grady Little.

And yet despite this, I am not a Red Sox fan. I now am forced to wonder if the sum of my Red Sox moments is enough to propel me to literary excellence. I’m forced to consider the possibility that my only chance might be to sacrifice my own beliefs, and my dedication to the Mets, in order to accomplish my dreams. I feel as if my only chance is to declare myself faithful and dedicated to a lost cause, which in turn might actually aid in my attempt to accomplish a lost cause. It is a type of Catch-22, whose irony is could only be multiplied greater by the fact that Bill Buckner once wore number 22.

And so, I greet this year’s playoffs hesitantly, torn between rooting for the Red Sox and rooting for a greater understanding of the pain and anguish is at the heart of the human condition. And it is here that I forge an understanding worthy of a magnum opus. I realize the cruel irony that ultimately what I root for, in both cases, is one and the same.