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  • The Communal Possibilities of Baseball
  • Paul Ringel (bio)

On October 14, 2013, the Red Sox played Game Two of the American League Championship Series against the Tigers at Fenway Park. It was a cold night, and Max Scherzer dominated the game. After seven innings the Red Sox were losing 5–1, and after a 1–0 defeat the previous night, the shivering crowd was quiet and discouraged. My friend Alex had procured standing room tickets through a lottery, and we had been walking the perimeter of the park from the left field corner to the right field roof deck in order to keep warm, skirting guards and looking for anywhere to plant ourselves where we could get a clear view of the field. At the end of the seventh, Alex’s friends texted us—they were leaving because their kids were cold and tired—did we want their seats? By the time we got down to the lower box about ten rows behind third base, it was the bottom of the inning and the Sox were beginning to rally. A few batters later, David Ortiz came to the plate with the bases loaded and drove the ball to deep right field. We had a direct sight line as Torii Hunter flipped over the wall and into the bullpen in a courageous but futile attempt to catch the ball. Grand slam, tie game, and the Sox scratched out another run in the bottom of the ninth to win 6–5. The series and the season essentially flipped on that swing, and the Red Sox went on to win their third World Series in ten years.

The Ortiz home run was probably the most exciting baseball moment I’ve seen in person, but that experience was about more than just one swing. I was only at Fenway that night because of a series of unlikely coincidences that exemplify how baseball can strengthen bonds among family and lifelong friends. The game also generates broader connections; the crowd and the city’s sheer joy during that moment was linked to the tragedy of the Boston Marathon bombing the previous spring, and to Ortiz and the team’s galvanizing role in the communal recovery process. These connections even offer the potential, though often not the reality, of crossing traditional racial divides. As Ortiz slowly circled the bases to thunderous applause, it occurred to me what a historical irony it was that a large Dominican Black man served that role for a predominantly white crowd in the last city in the major leagues to desegregate its baseball team. [End Page 186]

Seven years later, opportunities for the shared joy that Ortiz and the Red Sox generated that night—even in its limited form—have largely disappeared. We’re stuck at home, separated from family and friends, struggling to rally our communities against a faceless virus and respond to yet another wave of racial injustice. In the midst of this global catastrophe, the absence of baseball is in many ways an insignificant consequence. Yet that night was an example of the game’s capacities to renew hope and help stitch communities back together, both of which are experiences that we desperately need right now. During this abysmal spring and summer of cancelled games and empty ball fields, the memory of that game reminds me how much my love of baseball is based in its sense of communal possibility.

Like most fans, my individual connection to baseball began in childhood, but the social potential of that allegiance did not become clear until I moved away from home. As I grew into adulthood, the game facilitated so many of my pivotal experiences and relationships. Occasionally, it has crushed my spirit, as when I watched Game Six of the 1986 World Series with one fellow Red Sox fan and a large group of New Yorkers during my first weeks of college.

More often, baseball has created opportunities. A ballpark tour from Boston to Chicago and back with a close friend during the summer of 1997 helped me to heal after the breakup of a long relationship. That friend started a fantasy baseball league the next year, which sparked a community...

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