First Place
(continued)
By Carl Schonbeck

And so, as I got on my first airplane and proceeded through the rigors of basic training in the warm California sun, the Red Sox dominated the league. McNamara [19] and the boys had chosen the year of my pilgrimage west to have the best Hub [20] team since 1946. By the time I re-emerged from my two-month odyssey of marching and learning to make a proper bunk, semi-brainwashed but in the best shape of my life, there was little doubt they'd win the division. As I gingerly began to take my first steps out into the magical world of Southern Cal, a Red Sox-Angels [21] playoff series was looking increasingly likely. Was I really going to watch this from enemy territory?

As the right and left coasts prepared to do battle, I was studying at the Radioman A-school near where I'd done bootcamp [22]. After an initial period of making me feel very lost and alone ("Mom, I want to come home!"), California was now beginning to offer the sun, fun and freedom I had hoped for. I quickly fell in with a group of non-conformist students like myself who had decided to give the Navy a shot. On weekends we haunted Tijuana and made spectacles of ourselves. My friend Rick Czerniak was chased to the border by the Federales so often he claimed to know more shortcuts than the Mexicans. During the week, our classes were from 3 to 11 pm. As soon as they finished, we could usually be found at Ocean Beach until the early morning hours, drinking, chasing sandpipers and getting to know the various surfers and lunatics that populated the area by night. University students never had it so good. It was one of the best times of my life.

As the AL playoffs got underway, I had no chance of seeing the evening games due to my studies. Petty Officer Ingrim, our instructor, often left the classroom to see how his beloved Angels were getting along. Upon his return, I would put my message traffic aside and ask the score. Dropping into perfect radioman-speak, his answer would inevitably be, "I'm sorry Seaman Schonberg (or some similar mispronunciation of my name), but that's reserved information given on a need to know basis; and you don't need to know!"

Of course, he was right. The Angels had quickly gone up three games to one. With game five looming just up the road in Anaheim, they seemed poised to clinch their first pennant ever. About twenty of us gathered in the barracks that sunny afternoon to cheer on our respective teams. I was dismayed to see how many of my future shipmates seemed to relish the thought of Boston going down. Enemy territory. Non-New Englanders generally didn't like the Red Sox or at best couldn't understand what made the special Boston team/fan relationship tick. Held in special contempt were the Hub faithful, which most saw as rude, arrogant, possessors of the most obnoxious accents since Minnie Pearl [23] and positioned distressingly close to the playing field. But who, us? [24]

Fortunately, I wasn't totally alone. My friend Randy Kulick, a feisty kid of 19 from Amesbury [25], was there ready to take on any and all non-believers (unlike myself). How dare these Californians and Midwest yokels insult the olde towne team! With Randy around it was like having the first two rows of the centerfield bleachers [26] along with Kelly's Tavern in Allston sitting beside you. We'd met on the plane coming out to basic training in May and had entertained the other passengers by throwing our hands up in turbulence and screaming, "We're all going to die!" before collapsing into hysterical laughter. We'd promised to keep in touch. Now we had to cheer on our team in the wolves' den, surrounded by infidels pretending to be Angels.

It didn't look good. The Angels were taking a 5-2 lead into the ninth inning. Suddenly, with one out, Baylor hit a two run homer to make it 5-4. Randy and I punched the air and cheered, but it was more a Braveheart-like shout of defiance before the beheading than a true victory yell. That changed quickly as new pitcher Gary Lucas hit [27] Rich Gedman, putting the tying run on first. Red Sox Nation West was starting to stir. Randy and I were on our feet shouting, "C'mon, c'mon" as Dave Henderson stepped in, with Randy adding the occasional "Make up for that screw up back in the sixth" (Henderson had tipped Bobby Grich's homer over the centerfield wall). Lucas, meanwhile, had been replaced by Donnie Moore, who had a nasty forkball [28]. Randy seemed to be a man possessed. "Hey, Mahlbro...I tell ya.... he's gonna hit it outta the pahk... I know it." Strike one. "He's gonna do it....Hendy kin hit....Mooah's throwin' gahbage up theah...." Strike two. The noise was deafening. The TV was up full blast but we were all but drowning it out. The Angel fans bayed for the final blow. Randy and I fought savagely against the storm; "Do it, do it Hendy!" Two outside the strike zone: baseball hadn't been this much fun since the Sox were wearing red caps [29] and Travolta a white leisure suit. This was what it was all about. Randy's newfound clairvoyant powers became apparent on the next pitch. It was a forkball, low and straight. Henderson golfed it towards deep left-centre. The Angel fans present and televised fell silent while Randy and I did a curious imitation of a Boeing gathering speed at Logan. It was a homerun and the Sox were ahead 6-5. And there's pandemonium in the barracks.... mercy.

Of course, these were the Sox and the Angels tied it in the bottom of the ninth and put the winning run on third with one out. DeCinces hit a short fly to left that Rice caught while holding the runner. Grich went down [30] and the game headed into extra innings. By the eleventh we were limp with exhaustion and emotional release. The two kids with the Boston accents were by now mentioning things from long ago: "Cahbo", "sixth game", and "foul pole" [31]. Finally, Mr. Henderson drove in the game winner with a sacrifice fly [32]. We were going back to Boston. As Randy and I jumped up and down and did our own version of Kenmore Square 1967 [33], Seaman Johnson, a recent Afro-American arrival at the school, looked us from the corner with squinted eyes and muttered, "Dumb ass Boston (expletive)." He was wearing a Mets cap.

I didn't ask Petty Officer Ingrim for the score during the next two games at Fenway, for his face told me all I needed to know. I felt sure they'd blow away the Angels back home and sure enough they had. Towards the end of the last lesson, my instructor congratulated me on my team's pennant. I felt like I should present arms to a fallen foe or make a similarly noble gesture but instead just said, "It was a great series." The Red Sox would meet the New York Mets. We'd see more comebacks. For the moment, however, celebrations were in order. Few Ocean Beach residents slept that night.

I now had evenings free. Having finished my radioman studies, I had been transferred to Morse Code School and another sleeping quarters the day before the Series began. My new home had more in common with a college dorm than a military barracks. Navy duty didn't get much softer than this. The only thing there to remind me I had even enlisted was the fact that I had to pull MP duty every third day outside the Anchor, the on base club. It was here that a large number of sailors present and future were following the Series.

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