First Place
(continued)
By Carl Schonbeck

I had seen four of the first five games there with Randy, Rick and the rest of our radioman gang. Ken French, maybe my closest pal through my time in San Diego, was from Connecticut and didn't follow baseball. Just to make things a little more interesting though, he threw his lot in with the Mets. Randy, who couldn't believe it, taunted him mercilessly and called his state "a friggin' suburb of New York [34]." Boston had shocked everyone by winning the first two at Shea Stadium behind Hurst and Clemens, while New York took the next two at Fenway. Hurst came back with another great outing to win game five. We were on the threshold. The Sox were going back to New York needing only one win to clinch it. Clemens would start game six. Randy bought "cigahs" and promised rounds of champagne for everyone, even Ken (on the grounds that technically he was a New Englander).

The only problem was that on the evening of October 26, 1986, a certain Seaman Schonbeck was pencilled in for MP duty outside the Anchor and the surrounding area of Naval Training Centre San Diego. I wasn't going to get to sit back with a few frosty ones at our usual table and watch the Sox do it. I begged. I pleaded. I attempted to exchange duty days with various people. I considered going AWOL. As the Mets took the field, however, I was mustering for duty in the square with the other unlucky souls who, like me, would miss the game.

There was one small glimmer of hope. Being the low man on the totem pole, I was required to make the rounds outside the various buildings near the club every so often to make sure base rules weren't being infringed (bringing girls back to the barracks was a big no no). I wouldn't be able to disappear for too long, but perhaps I could see a bit of the action through the windows and at least know who was winning. Better than nothing. For our junior unit, entering the club was strictly forbidden, since the senior petty officers on duty had that beat sewed up for themselves. I'd have to make due playing peeping Tom.

From what I was able to understand, it was going as planned. Boston had got a run or two in the early innings while Clemens appeared to be Clemens [35]. A long glance in through a window of Building 27 during one of my "rounds" confirmed it: 2-0 Boston through four [36]. As I was returning, I came across Seaman Johnson and some of his pals heading toward the club. They were decked out in Kangol hats, gold chains and the type of track outfits popular in those years, the whole rap look. I was doing my best impersonation of Sean Connery walking his beat in The Untouchables when Johnson called over to me loudly. He'd obviously had a few glasses of his favourite beer.

"Yo Boston! That you?"

"Er...yeah, I've got duty as you may have noticed."

This hit his funny bone. Laughing, he answered, "Yo cuz, it be your turn to mind the 'hood tonight, needs of the Navy, doll...but I just wanna tell y'all somethin' homie."

"What might that be?"

"Your boys gonna lose tonight.... they gonna lose!"

Remembering Lee's ill-fated attempt to fool Tony Perez with a changeup in the seventh game of the '75 series [37], I walked a little faster and said to myself, "Just throw fastballs Roger, just throw fastballs...."

Arriving back in front of the club, it seemed I had missed some excitement. Petty Officer Cason was holding a towel to his head and it was stained brown. Nothing too serious, but it wasn't a pretty sight. I quickly discovered that some seaman fresh out of bootcamp, whom I'll call Seaman Goober, had seen his ex-drill instructor (whom I'll call Chief Bulldog) outside the club. After eight weeks of subsisting on powered eggs and doing pushups, Goober had earlier decided to celebrate his freedom by emptying the contents of a Jack Daniels bottle. Very drunk, he had then begun to insult his recent tormentor. Chief Bulldog had responded with something like, "You (expletive) maggot, do you know who the (expletive) I am? I'll stick your (expletive) face in this (expletive) cement and make (expletive) gargoyles with it" or one of those things drill instructors say. As the two prepared to exchange blows, Petty Officer Cason had stepped in trying to break it up. Goober had grabbed his nightstick and swung it wildly. Cason's head had got in the way and Goober was now probably on his way to Leavenworth. "Hey, Schonfeld or whatever your name is," shouted the duty chief, "take Cason's place over in front of the main entrance of the club."

"Er.... okay Chief...what about, er...making the rounds?"

"Don't worry about it, you've seen enough of the game by now anyway."

For the next half-hour I had no idea of what was happening. I had heard some cheering from inside the club but didn't know whom it was for. Had the Sox already won it? Were we world champs without me knowing it yet? I cursed the Navy for what it had done to me this night. We'd been waiting since 1918 [38]; didn't they understand that? Suddenly, I saw a marine pop his head out the door for some air. It was the chance I'd been waiting for.

"Hey, what's the word on the ballgame?" I shouted.

Startled, he looked around and said, "Tied, they're in the tenth [39]." The accent sounded familiar.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Near Boston," I said approximately, "how 'bout you?"

"Oh, wow ...I'm from Fitchburg [40]," he exclaimed, "this is too much!"

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