Apropos of yet another biblical winter tempest headed our way, scheduled to create further havoc and MBTA cancellations soon, and with a hopeful eye toward Spring- whenever it may arrive- here is part 1 of my ode to the ultimate boys of summer, the most fascinating characters to ever don the Sox garb.
Carlos Quintana
I’ll never forget my first game at Fenway. I was six years-old and my family and I were cast down the right field line, in that lovely area where your options are either to slowly break your neck over nine innings or to get a real good feel for the right fielder. I gave up on the diamond action early and gave Quintana, the Sox right-fielder during the early 90’s, my undivided attention. Carlos didn’t disappoint, unless you consider an absence of baseball wherewithal disappointing.
Quintana was a varsity fidgeter. When he wasn’t hocking loogies or picking his spikes he was “adjusting” himself with the apparent zest of a bull kick to the gonads. Occasional fly balls gave Carlos a brief seizure and then catapulted him on a magical escapade of circumventive pirouettes through the outfield. This was all fascinating stuff to watch, especially as a six-year-old who was just caught up in the ambiance. Think of Bryce Harper casually gliding to a fly ball and making a one handed catch, and then think of the opposite, and that was Quintana.
What really solidified Quintana’s status as ubermensch in my eyes, though, stemmed from a single event that occurred during the later innings of that same game. After a particularly round-about route to a can of corn caused Carlos’ cap to fly off, I bellowed/chirped, “Hey, Carlos! Keep your hat on!” I thought this a terribly droll thing to shout at the time, and I remember feeling pleased with my spontaneity and nerve. But then I noticed some folks in the vicinity chuckling in my direction and my brother smacked me aside the head and called me a doofus, and I started to second-guess my supposed brilliance. Carlos, however, after retrieving his hat, glanced sheepishly in my direction (Fenway was half-filled in these days, and so it was easy to spot an errant little shit with a flippant attitude), and, in an apparent display of sympathy or shame, gave me what can best be described as a passive thumbs-up.
What a gesture! And a valuable lesson for six-year old me: Sometimes when everyone thinks you’re a numbskull and you probably are, in fact, a numbskull, there’s often someone in the vicinity who’s numbskull factor trumps yours, and who can relate and possibly extend a helping hand.
