I once had this silly little theory (and I hope I'm not repeating myself) that all of the chants and cheers that had ever been utter within the walls of Fenway Park had been absorbed into the structure and had been stored there. And that if you could figure out the resonance frequencies of the building, then you could really make the place sing; you could release all of that stored energy in a joyfully cacophonous moment. (Don't worry: The acoustics class I took is only partially failing me. I know that's not how it works.)
There would be cheers and applause; groans and boos. There would be the sound of heartbreak. (What can I say, it was a nostalgic moment when I came up with this theory.) There would be strains of "We want Ted" and "Man-knee, Man-knee", "Let's go Red Sox" and "Where is Roger?" And beneath it all, perhaps as an ostinato, would be "Pe-dro" ad naseum.
Pedro Martinez was an event. Pedro in his prime was the best there was. He was the only pitcher I've ever loved. You look at his numbers and you think that he must have been pitching in the dead ball era. Then you realize who he actually was pitching against and it's even more stunning.
And so for Petey, a big thanks.
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