The Mission

“That’s crazy, Dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. CRAZY!”

“I know how to drive.”

“D-a-d.”

He said dad slowly, sadly, somewhat mournfully in truth. David knew that alone he would not, could not, succeed.

“M-o-m.”

Again the slow, extended strategy.

Mom joined the battle.

“He’s right, Carl. You could black out again.”

“I’m not going to black out.”

“You can’t know that.”

“But I do.”

“You’re not talking sense, Carl.”

He rose from his chair and put his arm tenderly around Kate’s shoulder.

“I know it sounds foolish. I can’t explain why I know, not now anyway. All I can say is that it was a strange day. Eighty degrees and humid. In early May. Early May in Maine!”

Kate cast her eyes down.

“I drove that day, and I didn’t black out.”

“No you didn’t. Just me. But trust me. Please.”

“Carl. You can’t take that risk. Not with your mother. You can’t.”

Carl didn’t listen.

 Which is why on that late March afternoon his soon to be 88-year-old mother sat next to him in his 2013 Hyundai Elantra as they approached the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge, the bridge everybody still calls the Tappan Zee.

They were going. And nobody could stop them.

Crazy?

Perhaps. He was a reasonable man. An educated man. A teacher for god’s sake!

But some things are meant to be crazy. And when they are meant to be crazy, they cease to be so. They become what has to be. They become right. 

It had been the surprise of her life. The former Mary Coulombe, the Catholic kid from the old mill city in Massachusetts, the old mill town that never recovered from the collapse of its textile industry. 

She had grown up on the lap of her father. The carpenter. The sports fan. The Red Sox lifer.

The Red Sox.

Her blood ran red. And not because of oxygen and hemoglobin. It was the Red Sox that turned it red. No question. And it stayed red, even in those many years, those many decades, when the Red Sox finished at or near the bottom of the standings. Devotion is impervious to losing. 

Carl was the same. Deep red blood. They shared the passion. The one that used to be wrapped tightly in the CURSE. Year after year, 86 in all, of disappointment and despair, 86 years without a World Series title. And yet, each spring, hope sprouted anew as the players assembled in Florida, a new season ahead, a new chance of redemption, atonement for the many tragic endings of year’s past, a new chance at the unthinkable, the unimaginable.

The miracle happened in 2004. They won. The boys from Boston brought home the World Series trophy.

But that didn’t end the passion. If anything, the miracle simply fueled the devotion. The Red Sox rewarded that devotion for much of the new century - until recently. With only one exception, an unexpected playoff run in 2021, the Bean Town boys had disappointed the faithful every season since winning the 2018 World Series.

None of which mattered, though. What mattered is his mother, a transplant living in Rehoboth Beach, Del. for the last 20 years, needed to come back home: she needed to see, hear, smell, feel her New England. And what better way to get the full experience, the quintessential sensory immersion, then to go to Fenway Park, especially for the opening season game.

“I’m taking you out on your birthday,” he said when his mother - astonished at his appearance - opened the door to her apartment at the senior-living facility.

He had made the 600-mile trip from Maine to Rehoboth Beach in 13 hours - a record for him. Every 100 miles he had pulled off the road for a 15-minute walk and restroom visit to appease his overactive bladder, aching body, and the fear, still lingering despite his conviction, his belief in his purpose, of another “incident.”

The incident happened almost a year ago. He left the high school at 3:30, his usual routine, to drive the 7 miles on rural roads to his home the next town over. He hadn’t replaced the busted compressor for his AC, so he lowered his driver’s side window to deal with the unseasonably hot and humid weather.

He always looked forward to the drive home. It gave him time - 11 to 12 minutes - to listen to jazz on his satellite radio and decompress from the school day. But something went wrong that afternoon. No more than 3 miles from the school, the world disappeared, all everything disappeared, not for long, but for enough, enough for a truck, approaching from the opposite direction, to ram into his tiny Honda coupe almost head-on.

The world, all everything, returned with a bang - a big bang. The airbag went off. Blood flowed. Glass shattered. Or so they told him. All he remembered was the aftermath: the EMT talking to him through his open window, the rescue unit idling nearby, the police directing traffic, their squad cars parked on both ends of his mangled vehicle.

Mike was the first family member to arrive. He stood nearby, his face filled with dread, as the EMT conducted his interview. A blur at the time. A blur now. Surreal from start to finish. It ended when Carl agreed to take the ambulance to the hospital. A host of scans and screenings occurred in the emergency department. And yet the essential question, the mystery, was never answered. What caused all everything to disappear? 

Carl recovered. Miraculously, the injuries proved minor: a fractured nose, bruises and abrasions, a slight concussion. But the cause remained a mystery. Eventually, Carl realized that only he could find the answer. And the means of detection had nothing to do with technological tools or advanced degrees from prestigious schools of medicine. What was needed was a soul search, a deep and spiritual exploration in that realm beyond bones, muscles, and organs - a probe into the internal mystery that exists within every individual.

It was only then that he came to his answer, one which he chose not to share until the time was right, a time he believed might never arrive. 

The answer, the truth, he concluded is that he had died that day. Yes, died. From what? Irrelevant. Unimportant. What mattered is the death. What mattered is the loss of existence. What mattered is Carl Stanton was no more for a brief period of time on that unseasonably hot and humid day in May.

But what is relevant, what is important, is that he came back. And that is why he was where he was at that moment. And it is why his mother sat next to him. And is why they had a date at Fenway Park, an Opening Day to share, ahead of them. 

People need a mission in life. Carl believed this firmly. And this was his mission, the reason he came back. He didn’t know how many years his mother had left. He didn’t know the extent of his own mortality. What he did know is that they needed this experience together, reclaiming the magic of yesteryear, that breathtaking moment when a devoted Red Sox fan emerges from the bowels of Fenway Park to see the emerald diamond for the first time.

And that’s what Kate and David didn’t understand, would never understand. He was not taking a risk abducting his mother to drive the treacherous New Jersey Turnpike. The “incident” was not a warning signal; it was a wake-up call - a call to action. 

“We can do it, Mom,” he told her that day in her apartment. “You’ve told me you miss New England. You miss your home. I want to bring you home. I want you to experience home in the best possible way. That’s why we need to go. You and me.”

She packed her bags that night in preparation for the trip. They would break it in two. Stop about halfway the first day, arrive at Boston on the second. On the third day, on Opening Day, they would take a taxi from the Boston hotel to the ballpark. He would work with the Fenway staff to help his mother navigate the way to their seats - purchased well ahead, prime seats a few rows behind the Red Sox dugout, $850 for the pair. 

They would arrive early. Watch batting practice. Discuss the prospects for the season. They would relish the moment. They would embrace their opportunity to experience home together and the connection, the invisible but remarkably strong bonds that tied them, bonds secured right from the beginning, that time so long ago, and that would remain forever more, remain beyond mortality and whatever came after that.

And so the entire trip, a trip that went without a hitch - no wrong turns, no flat tires, no dashboard lights flashing, no “incidents” happening, confirmed his conviction, confirmed that the quest was meant to be. 

Once in the car, once on the road to Fenway, Carl could hardly contain his joy. He knew this would be right in every way. And, so, too, did his mother. Once in the car, her doubts, her hesitations, of the night before vanished, and all the talk, all the thoughts, focused on what lay ahead.

And so it came to be. And it was good. Wonderfully good.