I was nine years old when the ball went through Bill Buckner’s legs in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. I watched the game, but I don’t remember it; despite my t-ball prowess (I led the league in building mounds in the outfield), I was not a sports fan at the time. But I do remember my brother’s response. He cried, slammed his bedroom door shut and punched some things in his room. He was 11. Even my parents, who weren’t baseball fans, were kind of somber after that game.
Now, after being a devout Red Sox fan for the last dozen years, I know what Red Sox pain is like: I remember the sweeps at the hands of the Indians in the playoffs, the disastrous series against the Yankees (when Mussina almost threw a perfect game) in August 2001, and of course the nightmare of Game 7 of the ALCS in 2003. But all that doesn’t compare to what it must have been like for fans on October 25, 1986, when the Red Sox went into the ninth up two runs, and had the Mets down to their last strike.
Game 6, a tiny little speck of a movie that came out last year, attempts to recapture the weight of that moment, the anticipation, the anxiety, the excitement and the angst that Red Sox fans felt. It does so in the most curious way: it tells the story of a playwright (Michael Keaton) whose breakthrough play is debuting that night on Broadway. Wait, what the hell? Aren’t Red Sox fans supposed to be plumbers and state cops? If that’s not enough, the guy’s a New Yorker.
Posted by myownworstcritic 
