By Amelia Rayno

There was a time, not so long ago, when the mere mention of Bill Buckner’s name in New England evoked hateful sneers, spontaneous nausea, and the proclivity to violently break things. Since that fateful game in 1986, the once defensive stud had simply become a symbol. He was part of a longstanding curse, a punch line in a bitter parable, his name synonymous with crushing failure.

Have we moved past that now? Well, yesterday’s standing ovation at Fenway certainly marked a significant stride towards that type of redemption. Making his way slowly to the mound, his face full of composed emotion and a few isolated tears, Buckner cast the first pitch to his former Sox mate Dwight Evans, and with it heaved a lifetime of resentment and hostile exile.

It’s easier now. The Red Sox, with their two recently compiled Championships have effectively fulfilled their tumultuous journey from cursed losers to ring adorned superstars. Old wounds hurt less when they are followed by a really cool Superheroes band-aid. If Bill Buckner was the ex-flame who you had the bad break-up with, then the post 2004 Sox are the new beau—the one with the 6-digit income, witty sense of humor, charming smile, and no tortured history of late night arguments.

We’ve had some closure, some time to realize that, in the grand scheme of things, those old memories don’t mean anything. Here we are, watching another promising team start a brand new season, a massive body of fans only vaguely resembling the jaded grumblers we once were. And maybe it’s time to recognize that all those years of disillusion were not His fault after all; that 1986 wasn’t even, truly, his fault.

We all remember the fateful play in Game 6, the skidding grounder along the first base line—the one that put the game out of reach. Everyone conveniently forgets, of course, the presence of another opportunity the next night, efficiently botched as well. All that is spoken of, replayed on ESPN, and written about incessantly, is this infamously ill-timed error. The one that ruined every New Englander’s life, by no dramatic embellishment.

Did Buckner choke?
Yes. Yes, he did. But to be completely fair, there were a lot of other choking individuals involved in that game. With 2 outs attained in the 10th, closer Calvin Schiraldi couldn’t get it done, unsoundly relinquishing 3 consecutive singles, and Bob Stanley, the pitching replacement, artlessly produced a wild pitch, which unfortunately eluded catcher Rich Gedman. Only after 16 ineffective pitches, and countless opportunities to lock up the first World Series title in 68 years, did Mookie Wilson tap the fateful roller past our limping first baseman.

Now, I’ll be honest. There have been times in the past that I have occasionally daydreamed about Ol’ Billy Buck accidentally getting struck by lightening. But let’s be frank, even if Buckner could have stopped that ball, he never would have made the out. And with the brawny Howard Johnson on deck, you’re telling me the Mets wouldn’t have found a way to squeeze one by the quickly drowning Sox?

In any case, it would be safe to say the Red Sox wouldn’t have even made it to that point without Buckner, a key part of their offense and defense that year. His heroic doggedness in playing 153 games on two gimpy knees and ankles that were more wholly shattered than the team’s hope of victory after the Game 6 Defeat, has been all but forgotten.

And that’s not fair to him. We leave this once-heralded workhorse trapped in such damaged recollection, rewarding his 22-year career with begrudged hate mail and unnatural banishment, that he nearly didn’t show yesterday. Admittedly fighting with the demons that stained his last few years in Beantown, and likely the urge to hoard the resentful feelings inside and pull an “Eff you, Boston” no-show, Buckner displayed once again the prevailing character that allowed him to walk across the green of Fenway’s sun-drenched outfield and pitch his absolution in front of 36,567 cheering fans. Perhaps in that moment, he forgave this city for all the years of petty persecution. For all the senseless harassment that forced him to relocate his family halfway across the country. For the painful conclusion to what was in all other respects an illustrious career.

I can’t speak for the other fans sitting around me in Section 41, or elsewhere in the park, but I can say that in that moment, I sort of realized that his forgiveness to the fans was of the greatest relevance, not the other way around. Perhaps too much has been made of our “mature” ability to exonerate a man whose life and career we sufficiently destroyed. Perhaps it is not at all we who need to do the forgiving. It was a poignant moment of liberation, a long-evaded pardon for a singular moment in time. A moment that had such tremendous and lasting effect on so many fans, yes, but much more significantly on the life of a man who once impaired his walking limbs for the winning pursuits of this team. It’s all behind us now—well on the way at least. Bill Buckner threw out the first pitch of Opening Day at Fenway. He cried. We cheered.

If that’s not redemption, I don’t know what is.