flyingillini
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- Jul 25, 2022
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For decades, baseball lore has echoed with tales of Wade Boggs guzzling 107 beers in a single day. 73 of which, legend claims, were consumed on a single cross-country flight from Boston to L.A. in 1994.
But now, flight attendants who were actually on that flight have come forward to clear the air on what really took place.
“The plane takes off, right? And the guys immediately start doing the usual: cracking open beers, dealing cards, lots of macho back-slapping,” recalls one attendant.
“Boggs was certainly enthusiastic… I'll give him that. About an hour in, I collected five, maybe six empties from him. I remember thinking that was pretty impressive. Then one of his teammates, clearly drunker than even Boggs was at the time, slaps Boggs on the back and goes, ‘Boggsy! You’re at like 51 beers, brother!’ He only had, like, six cans next to him. But Boggs looked down at the empty beers and said, ‘Let’s see how many I can get down before this bird lands, boys.’”
What followed was not the heroic odyssey we've all been led to believe, but rather the slow, embarrassing implosion of a grown man trying to impress his coworkers with a level of drinking no one asked of him.
“Around what I guessed was beer nine, Boggs stands up, all wobbly, shirt already off for some reason, and slurs, ‘Cheers to number 60!’ before attempting to crush a half-full Miller Lite on his own forehead,” said another attendant.
“Only... it doesn’t crush. So he just keeps smashing it against his face like he’s headbutting a soup can. Eventually, the beer explodes and he starts bleeding from his head, likely severely concussed.”
A nearby rookie, likely concerned for what was clearly a broken man with a horrendous drinking problem, ended up catching the shrapnel.
“Boggs turned to the other players, shouted ‘TO THE LEGENDS!’ and projectile vomited directly into the rookie’s lap,” the attendant explained.
“The poor kid tried to dab himself off with cocktail napkins, trying not to gain any more of Boggs' attention then he already had. Boggs just wiped his mouth, sat back down, and muttered, ‘Whelp… number 60 down.’ Then cracked another one to scattered golf claps.”
And what of the infamous claim that Boggs never used the restroom during the entire flight?
“I mean, ya, obviously that’s bullshit for anyone who can do math and realizes that 73 beers of liquid is over 50 pounds,” one attendant scoffed. “That man was living in the bathroom on one-tenth that consumption. I don’t even know if he was peeing half the time or just hiding and crying at the lack of fanfare he was receiving from the other players.
By hour three, the lavatory looked like a Jackson Pollock piece composed entirely of shame and gastrointestinal regret. There were handprints on the mirror. Mustache hair in the sink. At one point, someone said it smelled like ‘My Uncle Doug’s house after we found him that one weekend.’ We had to rope off that bathroom for the remainder of the flight.”
As the plane began its descent, Boggs, now shirtless and partially concussed, stood atop a row of chairs and declared:
“Only six beers remain between me and immortality! COUNT ME DOWN, Hishiro!” He said pointing.
A Japanese teammate, new to the team, new to America, and reconsidering his entire career at this point, began counting in Japanese numbers while Boggs jabbed a key into the side of the can and attempted to shotgun it… slowly… awkwardly… like a vampire trying to sip soup through drywall. We could swear he was falling asleep during the chug.
“After an awkward amount of time passed, Hishiro stopped counting and Boggs collapsed into a nearby seat, beer trailing down his bare chest,” said the attendant. “After a few minutes passed I sat next to him because no one else would.”
There was a long silence. Then, finally, Boggs spoke.
“Why do I do this? Huh?” he asked, staring out the window. “I’m funny. I can be the funny guy. Why can’t I just be funny guy Boggs? Why do I always gotta be the drunk party guy for these clowns?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t even know what to say.
“But this is the life I chose,” he muttered. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pants and pulled out one last can that looked like it had been there a really long time, cracked it open, and held it out.
“Whelp. Cheers to 107 anyway,” he said. “I could’ve hit 200 if I wanted... At least.”
He toasted no one and started drinking again. I awkwardly stood up and quietly walked away, but I swear I could hear crying from behind me as I left.
