Hitting Close To Home - Epilogue

With two outs and one man on base, a familiar form walked towards the batter’s box.

From my seat in the upper deck directly behind home plate, it felt like I was watching something unfold from on high. I could see every section of Camden Yards. I could see into the Red Sox dugout. I could see people gathered on a balcony beyond the park’s perimeter. Everyone was waiting for this moment.

And then we heard it... a cacophony of boos echoing throughout Camden Yards as Big Papi stepped to the plate.

Without warning, a feeling of defensiveness, a feeling of loyalty surged up inside of me. The past 24 hours had seen Red Sox Nation reeling with the news that our beloved slugger might have made a mistake or might have been a liar, depending on whom you talk to and what you choose to think. But none of that mattered in that instant. We might be mad at Big Papi, but we’re not going to let anyone else knock him down, especially not the fans of a team that has been tainted by the very same cancer that is ravaging the sport.

As Papi went into his stance, a few people down in front of us stood up. Then a few more. Then Izzie, Dusty, Meeks, and I jumped to our feet. From our perch, we could see hundreds of other red shirts rise to applaud Papi, not with an ovation of affirmation because the jury is still out, but an ovation of support, an ovation that said we’re mad, but we still love you.

Papi struck out in that first at-bat, but would not make the same mistake the second time around. With Red Sox fans on their feet again and the cheers for him drowning out the boos, Papi drove the ball into the center field bleachers.

And as he rounded the bases, the words of detractors disappeared. The suspicions were erased. There was nothing but pure euphoria.

Eventually the reality returned though, but just as I had hoped, he had given me one more memory for the reel.

One day ago, I stood with my dearest Sox friends and together we watched Papi silence his naysayers with a single swing of the bat.

I just hope he continues to do so.

Hitting Close To Home

Three weeks ago, I leaned forward in my seat in Section 8 of Fenway and watched Big Papi’s 1,000th hit as a member of the Red Sox fly out of the ballpark.

Nine months ago, I sat in the Fenway bleachers and watched his home run sail into the crowd, igniting one of the greatest comebacks in playoff history.

And three years ago, I stood on the walkway behind home plate at Camden Yards and stood in stunned disbelief when I saw him launch a ball out of the stands in person for the very first time.

I’ve been to scores of baseball games in my life and have seen many amazing plays, but Papi’s moments are always at the top of my own personal reel of witnessed greatness.

Which is why this hurts so much.

When I saw the headline, it was like staring at an eclipse. I couldn’t look away even though the words were searing my eyes.

But I wasn’t shocked. Frankly no one would shock me right now. The state of baseball today has left us fans jaded and mistrusting and I’ve read too much about Dominican baseball not to think that its favorite sons haven’t tried this or that to get ahead because the desperation can choke a man.

So no... I didn’t think Big Papi was untouchable, but the fact that his name is now linked to this scandal makes the sting feel a little worse.

Do I believe Papi? I don’t know.

But I want to believe in him... in spite of what the answers might be.

And I don't think that’s being blind, naïve, or misguided. That’s wanting to feel that same magic I’ve felt before when Papi crushes one out of the park.

So when I’m sitting at Camden Yards tonight, watching Big Papi lumber to the plate, adjust his gloves, spit into his hands, and clap twice before settling into the batter’s box, I probably won’t be able to put this debacle out of my mind, but you can bet the headlines will be replaced by the same prayers I’ve uttered hundreds of times before.

“C’mon, Papi. Please.”

And maybe he’ll give me another memory for the reel that will eclipse all of the headlines... even if it is only for the duration of a trip around the bases.

Look How Far We've Come

You have to pick your battles when it comes to these things because no matter how many inroads are made, there are still inequities. We won “NCAAM” and “NCAAW” in the score crawl, but ESPN still lists “Women’s Basketball” under “All Sports.”

I wasn’t itching for a battle this morning, but that was before I randomly found myself on the NCAA website. The first line that greeted me:

“It’s The Girls’ Turn.”

Girls???

I just couldn’t contain my anger.

Female athletes do not deserve to be cast in a diminutive role as if their participation is cute and quaint. Just because the public interest in their competitions may not reach the same heights as the men doesn’t make their athletic efforts secondary. They are just as good, just as dedicated, and just as deserving of respect as the men. No one would ever refer in print to male collegiate athletes as “boys,” so why is it okay to do that to the women?

I can’t say that I’m surprised by the remark, but I am shocked at the source. The NCAA is supposed to be an organization that represents and promotes its athletes, female and male, equally, but I guess that mission took a backseat to one sexist writer’s need for a synonym.

The ironic part... the best collegiate basketball team in the nation is a women’s team.

Plum Crazy

I love the feeling of the wind whipping in my face, the blood pulsating in my cheeks, and the outright feeling of abandon my legs get when I shift into high gear. I check the air in my lungs, holding it until I can finally push out one great exhale at the end. There’s one last leap as my oversized foot stabs at the base and then my body pulls up like a horse in the Derby, finished with the sprint.

That’s how I run. Anything more that 240 feet around the basepaths is too much for this girl.

I like sprinting. I do not like running. Long distance, that is. Even when I was a kid… give me a good 50-yard dash and I was golden. Put me on a track to complete my mile for the Presidential Physical Fitness test and I was miserable.

But somehow I find myself training for a half-marathon.

Call it a lark. Call it an adventure. Call it a new year’s resolution.

And please call it crazy.

Trying not to strain myself with a big ol’ pat on the back, I’ll admit that I excel at cheering for my friends in races, but when it comes to doing it myself… let’s just say that you’d have a better chance of finding me eating a jar of peanut butter with an expired Epipen at my side than contemplating a half-marathon.

Plum crazy.

But on one perfect Sunday last fall, with sweat from the Army Ten-Miler still fresh on their brows, my friends Hoops and Cheesus told me about the first-ever Disney Princess Half-Marathon.

I stared at them in disbelief. Maybe that runners’ high everyone talks about was still in effect for them. I showed them the tambourine in one hand and the homemade signs in the other and said that I would be there to cheer them on like the good friend that I am, but that was it.

Then when I was out of earshot, Cheesus said to Hoops, “If she were really a friend, she’d get her ass out there and run.” Touché.

They joked that maybe they could convince me to do it by saying it was like running around the bases 25,000 times. Instead of a starting gun, there could be the crack of a bat. Not a bad rationale, but it wasn’t enough to make me contemplate running 13 times the distance I had run in nearly 10 years... or ever.

What eventually did?

A mouse.

Even at 30, a trip to Disney World is a powerful motivator.

It’s been almost 4 months since I took my first steps toward a goal I never envisioned, and I never thought I’d see the day when I could run 3 miles without stopping. I never thought I’d voluntarily brave single-digit windchills to stay on course. And I never thought I’d have a legitimate reason to buy the Nike running gear I so desperately drooled over.

But here I am… exactly one month before the race… and I find that it doesn’t feel so crazy anymore.

100 Mea Culpas

There are no excuses.

The record of Dallas Academy’s girls’ basketball team was certainly no mystery to the team from The Covenant School when they took the court. Dallas Academy hadn’t won a game in four years, or the entire history of their program. The chances of an upset were subzero, so Covenant had nothing to fear.

But even if the Covenant coaches were concerned that the Dallas Academy girls may have spontaneously turned into mini-Michael Jordans overnight, when they went up by 10, then 20, then 30, did they ever feel like they could relax just a bit? Did they think that maybe enough was enough? Apparently not. They only let up when the scoreboard read 100-0 at the final buzzer.

And now... as if the game itself weren’t bad enough, The Covenant School is formally requesting a forfeit, which is by far the greatest insult in this unfortunate situation of unsportsmanlike conduct.

For a winless team, handing them a win by forfeit is like throwing a heaping spoonful of salt into the wound. With no other victories to speak of, that one win will become a story. People will ask the Dallas Academy girls about that “1” in their record and they will have to tell the story of how there was once a school that ran up the score 100-0 and then had a fit of conscience.

Open wound, pour salt, repeat.

The forfeit is more about alleviating the guilt of the Covenant team than it is about doing right by Dallas Academy. If Covenant really wanted to do something for their opponents, they would just let the game fade away.

Or maybe they should have quit while they were ahead by less than 100.

The Great Game 5 Comeback

I didn’t want to say it, but I couldn’t shake it. Deep down in the pit of my stomach, I just had a feeling. I knew the chances of the Red Sox coming back from a 3-1 deficit in the ALCS were slimmer than they had been in previous postseasons. Too many injuries, too many years in uniform, too many reasons why the younger, spunkier team would come into our house and drive the final nail into the coffin.

But still… I had a feeling.

I didn’t say anything to Izzie about it at first. I didn’t know if verbalizing it would cross that very fine line between faith and superstition. But finally I couldn’t keep it to myself. In the bowels of the T, I uttered only these words, “I have a feeling.”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. There was nothing either of us could say. Anymore words might rile the gods, and we had to keep them happy.

We had tested the gods already, and they weren’t pleased. As much as we wanted our beloved Red Sox to win, we knew they needed to lose one in the series to force a Game 5 and make our trip possible. So after winning Game 1, we both made decisions not to indulge our superstitions. No lucky bracelet. No lucky shirt. The fact is… we needed to jinx them.

And we did. For three straight games.

We were both ashamed and did everything in our power to reverse the pattern. I knocked on wood so many times that there was little anyone could say about the Red Sox that didn’t warrant my knuckles striking any solid object around me… wood or not. We had both gone through an exhaustive process of packing clothes that could only bring good luck. The Beckett and Ortiz jerseys stayed at home because they had not proven themselves to be charmed during the postseason. I said a Rosary the day of the game and wore lucky underwear. Anything and everything to make the gods happy, to let them know that we were sorry for testing them.

For six innings on the night of October 16th, the gods let us know that they were still forces to be reckoned with.

As we sat five rows behind the Rays bullpen in right field, I still had that feeling, but it was fading fast like the tattered photo of Marty McFly’s siblings tucked in his wallet. Without realizing it, I started composing the final paragraph of this column. I thought how I would write that even in spite of losing 7-0, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. October baseball, win or lose, is a moment to be treasured. Even though I wanted to give in to the burning in my tear ducts, I was glad to be there.

And then it happened. The gods knew I was truly penitent.

After enduring a brutal warm-up session during which he heard a taunt per pitch, Grant Balfour took the mound and coughed up a double to Jed Lowrie. Suddenly a crowd that had been given nothing to cheer for got a second wind. With two outs on the board, Crisp laced a single that sent Lowrie running for third. Then the definition of scrappiness stepped to the plate in the form of Dustin Pedroia. He connected for a single that scored Lowrie. Both the Sox and the crowd had finally showed up by the time Papi stepped to the plate.

I don’t remember seeing the swing, but I heard the roar and looked up to see Papi’s towering fly heading towards us in right field. I looked down at the fence, back at the ball, again at the fence, and back to the ball and finally it registered. That ball was gone. Izzie and I turned to each other in ecstatic disbelief. The unknowns around us suddenly became our best friends as we all exchanged high fives of euphoric glee. It was the Papi of old and we had a contest on our hands.

Balfour was gone after that, and Dan Wheeler never stood a chance. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have 38,000 people chanting your name in a cadence so derisive that you can’t function. Izzie and I joined the chorus around us, yelling, “Wheeeee-ler! Wheeeee-ler!”

Ball one to Jason Bay.

”Wheeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeee-ler!”

Ball two.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeeeeee-ler!”

Ball three.

“WHEEEEEEEEE-LER! WHEEEEEEEEELER!”

Take your base, Mr. Bay.

We were in Wheeler's head.

And then J.D. Drew joined us there by slamming a shot into the stands just to the left of us.

7-5.

My phone was buzzing like mad in my pocket. Izzie and I were practically speechless.

Was this really happening?

Before we knew it, we had reached the middle of the 8th, and as Neil Diamond’s voice filled the air, the raucous crowd truly believed that things were oh so good now that the Red Sox had come within one run of tying the devilish Rays.

Fear still lurked in my gut though because Papelbon was done for the night, but I knew that no one else could have stopped the bleeding but him. He had come in at the right moment and I just had to believe that Justin Masterson could bring the magic.

With only one minor heart palpitation, Masterson retired the Rays, and before we knew it, the bottom of the 9th arrived. Nothing seemed impossible then. Not even when Pedroia and Papi went down. Not even when Youkilis grounded to third. Not even when the throw to first seemed to glide so perfectly toward the outstretched glove of the first baseman… and then it didn’t.

Pure pandemonium undulated through Fenway on the error. Youk took second, and the triumph was so close I could have seen it with my 20/200 vision in the dark underwater.

It was right there in front of us… which was exactly where Gabe Gross was when J.D. Drew’s game-winning hit skirted over the top of of his glove.

I didn’t see Youk cross the plate, but I knew as soon as I saw Drew's rope to right that he would. When I saw the ball miss his outstretched leather, my arms flew up in the air and my hoarse voice found its tune one more time to yell for the victors.

Izzie and I looked at one another and had no words. We slapped five with each other and anyone else in a five- seat radius. When the strains of “Dirty Water” became the soundtrack of the moment, we took our cue and began to sing along, jig in place, and fire off texts and calls to everyone who we loved and who loved the Sox.

It was the type of moment you want to wrap in tissue paper, tuck in a hope chest, and keep safe forever. It was transcendent. It was perfect. It was the epitome of October baseball.

Even when Izzie and I were walking to the T, joining the Red Sox cheers and bouncing along to the cacophony of horns in Kenmore Square, I don’t think either of us realized the true magnitude of what we had just seen. We knew full well we had been at a spectacular baseball game, but we didn’t understand that we had actually seen one of the greats. It wasn’t until the next morning when we read the paper and watched the recaps that the reality began to set in.

We had witnessed history.

* * *

When Red Sox Nation finally landed back down on Earth, we discovered that our team, though gutsy and talented, still didn’t have enough gas to defeat the Rays. In the end, the Red Sox fell to Tampa Bay in the 7th game. Had they won, it would have made a nice footnote to The Great Game 5 Comeback, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I had a feeling.

I had a feeling it was someone else’s year to win it all, and even though I finally gave in to the tears, I was okay with that.

After all, you can’t ask for too much, and the gods had already given me more than I ever could have asked for.

A Real Pro

On a dark, windy night at Shea Stadium, pitcher Nelson Figueroa got a little flustered. Nothing was going his way, and when the claps and cheers from the Nationals’ dugout floated out to the mound, his blood pressure skyrocketed.

Feeling angry and superior, he lashed out at his National League East counterparts, saying, “They were cheerleading in the dugout like a bunch of softball girls. I'm a professional just like anybody else. I take huge offense to that. If that's what a last-place team needs to do to fire themselves up, so be it. They could show a little more class, a little more professionalism now that they won tonight, but in the long run, they're still who they are."

Them’s fightin’ words, Figueroa.

The U.S. Women’s National Softball Team appeared at the Nationals game on Sunday, and I would love to see what they had to say about Nelson Figueroa. These women are going to represent our country in the Olympics, but by Figueroa’s estimation, they’re immature and unprofessional.

If Figueroa wants to insinuate that the Nationals are immature and unprofessional, he shouldn’t denigrate a sport that isn’t much different than his own and insult a group of athletes who are as dedicated and professional as he claims to be.

If he had really wanted to make a point, then maybe he should have said they were cheering in the dugout like a bunch of Little Leaguers. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we all know that 6-year-old boys love to scream, “We need a pitcher, not a belly itcher!” as much as girls do.

But before Figueroa hoists himself up onto that giant pedestal, maybe he should remember that he gets paid to play a game for a living. He’s not finding a cure for cancer. He’s not teaching kids how to read. He’s not patrolling a war zone praying that he and his buddies make it home in one piece. He’s paid to play catch.

If the Nationals wanted to have a little childlike fun in the dugout, then let them. From an early age, we’re taught that games are supposed to be fun. Then again, we’re also taught not to be sore losers and not be sexist, but I guess Figueroa was absent that day.