Red Sox Family

I’m not going to write about the Red Sox. No stars, no scores, no hyperbole. There are already a million words out there describing every facet of their game. They don’t need me to add to the mix. But I do want to write about being a Red Sox fan.

As I was just walking back from Starbucks in my Red Sox sweatshirt, a woman stopped me and said, “Excuse me, can you tell me what happened in the game last night?” There was an eagerness in her eyes as I told her what had unfolded in Colorado. When I was done, she graciously thanked me and went on her way.

Yesterday there was a grizzled old man who passed by me in the check-out line. I was wearing one of my many Red Sox t-shirts, and as he walked by me, he said, “Nice shirt.” I turned to see who had made the comment, and as he continued to another register, I recognized the Boston cap on his head.

I was on my way home with the very groceries I had just purchased when my neighbor pointed out my shirt. We’ve never spoken before, but he asked me what I thought about the Ortiz-Youkilis-Lowell conundrum in a National League park. We may never speak again, but we had that moment.

And how about the boyfriend decked out in Sox gear who walked out of the Kelly Clarkson concert on the arm of his girlfriend. I too was wearing my gear, and we gave each other a simple nod of the head and said, “Go Sox.”

Then there are those who don’t care quite so much about the game, but love the people who do. My Mom has grown to love baseball because of me, but even she has her limits sometimes. Nevertheless, she told me that 30 minutes after she had decided to call it an evening, she asked my Dad to get up and check the score to see what was going on. She’s becoming a full-fledged Sox junkie!

There’s our "work mom,” the one who watches out for all of us from 9-5 every day. She text messages me after almost every game and is as superstitious as I am about what to do, wear, and say when watching the Sox.

Even my best friend, the Yankee fan, who will audibly express how much she loathes the Red Sox every chance she gets, respects my devotion and is the one responsible for giving me the Beckett jersey I treasure so dearly.

And of course, there's Izzie, Dusty, Meaks, Nuwanda, Sully, and Karch... those who have gathered with me at our local watering holes, at Fenway, at Camden, all to watch the Sox together. Plus Kino, Chase, Bay, and Expo who may not love the Sox, but love baseball enough to watch the Sox with us.

Red Sox Nation is not a cadre of obnoxious fans seeking to run roughshod over every other team. It’s a family… a family of fans and a family of those who love the fans.

I’m proud of the Red Sox. I’m excited about the season they’ve given us. But most of all I’m thankful for the memories my Red Sox family and I have had over the past six months. It’s been a ride to remember.

On The Clear, In The Dark

Barry Bonds. Floyd Landis. Jason Giambi. The list goes on, but the names are untouchable. These athletes exist in another realm apart from us, so when the accusations of their steroid use started flying, it was easy to have a sense of detachment.

But now Marion Jones.

I don’t follow track and field except once every four years, but inexplicably, I feel betrayed because she really seemed like one of us.

Exactly eight years ago, in October 1999, I was visiting Atlanta with my volleyball team for a tournament. I knew that I would play the last game of my collegiate career in that city, but just when it would happen depended on how far our young team could go. Even as the only senior among sophomores and freshmen, I felt we could go the distance with our strength, determination, and pure gutsiness. What we lacked in consistency, we made up for in spirit. It was a fine group of athletes, young women I was proud to be among.

The pressure of that tournament was palpable, but we pushed it out of our minds with a trip to Lenox Square Mall to do some shopping. My friend and I veered off from the group for a moment and went into Guess to check out the latest fashions. We were standing among the racks at the front of the store when we spotted two women near the wall. Something seemed very familiar about one of the women. She was tall, athletic, and cheery. I was certain I had seen her before. Then she turned, and I noticed a distinguishing characteristic. It was the tooth. Then I realized it was Marion Jones. I nudged my friend and both of us were floored. Here we were standing in the presence of a world-class athlete, a runner destined for greatness less than a year later in Sydney. We were just two lowly volleyball players from a small Division III college in Virginia, staring at one of the best competitors on the planet. We weren’t even fit to hold her sneakers.

Or so we thought at the time...

We were really standing in the presence of a world-class cheater.

True athletes capitalize on their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses through training and techniques. They don’t try to inflate their abilities and obliterate their blind spots through unnatural methods like she did.

Marion Jones didn’t just betray her family, her friends, her followers, and her fans. She betrayed young female athletes everywhere. So few of us ever have the chance to compete on the national and international stages of the sports world, but Marion Jones was one of the chosen few and she took her opportunities and destroyed them.

The team I went to Atlanta with was not composed of 6’4” dynamos who could spike the ball on the 10-foot line, but we were real. Every point and every kill, every shank and every gaff were ours and ours alone to be proud of or ashamed of.

And the mistakes were as plentiful as the triumphs. On the very last play of our tournament and my career, I shanked a serve that I can still see slicing through the air when I close my eyes. I watched as it flew off my arms and slammed straight into the wall. It felt like hell, but at least it was pure, 100% me.

The pain is just beginning for Marion Jones, but perhaps the greatest loss of all won’t be the parts we read about in the paper or see on TV. She’ll feel it when she’s alone with her thoughts, when she finally knows the sting of having the title of “athlete” stripped from her. It’s an ache every competitor who has lied and cheated his or her way to fame, fortune, and glory should have to face.

When I look back at how I stood in awe of the woman we all knew would bring home the gold, I feel disgusted, yet perversely, I feel proud that she stood in our presence. If she had turned around that day, she would have looked into the eyes of true athletes.