Respectfully Not Yours

I'm having a problem with someone in my family. Someone acting out, acting like a bully. And someone who knows this person well said: "It's a respect thing. He wants respect for all he's done." The things is, this person, who has let me down in so many ways, believes that he earned respect for his work on an issue - hard work, I will absolutely agree - that in the end brought us both financial gain.

But that's just not how my respect is won.

Yankee fans are over the moon right now because after years of over-inflated and largely unearned bravado, they can finally back it up. Now they're out on the street in their Yankees hats with their hands on their hips and entitled smirks on their faces because we can no longer ask "What have you done lately?" To the Yankees and their fans a World Series ring earns you respect.

But it doesn't earn my respect. And this is one of the reasons I'm not a Yankee fan. Unlike the Yankees and their followers, I don't believe that winning is everything. I believe that character matters. I believe that the way you conduct yourself on the field counts. I believe that how you win tells more than a ring ever could.

Unlike this person in my life, money isn't the currency of respect for me. Hard work when its purpose is financial gain doesn't impress me as much as good character does. The times I've most respected this person - when he was by my side in the hospital, when he generously gave an old car to me when I needed it, when he picked up my son at the bus stop for a whole summer - were times when he acted like family. That's what I respect.

The Yankees and their World Series victory don't stand for anything I can explain to my son. They don't stand for anything that has to do with hard work - it's more about assembling all the raw talent available in the market than about grinding away in pursuit of a goal. They don't stand for anything about being a team player - I don't believe that their captain and their other marquee players have anything but contempt for each other when the cameras go away.

The Yankees don't stand for building something. They stand for what can be bought with unlimited funds. (If anything, it's embarrassing that it took them this long to win another one.) They stand for the pursuit of individual goals. They stand for disloyalty (A-Rod, Damon, letting Torre go). They stand for "what have you done for me lately?"

I don't respect them or their victory the way I would have a win by the Phillies or the Angels. Even the Sox, who spend like that on talent, still don't do it the way the Yankees do, just plucking stars who seem to have nothing to do with each other and replacing them with more the instant they fail to deliver.

In my world, respect is earned by acting like a friend. By acting like family. In kindness and support. Warmth and patience. You earn it by being a shoulder to cry on and an advisor to turn to. By being there, unfailingly, in the hard times as well as the good. You earn it by being a true team player.

So the Yankees get a year of being "winners" - if you call that winning. I don't. And in the world of Yankee, where you're only as good as your last victory, even that will be over soon enough.

Fatigue

Forget last night and the night before, I'm still reeling from the loss with Pedro on the mound and a bad case of deja-Grady.

The more I raise a child, the more discover how much of life relates back to child rearing. When someone's tired, you can't wait. You need to pull him.

With my son, I call it "the witching hour." You recognize just what it is because the behavior becomes completely uncharacteristic of what you saw before. He (often literally) just folds. He falls apart.

Like Pedro, he's not going to tell you when it's happening. He's not going to be asked to put to bed. You need to take control. You need to be firm. You need to pick him up (again, literally) and get him out of there. Now. And you need to not take no for an answer.

And adults get tired too. I'm lucky, really, because my s/o does tell me when it's happening. He says: "I'm hitting a wall." And that means immediate action is required. Typically, it's one of three things: Iced tea. Air conditioning. or leaving.

I'm more like Pedro, more like my son. I won't tell you anything is happening. I probably don't even know it myself. And when I feel a feeling of smoldering rage, I usually put on my game face and keep going. It's pretty rare that I actually lose it.

I'm not willing to give up and let my team down. But unlike Pedro (or maybe like him, depending on who you believe), I secretly long to be pulled. That's my dream.

And it is often realized. Just when I am about to burst in to tears, I discover the bed made. The dishwasher unloaded. The car door opened. I'm often short of sleep and on the brink of short temperedness. Overwhelmed, trying too hard, doing too much.
But in little ways, I get my rest.

Especially when he puts his arms around me.

Good vs. Yankee

A lot's at stake in the next Yankees/Angels game. And I don't mean for either team. I mean for me personally.

My son says that if the Yankees win the World Series, he's going to become a Yankees fan. For life. (Making him just as fairweather as the vast majority of other Yankee fans.) Will he ever root for for the Red Sox again? "Only if the Yankees aren't playing."

I am not the perfect mother. I let my son put salt on his pizza. There are nights when I get him home after dinner too late for a shower. I keep buying him velcro shoes rather than explaining how to tie shoelaces. (Let's hope he picks it up before college).

But there are certain basics that any parent - no matter how busy, distracted, or sleep deprived - knows from the get-go that she MUST distill in her child. And chief among these is the ability to tell the difference between good and Yankee.

1. Good is going to a team you always said you wanted to play for - because of history, loyalty, tradition, proximity to family. Yankee is selling out like Clemens.

2. Good is playing the game fairly and to the best of your abilities. Yankee is employing desperation tactics like slapping the ball out of Bronson Arroyo's glove.

3. Good is having a budget and a plan. Yankee is throwing money at any problem that arises, outbidding in free agency for a bunch of swelled heads. (And until lately, losing anyway.)

4. Good is respecting your elders, honoring the elder statesmen who achieve for you. Yankee is getting rid of Torre.

5. Good is winning or losing based on your skill and heart and graciously accepting the outcome. Yankee is throwing a bat at Piazza, popping pills, and having trainers towel the sweat off your head because you're too important to do it yourself.

I am just not ready to talk about all this rough, depressing stuff with my six-year-old. To date, he's been a Sox fan first, and I've held my tongue. After all, lots of people love Jeter (it's not a crime to be boring, speak in cliches, sell cologne, and convince the world you're even better than you really are).

But please, dear Angels, pull a 2004 Red Sox and make this happen. If you do, I promise to become an Angels fan for life.

As long as they're not playing the Sox.

Blackout

I'm so sorry I haven't written. I just haven't known what to say about the Sox early demise. It was so completely unfathomable - those last moments. The set up was perfect for the Sox - they love to win with their backs against the wall & Paplebon on the mound. I haven't been able to let my brain process it.

It's funny - I expected my son to be catatonic, and he wasn't at all. He's still loving baseball, and rooting for the Yankees now - his "second favorite team."

And it hasn't been devastating for me either. For whatever reason - it happened so fast, it was so utterly sad - my mind has formed a kind of protective shield, refusing to let me compute. The moments are blacked out. Once in a while I think about it. Did it really happen? And I confirm that it did (there they are on television, going on without us, without heart). And then poof. Back into my cloud. I move on.

There are breakups that I feel the same way about. I look back and think - wow, did that really happen? Did he really do that? Was he really so utterly disappointing and untrue? Did I really go through that? And moments where I remember I did (a friend in grief after a failed relationship and I know I have been there, shelled like that, because I know everything she's feeling).

I can understand these blackouts - see them as a miracle really, the brain acting to protect us from the places our hearts just can't go. Self preservation.

But what about the blackouts after good times? We recently got our wedding pictures back, and it was amazing - the whole day was a blur. I remember sensations and emotions, but I look at these pictures or try to recreate the day (one of the happiest of my life), and I can't, it's just lovely fragments, shards of pretty glass.

I don't know why I can't remember this - I suppose it's the excitement, the emotion, the largeness of it all, the lack of sleep, the number of people I spoke to and smiled at. And every once in a while, it kind of dawns on me all over again, and I hear myself saying in my head "I'm married to this man!"

It's a dream you wake up from and wonder - could this really have happened? And the answer is yes. The Sox are done until pitchers and catchers report again. And he's really, really mine.

Crazy in Love

My son is in love with baseball.

He practices his windup all day long. I mean, he gets up from dinner and there it goes. Sometimes sidearm.

The other day he refused to leave the grocery store without Bigelow green tea "because it's Terry Francona's green tea of choice."

He wakes up early to order and reorder his three binders full of baseball cards.

While getting dressed, he no longer watches "Super Why." He watches NESN.

He can't sleep tonight because the game starts late.

And I know how he feels.

Saturday night is date night.

And I can't sleep either.

The Sign

So people wondered whether Victor Martinez would be able to handle pitchers the way Tek can. And Theo has said it's a true partnership, that even when V-Mart is behind the plate, he's got Tek's research and preparation in advance. Okay. But I think the truth is, it's not experience with a particular pitcher that makes a battery successful. It's a bunch of other things. One of which is communication.

My husband and I have been together for only about a year and a half now, but we're doing pretty well as a battery, I have to say. Especially where a lot of this - being a dad, being a husband, living in a house full of stilettos, bras, and Bakugan - is completely new for him. He picked up the rhythms of the team right away and made himself an extremely valuable (essential, in fact) player. He's an integral part of the morning routine (rousing the boy, making bagels with cream cheese, losing at "getting dressed contests.")

And we've developed some useful signals. With thigh squeezes, throat clearing, eye rolls, and a few key secret words, we get each other to change the subject, find out the name of someone we don't know, cuddle, get the check, rush the boy home to bed, etc. His parenting instincts are off the charts, and he does all those dream husband things (telling me I look pretty, emptying the dishwasher without being told, door opening, remembering what I'm working on and asking about it...) I've also trained myself to relax when he does things differently than I would. Where I pretty much stick to a routine and a plan, he sometimes veers off course. I actually love that about him.

But the one thing I need is communication. I think maybe because he's been Mr. Single Guy, he's not used to having a family relying on him. He's not used to having to check in. He'll sometimes think the action he's chosen (running home to tape a show with the boy after school, visiting with a kid's mom who he meets at the bus stop who wants to ask about her oven, stopping to call his restaurant during brunch because he realizes he needs to tell them something about an event) is upsetting to me. None of these actions are.

But the best pitch in the world can be ruinous if the catcher misses the sign. That's what I want. The sign. Call me! Text me. Tell me. Whatever. Just let me know where you are and what's up. When? Right before you leave. "Hey, I've got the boy. Making a slight detour..." "He's on the bus safely, now I'm going to look at this oven." "Please go ahead and start brunch, I just have to make a quick call." That's it.

We're going into the post season with Victor Martinez playing a crucial role, and I wouldn't have it any other way. There is no doubt in my mind about this guy. Or about mine. His intentions are perfection. He's kind, good, loving, smart, adventurous, and compelling. I don't want to change a thing.

I just want to know (yes, every single time) while I'm there doing my part, crouched and waiting - what's coming.

Channel Change

When you drop the first game of a series against the Yankees, it's all about "we'll get 'em next time." It's all about dusting yourself off and coming back at them with even more fury. Still winning the Series. Still thinking it'll all turn out okay.

After game two it's about salvaging your pride.

After game three it's just humiliating.

And then it's just about clinching your spot in the post season. Except that you're getting clobbered by Toronto.

All of which brings me back to one question over and over: When is it time to stop watching?

I have a friend who has been there for me in many ways. Someone smart, engaging, engaged in the world, substantive.

We drifted apart because I found it hard to stand by while she did things that were (without getting into it) dishonest. I didn't want to be judgmental, nobody's perfect (I know I'm not), and these things were not dishonest toward me, but I still found it hard to bear witness to them.

It got worse as I watched her do things that were self destructive. I watched her get involved with someone as jealous as a teenager. Someone overpowering. I got pushed to the side every time it heated up and called in after every breakup. I'd spend hours listening, offering advice. She'd pour out her heart and tell me all the things he'd done (shocking things) and all the ways she'd fallen apart (a mother of two sons) putting her wellbeing seriously at risk.

But the clincher for me was when my dad got cancer and she was so wrapped up in the ups and downs of this guy that she never reached out, except for one phone message (when I called back she never returned my call), to ask me how he was, how I was, or was there anything she could do.

It was finally time to turn off the TV and walk away. No matter how much I loved us as a team. I am not a fairweather fan or a fairweather friend. But I couldn't watch anymore.

It's a new year, and it's time to forgive. And I started this year off with a lot of forgiving. But I think in this case, it's about forgiving myself. I don't have to sit idly by. I can get disgusted and finally change the channel. And it's okay. It doesn't make me a bad person.

Wisdom

Last night's game against Tampa Bay was rained out, forcing a Sunday double header. "Lester will pitch that game, but last night he was disappointed his disjointed night was cut short, apparently without need," wrote Adam Kilgore of the Globe. "After Marsh leaned close to Lester and spoke to him, Lester tossed the baseball toward the backstop, the final throw anyone made last night at Fenway Park."

On the day of my wedding, it looked like it would rain too. The weather reports were all about Danny. And our wedding was outside, at a clam shack where you sit on tree stumps. My fiance kept checking the weather every five minutes.

I've probably said it before, but one piece of writing I really like is the Alcoholics Anonymous Serenity Prayer. To me, if you can adhere to this short and sweet mantra, you've got it made. Here's how it goes:

G-d grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.

Brilliant. I know people getting married outside calm themselves another way. If they can muster the wherewithal, they smile (it often looks pained at first) and say: "Rain on your wedding day is good luck!" We always make fun of that one. What else is good luck on your wedding day? An all-out battle with your mom? A flat tire? A drunk priest? Come to think of it, maybe that promise of "good luck" is what let the Sox not to cancel the game in the first place.

But I comforted myself - and my man - with something like the the Serenity Prayer. Natural disasters are, after all, its most classic application. "Look," I said, after seeing him on the iphone weather app yet again. "There's nothing we can do about it. If it rains, it rains. The clams will taste the same. Okay? It's our wedding day, and it'll be fabulous."

My wedding was like the mail; neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night was going to keep me from the delivery of the complete package I'd been waiting too long for. And as it happened, the sun broke through and we had a gorgeous day. Which of course is good luck. Everybody knows that.

The Stance

I was at the game last night in these phenomenal seats - right behind the White Sox dugout. And what amazed me was the vantage point I had for viewing batting stances. There was Thome, and some of his stance is masculine, the way he juts the bat straight out, as if willing a wicked line drive. But some of it is awkward looking; at the end he twirls his bat vertically over his head like waving a magic wand.

But that's nothing compared to former teammate Victor Martinez, sticking his tush way out and twirling the bat over his head. And that's nothing compared to Youk - tush completely out, body doing some crazy eight-year-old hula hoop, hand gliding up and down the bat at a horizontal tilt. The fact that he ever hits anything is a feat.

I look at all these big macho guys wiggling around, standing on tip toes, stirring imaginary soups, tapping their toes to an imaginary beat - and it tells me how completely desperate they are to get a hit. So much so, that they're willing to do anything, anything up there in front of an audience of 30 thousand plus (and that's not counting TV).

The other night, my fiance said something he later regretted to someone we both love. In a moment that suddenly got emotional (and sometimes moments get like those when you least expect it - often with family) he acted in a way he later wished he hadn't. And he immediately picked up the phone and said so. I really admire that. His ability to listen and put himself out there to right a wrong before more needless damage is done.

My son's got this book about sorry being the hardest word to say - and it's true. It's humiliating to face up to your own behavior and come clean. But you have to do it (and I want to do it more) if you have your eyes on the prize. If what you want is honesty, and better relationships, and authenticity, then I'm realizing that you can't stand on ceremony and be cool. You can't storm out. You can't go to bed mad. You can't give the cold shoulder. When you do, things end up like they are among some of my family members: a frozen tundra. And one that could have been avoided.

I think in relationships you have to do whatever it takes to score - even if it means looking stupid. Even if it means sticking your butt (or your neck) out, standing on tiptoes, being completely vulnerable in front of your team, their team, whoever. The ones who play in the big leagues and put up the big numbers have something inside - a quiet confidence, an inner drive - that tells them it's okay to be fragile in that moment. They know it only makes them stronger.

10 Things I Learned in August

1. A wedding takes a surprising amount of energy to plan - even when it's essentially a clambake and your fiance is doing most of the planning.

2. How to dance to Latin music - and the fact that I like dance lessons. Even when I'm exhausted.

3. That just as I could attach myself to David Cone who was with the Sox for five minutes and be heartbroken when he left, so too does my son mourn the loss of "Smoltzie."

4. That Fenway can be beautiful as a concert venue, too. It's not a sacrilege.

5. That lure of a fondue pot is impossible for a grown man to resist.

6. Finding out about Manny took something away from me - something not just about Manny, but about baseball.

7. There's something about seeing the whole red stirrup.

8. Yanks/Red Sox, no matter what, matters. And not just to us.

9. Kate Hudson has some serious issues.

10. Some games are just games, and some are magic. And when it's a magical one, you know.

Romp

On Sunday, my son and I watched new addition Victor Martinez with what I can only describe as pure, unadulterated glee. "Now the Red Sox have ten runs!" he rushed in to tell me as I made his lunch in the kitchen. "Now they have 13!"

MLB.com quoted Martinez: "you put a good swing on the ball, anything can happen" and noted that "It kept happening on Sunday, and it was contagious on a day when the Red Sox romped over the Orioles, 18-10."

I love that word "romp." It's one of those words where the sound completely fits the meaning. DictionaryReference.com has three verb definitions for romp:

1. to play or frolic in a lively or boisterous manner.
2. to run or go rapidly and without effort, as in racing.
3. to win easily.

It's funny, because when sportswriters use the word talking about a game like that one, presumably they mean (3) "to win easily" but I always think of (1) "to play or frolic in a lively or boisterous manner." They seem to go hand in hand - what could be more lively and frolic-y and boisterous than scoring 18 runs in one game?

Romp definitely has a bedroom-y meaning (it's not just me. If you google "bedroom romp" lots of steamy stuff comes up). And I'm all for that. But what about that whole frolic idea? That whole idea of play? That is something I adore. I am crazy about laughing with my s/o. Giggling. About when he does some crazy dance in his boxers while I'm waiting in bed.

To me these two kinds of romp - the frolic kind and the win kind - go hand in hand. In baseball and in love. In baseball, it seems to be that the loose team, the guys who crack jokes and giggle and do funny handshakes - win games. And in love, I think cracking up has to be some kind of key to victory too. Not that I'm an expert, but it feels that way to me.

I want to romp with my guy for a good long time.

This Day in History

On Sunday, July 20, 2008, the Angels bested the Sox, 5-3. It was the end of a bad series for the Sox. We lost all three games. Reporters were saying that if we intended to protect our World Series title, we had to get better on the road.

I was worried too. I was at the end of my own bad run. I’d been on way too many bad dates. I was bored and tired. I was forgetting I ever giggled. I was starting to think that if I wanted to protect my sanity, I’d have to stop going on the road myself. I’d have to stay home and watch re-runs of the Hills in the comfort of my own bed.

But that night, after the Sox lost their third in a row, I won one. They failed to end their skid, but I went on a great date. We didn’t win the World Series that year, but I barely noticed. Because July 20th was our first date, and I was already falling for him, just a little.

My favorite pitcher, Wakefield, had let me down. But my soon-to-be-favorite guy was surprising me – in a good way. I was laughing. I was bantering. Instead of leaving the ballpark early, I was wanting more innings. I was wanting to be kissed.

My night was a little more like the Sox game of July 20, 1955. On that day, according to Bill Nowlin’s “Day by Day with the Boston Red Sox,” Red Sox rookie pitcher George Susce, Jr, allowed a single to the first batter he faced (Vic Power) but allowed no hits the rest of the game in a 6-0 Red Sox victory.

He’d been through a lot. I’d been through a lot. But in truth, I was a rookie. So was he. And yet, once we got it going, we really got it going.

Happy anniversary, baby. More to come.

Ring Bearer

I'm wearing my ring!

Yesterday, my fiance picked it up from being sized (wow, who knew, I have verrrry small fingers) and I've been staring at it ever since. There are a million other things more important about all this than a ring - like the ceremony, like finding a place to live, like my son's happiness in all of this, like our lives together (which is probably why when he proposed without one I seriously failed to notice). But let me just say: the ring is nice. I like it. A lot!

Players like their rings too. I've read articles about how excited they get when they're being measured for rings at Josten's (just like me!) But what's really interesting is that, unlike in a marriage, in baseball, it's not just players who wear the rings.

Everyone who helps out, even in a non-starring role, gets a ring in baseball. If "it takes a village" to win a Series, then the whole village gets a ring. The first time the Sox won the World Series, they issued a record number of rings to "players, coaches, management, and myriad team employees" according to Chris Snow of the Globe.

Even Nomar, who left mid-season, got a World Series ring, and he explained why he deserved it when he was here recently, telling us in a press conference that winning a World Series builds, it's not just a moment or a few games, but so much that has come before.

If that's the case, then I shouldn't be the only one wearing a ring right now. My soon-to-be husband and I shouldn't be the only ones to wear wedding bands next month. Here's who else I'd like to issue rings to:

1. His mom and dad and siblings. My mom and dad. They formed him, and all his salty/sweet and tough/tenderness.
2. Everyone who works in his restaurant, especially the bartender, who, when I came looking for him and was told he was in Barcelona, helpfully added "with his mom."
3. His shortribs, because I have to admit, they did make me fall a little more in love with him.
4. His high school reunion early on, which he didn't take me to - because absence makes the heart grow fonder.
5. The Place.
6. My law degree. Finally, I'm putting it to use. It helps me be a good arguer and quick on my feet. The man likes some banter.
7. My son, whose adorableness made him see the possibility of family.
8. The cast of Mad Men - which gave me an excuse to ask him back to my place.
9. Diane von Furstenberg, who designed all of the miracle dresses - irresistible wonders of femininity - I used to cast my spell.

I have all of you to thank. The Curse (of bad dates) has finally lifted. It's a historic moment in Rachel Nation.

The Simple Things

Even simple isn't simple.

Last night my fiance (!) and I went to a PawSox game with my son after work on the spur of the moment. Simple, right? Days of yore. Boys of summer. Drive 45 minutes (it takes me almost 30 to get to Fenway anyway). Park free. Sit anywhere. Simple.

Just remember to pack long pants and a jacket for the child. PJs for the car ride home. Popcorn and fruit rollups for bribery. Remember that if you promise him baseball cards, you then have to go find the souvenir shop and get baseball cards. That he wants to eat a whole pretzel before his chicken nuggets (you should have said after, after the nuggets). With ketchup not mustard.

As the sun sets from pink to orange to blue over the silhouetted trees, watch him every second so he doesn't go over the railing.

Find him a place to go to the bathroom when you're already in the parking lot, because that's when he figures out that he needs to.

Carry his limp body from the car, up the stairs. Unlock the door. Remember the nightlight. And the light has to be on in the hall.

Here's all I want to do: marry this man. My best friend. Have him saying "honey, I'm home" every single night.

I lose myself in daydreaming that it could be just that simple.

Of course, when my son whispered, "Mom, you're the best mom I could ever have" as he faded into dreamland, it all was instantly worthwhile.

Sweet Win

I realize the Sox didn't win for me today.

And the fireworks weren't for me. Per se.

Or the crowds.

Or the singers. Or the orchestra.

Or the starry sky.

Or the sunny weekend after days and days of gray.

Or the Dairy Joy being open on July 4.

But it sure feels that way.

Congratulations to the Sox on their win.

And I'm feeling pretty happy for me, too. I'm engaged to the best teammate I could imagine.

Hoping to watch the Sox win the Series as husband and wife. (Hey, I like to dream big. And it seems to be working.)

Caught Looking

Here's a colossal mistake: waiting on the wrong pitch.

I remember playing softball in high school, and hearing my teammates say, "Wait for yours." I wasn't supposed to just hit whatever came my way. I was supposed to wait for exactly the pitch I wanted.

Me me me.

My pitch. Not what you want to throw. What I want to hit.

I think a big thing in relationships of all kinds is empathy. Putting yourself in someone else's shoes. Hearing the other person. Remember in White Men Can't Jump, how Rosie Perez said to Woody Harrelson, "When I say I'm thirsty, I don't want you to get me water. I want you to emphasize with my thirst!" She wanted to be heard, not solved and put away like a kid's puzzle.

You can't stand at the plate waiting for exactly what you want. Because you may not see it. There's another person in this with a brain, heart, and a whole other set of goals and ideas. To be successful as a batter (Manny does this brilliantly; Becoming Manny tells you all about exactly the techniques he uses), you have to really get into the pitcher's head to figure out what's coming. And you need to really wait as long as you can to get a good look at the ball.

I think it's a big mistake with friends, with lovers, to just push toward your own goal. Not to ask enough questions. Not to try to get inside the other person's head. Some amount of selfishness is a good thing - you don't want to lie down and get run over. But single-mindedly pressing forward without accounting for the other person will never work.

That's how you end up shaking your head at the plate and walking back to the dugout while we all here the announcer say "Caught looking. Boy, he was really fooled by that one."

Tinker to Evers

Sorry I haven't written, but I have an excellent excuse: I was in rural Ireland for a week with my s/o and his family (brother, sister, seven nieces and nephews, dad and stepmom), celebrating his dad's 70th birthday. Sheep and cows? Abundant. Cellphone bars? Not so much.

The trip had every potential stressor you could imagine: jet lag, family (they are a wonderful family; I just mean that being with family for a week in general and hoping they like you has the potential to be a stressor), driving a giant van on the left side of the street, the aforementioned lack of cell phone bars, other people's small children (again, they're wonderful), athletic activity, not much salad and no sushi.

And yet we got along famously, barring a few bumps in the road (both literal and figurative). The most often repeated sentence on the trip "Sweetie, you're too close to the curb. SWEETIE! SWEEEEEEETIE!!!!!!!" But we learned. A lot. I learned new things about him. I got closer to him than I've ever felt before. It was hard to leave after waking up and going to sleep with him for a whole week.

Most of all I think I learned that there's going to be more learning. My s/o put it in baseball terms (ahhh, he knows me well), analogizing it to a shortstop and second baseman learning to be a great double play team. You have to figure out each other's styles, rhythms, strengths, and weaknesses.

In his Sports Illustrated story, "Pivot Physics," Tom Verducci says "the best double play combinations may appear to have the impeccable timing of Astaire and Rogers, Montana and Rice, or Stockton and Malone, but the truth is closer to the interplay between you and your UPS man. Just let him know where you'd like it delivered, and you have the basis for a beautiful relationship."

While I'm not going to think of him as my UPS man (get your mind out of the gutter), I do like that idea about being straightforward about what you need and how you communicate best. As we raced home for dinner from Galway City past stone walls and sheep, I told my s/o that I don't have very long arms. But I promised that if he tries not to airmail it, I'll try to jump as high as I possibly can.

The Truth About Manny

I finished the Torre book and now I'm onto the Manny book. The authors are already tugging at my sympathies. I always knew how he'd get up at 4:30 in the morning, strap a tire to his waist and start running. I didn't know that his relatives came here before he did, and he was waiting for his turn without them. I didn't know he lived in a project. Or that his parents never came to watch him play. Or that he had social anxiety disorder so bad, he'd literally climb out a window to avoid a surprise visit with friends of his parents'.

I could get all sympathetic here, but the thing is, even if I could understand the steroids, he's gone. I have to remember while I'm reading this book not to read it like I'm in it. Not to read it like maybe he could get back in my good graces, like maybe it would make sense for me to care about him again.

And I have to read it without thinking I'll get closure. Because there are never any objective answers. Even if Manny were writing the book himself, you'd always wonder if it was really him. And even if it was, it would still be his perception of events.

Truth matters to me. But truth to me is being authentic. Any time you keep asking yourself "What happened" you're never going to get an answer that means anything. It's just a way of not moving forward. Into the new season. With the team you have now. The team you love.

Everything Will Be All Right

On the way home from a Wedding from the Cape tonight we were weaving through the dark streets under archways of trees with very little gas and only an Ipod to guide us. And I got a little scared. But my s/o kept telling me that everything would be all right. Even if we got lost. Even if we couldn't find a gas station. Even if the gas station was closed. Everything would be all right.

And everything was, very quickly, all right in Red Sox Nation. Lester didn't shut out the Rangers, but he pitched a complete game. And two-hit them. And we won. And we reclaimed first place.

And of course I know that the team in first place can change a million times this summer. But I love that feeling of being on top. That feeling - even if it's fleeting, that everything will be all right.

I get it when we fill the tank with gas. When I check on my son at night, and he's fast asleep, limbs akimbo, breathing out a rhythm. I used to get it in high school, with Jenny Levine at the wheel, when we'd be smoking out the windows and driving too fast but I'd know that Jenny wouldn't let things get out of hand. I get that feeling with my s/o now, a lot, in little moments, resting my head on his chest and watching 60 Minutes. I get this feeling of safety and security. And I can really breathe. And the summer stretches out in front of me. And the roads unfurl in the darkness. And the schedule of home and away tells me some matchups will be hard. But with him I don't have to know all the unknowns to know that I'm safe.

500

So Tito, our beloved Bigelow Tea drinker, now has 500 wins. And I'm trying to think. In this 38-year lifetime, do I have 500 of anything?

Hmmm.

1. I've said I love you to my son 500 times.

2. I've walked past the Citgo sign 500 times.

3. I think I've said, 500 times, "No I can't just start practicing law again. I haven't paid my bar dues."

4. I've probably eaten 500 pizzas and 500 pints of ice cream.

5. I've picked up my dry cleaning 500 times.

6. I've ordered vodka drinks 500 times.

7. I've smiled (and really meant it) more than 500 times - that would explain all the smile lines.

8. I'd like to think I've seen my byline 500 times, but I think it's more like 250.

9. It feels like I've survived bad dates 500 times, but that can't be historically accurate, since I did hold down a job during that time.

10. I know I've tucked my son in 500 times. I'm no Tito, but that one actually feels pretty good.