To Have and to Hold

After the roller coaster that was the Red Sox 2/4 battle with the Yankees, what stands out the most is the second game. There we were, flying, our hearts totally handed over and ripe for the taking. But Lackey couldn't "hold" the Yankees. This word choice by the Globe has stayed with me, even after our miracle win last night.

Lackey couldn't hold them. It gets at my most buried and unspoken relationship fear. You have this thing that you cherish, and it's fragile. You have this tiny, bud of victory that needs water and sun. You have this right moment, this right team with all of the tools to come out on top. Yet you only have about a 50/50 shot.

The word "hold" suggests that Lackey was totally devastated. That he was putting every fiber of himself into the effort, but that there were forces he could not control that were too powerful. You picture him pushing on a door with all of his might and there's a tidal wave on the other side.

I've had strong friendships that couldn't survive crushing circumstances. But in those situations, my heart wasn't broken. I wasn't "holding" - I relinquished something (yes, with grief), but something that became too untenable and made me too unhappy. But when you're in love - real love - and when you're devoted to making it work forever, it's another ballgame entirely. Sometimes it's smooth sailing to a W. And other times it's a battle; you're on the mound fighting pain, reaching for everything you've got.

The thing is, we all are like Lackey was before that game. We all think we're the ones, who, like Tito said, "command and compete." And yet great pitchers sometimes lose. So I try not to have hubris. I try not to think I can't possibly lose. I just promise myself that I will wake up every day, think about just what's at stake, and devote everything I have to holding.

In or Pout?

Today you could really see the emotion in Lester's gestures when he thought he had the guy out and didn't get the call. (And it was a bad call.) He showed you that it meant something to him. He showed his heart and intensity. He reacted (and it drew Tito out the clubhouse). But he didn't lose it.

And, at the end of the day, he made no excuses. "I was just outpitched," he said.

To me, the expression "it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game" should change. It's not how you play (i.e. effort) but something much more specific. It's how you act on the ride home.

Whether you win or lose, were wrong or right, screwed up or got screwed - it doesn't matter. Whether you get over it does. Look, everyone knows that there are times in close relationships with friends, with s/os, where you feel burned. But you have to move on. Otherwise it becomes a toxic seeping thing that sucks the whole life out of the moment, the day, longer if you let it.

I get hurt as much as the next guy, I do. But for the most part, when it's unintentional, or when it's constructive, it's important to let it go, andI really make an effort. I say what's on my mind straightforwardly (not that waiting to be drawn out, answering everything with one word, bringing it up hours later as some bitter joke thing, which is to unfair) - and I listen, and I try to be clear, and then I'm done. And I can't wait to be over it. You wake up and there's another game to play.

I can't stand the pouting, the holding on to anger, the escalation so that what starts as an exchange of points of view ends in a full-on war. You've seen it happen on the field - there's a contagiousness to bitterness. You're so busy pouting that you're blind. You're so pissed at the guy threatening to steal that you fail to make your pitches.

Lester was right to be angry. He was. The call was bad, and it affected the game. But the way he shrugged it off and took responsibility for his own role anyway is so admirable. Now he won't go into the next game with that giant rock of bitterness on his back.

If you love something or someone, I think you owe it to them and to yourself to let go of your frustration. I want to admit when I'm wrong (and if I'm not, not to fake it, but at least to acknowledge that reasonable minds can disagree). And then get back on the mound light and loose, ready to face what the world has to offer.

Tip of the Cap

After the Dodgers weekend, I heard lots of EEI commentary about Manny. From the people who cheered. The people who booed. The people who believed Manny should have tipped his cap.

I, of course, cheered. I cheered every one of Manny's at-bats. And the guy broke my heart. Really. I look back over my time with him and it comes flooding back - the torment. Forget the things that made other people mad. Not running out the ball. His silly outfield antics. I learned to embrace those things. What broke my heart was that Manny never came through.

At the end of the day, no matter how much we loved him, no matter how many times I cheered him (even wrote, and won a prize for a short story about him), he couldn't commit. I was willing to tolerate all the ups and downs. I was willing to accept Manny being Manny. But he didn't know how to pull the trigger on forever.

And as it turned out, forever with Manny wouldn't have been so great. His reputation tarnished not only by laziness, but by steroid use, and the deceitfulness that comes with that - would we really want Manny retiring in our uniform?

Every once in a while, I wonder what would happen if I were to bump into the Manny from my past. He was truly mistifying, pledging his love for me until (and past) the bitter end, without ever coming through when it came to anything real. Yet now, from the security and goodness of what I have, my anger has all fallen away. I don't understand that non-understandable Manny. But being whalloped (in the best way) by a few seasons of real love has released me from caring.

That's why if I were to see him at, say, a reunion, I wouldn't boo him. I could be cordial. Removed from all the nitty gritty and highs and lows, cushioned by something both exciting and certain, I'd like to think I could genuinely smile for the good times - if not for him, for the nostalgia of who I was then, what he taught me, and how it all brought me to where I am now.

I cheered Manny on Sunday because he's gone now. Because I'm no longer in the eye of the storm. I'm safely over him. I can recognize graciously what he did for us. Those fans who booed look small and still-hurting. But I'm not that bitter wounded bird. That seems like forever ago. I'm flying.

I do think Manny should have tipped his cap (though he's never been well-versed in the social graces). It would be nice for him to stand up in front of the cheering and take in the booing. To recognize that he did, in fact, do some damage to our collective psyche. To let us know that it wasn't us, that we were good fans. To, in some small way, apologize or at least acknowledge. To toast the town where he spent some formative years, even if we were never meant to be his home.

Non-Dramatic Ending

I'm back.

Sorry about the lull. You could say I've been under the weather. Symptoms: paying way too much for tickets, screaming myself hoarse, dressing in green clothing, staying up past bedtime, chanting "no means no!" at the sight of someone in a Kobe Bryant T-shirt.

Yes, this is the year I came down with Celtics fever. A pretty severe case too. And just in time. Just in time to have my guts ripped out, I fell in love.

It was an all too familiar feeling for this Sox fan. In 2004, people asked whether our relationship with the Sox could have the same heartfelt poignance if we won it all. I said yes. Duh. Winning is good. And this gutwrenching Celtics loss confirms it. I don't love these boys in green more because they threw it all away in the fourth quarter. I'm heartbroken - and irritated. And I'll remember that, even if we win next time.

I'm not one of those people who enjoys pain in love. That seems to go without saying, but there are so many of them. Even Carrie Bradshaw (and yes, I do know she's fictional, but those writers base their stuff on fact) upon finally, finally landing Big, can't handle the non-dramatic reality of having her dream man waiting at home for her on the couch - she has to tempt fate with Aidan, who she never was into enough to marry even though he asked her.

The ones who really love the craziness are men. Specifically, men (who so often claim they don't like drama) love to be tormented by crazy women. Don't believe me? Take it from a man then, that great writer Rick Marin, who finally explored why men want Angelina and not Jennifer Aniston in the Times in 2001.

"Even a simple dinner becomes a game of conversational chess, without all the pieces...Some of their moves can leave even the smoothest talkers at a loss for words. A. J. Jacobs, an editor at Esquire, recalled a woman who said to him, over hummus at the Bell Cafe on Spring Street, 'I miss you.' It was their first date, but not their last."

So now I'm back to baseball. I went to see us beat the Dodgers yesterday with my boys, amidst the chants of the heartbroken, who shouted "Beat LA! Beat LA" as if this victory could repair that heartache. It was an exciting game with a last-minute walkoff. But I would have been happy to not have had those errors, to not have had it be a nailbiter.

After the rush of flirting with the Celtics, I was back with my true love. Slow and steady. Gritty and real. Grinding it out day after day. Taking its time. Plenty of sexy flashes, laughter and tears. I was ready to see a victory by playing the game right. Squaring your shoulders in the face of daunting pitches. Doing the little things.

I'm not like Carrie. I know what I have without needing to test it. Celtics Fever was fun, sure, but I'm still smarting, and I don't enjoy that feeling. If we were to say, take a comfortable lead in the AL (crossing fingers now), I'd be good with that.

With almost four decades behind me, having seen plenty of drama and suffered my share of losses, I know just how lucky I am to be with a winner. To not live life on the edge of my seat. To love someone who actually delivers.

Critical Homestand

When the Red Sox left for Detroit, they left for a trip that could play a big role in shaping the outcome on the season. They left
for two weeks of playing some of the best of the best in baseball, and most of it away games.

They also left with a 7-3 record during their homestand. Sure, they lost two of three to the Yankees. But they also swept the Angels and won two of three over the Blue Jays.

That's key.

“It was an important homestand for us,’’ J.D. Drew said in a Globe story. “We were trying to get our rhythm going, and I think we did that."

I think that when you're looking at a daunting stretch ahead, it's a lot easier when you lay some home victories down first. Going out into the world, taking whatever challenges it has to offer - it's significantly easier when you can get a rhythm going at home.

It's too bad, too, because the natural inclination when work or anything else gets intense, is to let it go at home. That's where you know things are all set up, where you know no matter what you'll be okay, no matter what you do or how many days you take off or spend on the DL, your marquee player status will remain in tact.

There's something to that, but I also think there's something dangerous in too much of that. Home shouldn't be the place where you give nothing. Home needs effort too.

“The good thing is we’re leaving here with some confidence and we’re looking more like we thought we would," Tim Wakefield said. I think ideally, home does recharge your confidence. But only when you come alive there, like the Sox did.

Even with scant time, I think it's always possible to do the little things at home. Just to steal the little moments. Even if it's ten minutes of talking before your head hits the pillow, even if it's taking a dish into the kitchen, even if it's leaving a note somewhere. At home, the little efforts are almost guaranteed to go your way (there is, after all, a home court advantage - the walls pulled closer, the clubhouse cushier) - but you still have to make them.

“This is a big trip for us coming up,’’ Jon Lester said. “We played well on the homestand outside of those two games against the Yankees. It just feels like we’re playing better baseball and the record also proves it. We’re pitching better, hitting better, everything has been improved.

“This is going to be a tough stretch on the road the next two weeks, but I think we’re going to be OK.’’

The first grinder against the Tigers notwithstanding, I believe him.

Good to Know You've Got a Friend

We went to two games in a row last week. I'll take the first one (and the good one) first. At the Sox Angels game, we had these amazing seats in the first row right behind the visitor's dugout.

There was this cute Japanese couple behind us with some friends, and partway through the game, their teenage kids, who must have been sitting farther from the field, showed up and took over their seats. I loved hearing those friends talk. They were having so much fun, taking so much pleasure in being in these amazing seats together. They were joyful about the view ("Sweet skyline, dude") and every other moment. Instead of trying to get beer, they were excited about their ice cream in a baseball hat bowl and how they'd lord the experience over their friends by eating cereal out of the hats the next day in their boarding school cafeteria. They knew they had to call their dorm parent to report in, and they put it off as long as possible just to enjoy every minute of being outside and watching this amazing game.

To the right of us were another generation of friends, two older gentlemen. They too were joyful in the moment. They rose to applaud key plays. They shouted out their advice. They indulged in everything - gleefully sharing a big box of Cracker Jack.

Sitting at the game with these friends at first made me think about my girl friends. I have a close group, and it changes and shifts from time to time as our lives change and shift. I wonder who I'll be friends with when I'm older. I can't get those dorm room days back, but who will share my ballpark Cracker Jacks years and years from now?

These friendships are important to me and always have been. But I realize that what matters to me even more than finally getting the Sex & the City foursome of my dreams, is the friendship I have right here at home. What I want with my s/o is not just that talk of s/he's my best friend, but everything that comes with it - the loyalty, the there-for-you-ness, and the kindnesses. The daily kindnesses of friends. That ability to know when a person needs a boost and to give it. The ability to root for the other person. The ability to be tender. The ability, no matter how delicious they are or how starving you are, to share the Cracker Jacks with a smile.

Fenway (Un)Faithful

Confession:

I have cheated on Fenway. Since the truth is bound to come out anyway, I might as well spill it:

1. I bought and wore a Cubs shirt and justified it by saying since it was National League it "didn't count."
2. I ate bratwurst and loved it more than a Fenway Frank.
3. I stayed through extra innings.
4. I shamelessly used baby talk to mask a lack of syllables, chanting "Here we go Cubbies, here we go."
5. I razzed Fenway for not having a whole neighborhood named after it like Wrigleyville - forgetting all about The Fenway, where one of my best friends lived for over a year.
6. I liked the ivy wall (and it pains me to say this) as much as the Green Monster.

And I can't claim that it just a gorgeous sunny day - I was wearing 3 shirts, a sweater, a trench coat, a hat and gloves. And I'd do it all over again.

XOXO
Little miss sinner

Adapter

I can't imagine a player I admire more than Rick Ankiel, and he showed me why last weekend against the Sox.

Back when Ankiel was a young left-handed pitching phenom, he amazed me, and I envisioned him in the Hall of Fame as a pitcher. And then he was the Wild Thing. I can't imagine something like that playing out on a public stage. The loss of control - and the fact that is was not physical but psychological - the relentless taunting. I wanted to cry for him.

And then there's the happy ending, his reinvention as a middle order batter, and apparently, Sox slayer.

Lately I've become more aware of how adaptable I am - and more thankful for this quality than anything else. I've made huge career changes. I'm trained as a lawyer, and I practiced for three years, but l wasn't scared to leave (secretary and water view included) when I wasn't satisfied.

I wrote a book and saw it through and thickened my skin against the inevitable critics (the fans helped). I moved up the ranks at a PR firm, became Creative Director, and left after eight years to fulfill a dream of writing about fashion and style. I've learned over the course of these changes that you make your fortune by envisioning what you want and doing what you need to do to get there. Smiling through it. Practicing. Grabbing the bat and swinging away.

I've been adaptable in my love life too. When I've thought I was down and wouldn't recover, I've found a path that was even more right for me. I've felt crushed and I've felt disconsolate and I've wondered if there was a place on a team for me. But I've made one. By picking the right team. By finding someone who believed in me like Ankiel has found in the Royals.

I still need to be adaptable now. And I admire that quality in others. It's so easy to get caught up in a tough moment, to dwell, to let it fester. But the adaptable girl in me doesn't do that. And I don't respect it. I believe in productivity. I believe in stating your case and moving on. If Ankiel had wallowed in his anger, he would never have picked up a bat. I can't imagine he'd be happy now.

When the workday ends, when the moment of a squabble has passed, it's tough to shift gears, but you have to. You can't stay there (and the longer you do, the eaisier it is to get stuck). You have to want that bigger brighter thing and move on. You have to shrug off whatever you're stuck on and focus on something bigger.

"I'm a big dreamer," Ankiel said. Me too. And it's serving me well.

Play Ball

I was reading a Globe article a few weeks ago about how Pedroia and Scutaro were getting to know each other in spring training, sussing out each others’ styles, personalities. By practice, repetition, learning where to expect the ball so one of them can receive it and learning where to throw the ball so it won’t sail over the other’s head.

Francona said something about how shortstop has been a revolving position for the Sox, and how nice it is to have Scutaro in place. Someone who has all the tools. Now, knowing there’s stability, knowing there’s long haul-ness, all that’s left to do is find a rhythm. Exactly.

I’ve long seen the parallels between this particular baseball relationship and love, but never more so than now in my eighth month as a newlywed. Just as the Sox had their period of uncertainty, I had dating. You go out there, toss a ball or two, try your hardest, and see if it works.

Sometimes it feels like a rotating position, just like it did for Pedroia. Never quite right, and you can’t make it fit where it doesn’t. But now I finally have my guy. And while I’ve long ago learned that you can never stop practicing, like the Sox, we’ve had our spring training. We’ve been working hard. We’ve mapped out the way we wanted to handle certain scenarios. We’ve learned each others’ rhythms.

I just watched Scutaro and Pedroia make an out on Opening Night against the Yankees. It wasn’t perfect. It was close. You had a moment of doubt. But they made it.

I don’t know what lies ahead. I do know we won’t win every game. But it’s nice to be starting the season with a teammate I know is a keeper.

Get Serious

Reading ESPN and there's a great story on Albert Pujols by Tim Keown.

And the focus is how serious he is. The writer's theory? That Pujols' seriousness is twofold - it's about being a role model for his team and for the sport - especially because of thie visibility stemming from his talent and pay. And the other reason is the serious mission of his Pujols Family Foundation (children with Down's Syndrome) and seriousness of what he sees in his Dominican homeland - the poverty and strife he works so tirelessly to impact - bringing in dentists to fix teeth. Clean mattresses to an infested shantytown.

I can understand seriousness like this. I can understand not bejng a giggling Johnny Damon type when you see what he has seen.

But I also wonder. Can you be respected as a role model, can you get charitable work done, can you excel in your trade -without being serious?

I take my work extremely seriously. My craft. Being a writer. Being a mother. A wife. The initiative I started to teach writing and public speaking to inner city kids. It all matters to me very much, and I pursue it all with intensity (just try and get in my way).

But I don't live seriously in the world. I live lightly. I laugh all the time. I prefer an incentive program that encourages good efforts with cupcakes and praise to reprimanding shortcomings.

The way I dress (bursts of color, ruffles and wraps, huge cuffs), walk (almost skipping) laugh (loudly), even my 1970s clipboard and chartreuse file folders - all of it unavoidably broadcasts my jovialiry.

I'm torn about that. On the one hand, I hate to temper my very essence and what makes me me, but I wonder sometimes if it's asking too much of the rest of the world to know how seriously I take the things I care about - no matter how loud my laugh or how messy my foyer or how easily I join in when someone starts up the Mannequin theme song.

I've always assumed people will just get it - that my efforts speak for themselves no matter what the facade looks like. But maybe that's just not possible.

I'm not dealing with anything remotely close to be caliber of what Albert Pujols is - but sometimes I wonder if I need to put on a serious face just to make sure everyone's aware of how hard I play my game.

Party Tricks

The coolest thing as a mother is when you can impress your child. And, as I understand it (I stand, mercifully 6 years from teenager-dom), those moments get fewer and fewer as you go, until you pretty much hope to not be an embarrassment. Right now, when it comes to his stepson, my husband Jim has the claim on cool. 100%. As a bachelor for 44 years of his life, he still has that childlike quality, an authentic jubilance and openness that cannot be faked. He does funny voices, makes outlandish jokes, remembers bits from Monty Python and hilarious vintage jingles. He's up for anything, athletic (sigh), and willing to veer off course at a moment's notice (sojourns that often end at the place with the best cupcakes in town.)

And I'm happy. I'm not jealous. Most of the time. Recently, when just my son and I were home eating dinner, I said, "Now that we've got some time just us, I'm here if there's anything you want to talk about? I know a lot has happened lately with my new marriage, all living together. Is anything on your mind?"

"Yes," said my son. I braced myself.

"Why is Jim so much funnier than you, Mommy?"

I've got nothin'. I'm the all business parent. Sure I come up with something entertaining once in a while, but mostly, I'm the bedtime-brush-your-teeth-now-clothes-in-the-hamper one. When I was home with my son (for the first year after he arrived from Korea), I had a few things to offer. I still have a card he made me in preschool that says "I love playing cars with you and hide and go seek with you, Mommy." (I pretended the cars were all going to a sock hop and had them dance on two wheels. Score.)

But, I guess, like pop stars, parents go in and out of favor. And I have to be happy (I'm over the moon) that my son loves Jim. (And especially when he also has a close relationship with his amazing father). Still, once in a while, I long for a comeback hit.

And finally, a few weeks ago, I discovered one. My son was playing with a Spock figure when he stopped to see if he could manage a vulcan grip. No luck. And I instantly new I'd struck gold. Because, in spite of my lack of coordination and inability to touch my toes in the cool-down phase of my workout tape - I can do a vulcan grip! YES! In the world of 6 and 3/4 year olds, where Bionicals and Bakugans are more valuable than shrimp cocktail and gold bricks, party tricks trump all. After years of hard work and even a stint as a lawyer, I was finally, finally rich.

It lasted a whole 20 minutes.

But I thought of my triumph again recently when I read a story by John Tomase on the Boston Herald's web site. Red Sox right handed pitcher Joe Nelson's career was transformed by...wait for it...his vulcan grip. Nelson grips the ball so deeply in his fingers that, according to Tomase, the webbing has worn down.

"Nelson joked that his agent told him when he signed with the Braves in 1996 that the pitch was a marketing dream," writes Tomase. “Last year more people talked about it because of the new ‘Star Trek’ movie,” [Nelson] said. “It’s one of those things where everyone’s got their own little thing. This is it for me."

I hope my vulcan grip isn't it for me. I hope I build a strong bond with my son as he grows up by being there for him, being honest, supportive, loving. That he respects and loves me for me, party tricks or not. But like Nelson, who's "battling for a spot in the Red Sox bullpen," I want to make sure that my roster spot in my son's life is safe. I wonder if he knows I can roll my tongue?

Bounce Back

Pitchers and catchers are here, and that can only mean one thing: finally, the Yankees are no longer world champions. They have to prove themselves again. Spring training is tabula rasa. Everything is washed clean. Everyone has a chance again. Every story has the potential to play out to miraculous effect. Nothing is impossible.

Anyone can bounce back. That’s the spring training story. The headlines are shout it from the rooftops, the delicious possibility of magical turnaround:

Can J.J. Hardy bounce back in 2010?
Can Juan Cruz bounce back in 2010?
Mets’ Wright expects to bounce back in 2010
Can Rowand bounce back?
Cole Hamels should bounce back to 2008 form
Now, it's up to closer Brad Lidge to bounce back
Will Burnett bounce back in 2010?

I attach songs to moments in my life. There are happy songs that make me sad – just thinking how happy I was in that moment, how fleeting it turned out to be. There are songs that remind me of the carefree quality of youth, the paths I once thought I was on. The certainty with which I saw everything laid out before me. There are end-of-love songs. Songs I listened to when I was in pain I never thought would stop searing. Songs I listened to when I realized the devastation was unavoidable and the best I could hope for was to take a bath in it.

Today my son had a playdate at our house, and he set up a CD player in his room. And while I was barely paying attention, I watched as he pilfered my CDs to smuggle them back to his room. Once by one, all those songs began to play. The songs that made me cry every single time, now made me smile as the backdrop for my son and his friend’s feet-pounding joy. The poignant songs that once made me ache were rendered harmless when accompanied by screams of “I’m the head director! No I am!”

I realized, as I sat a few feet away, working on the couch, nibbling a leftover pancake from brunch as my husband napped in the next room, that I had bounced back from all of it. The most painful and poignant moments. And I am happy. More pain is to come – life keeps marching on, my son grows up, I will lose loved ones. But the human capacity to grieve and go on is so stunning and so comforting.

Our own Dice-K needs a fresh start this season. It was painful to watch him last year, my eyes still full of the hope that came with his smiling face at that press conference when he first arrived. Can he bounce back from his injury, from the perception that he was difficult in refusing to follow instructions about recuperating? Of course he can. He can bounce back from anything. And so can I. That’s what I love about this time of year.

Not Fade Away

I blame Nomar.

I blame Nomar for my writer's block. Remember when Nomar was the face of the Sox? When his child-like quirks (shyness, taking the steps two-by-two), just made his athleticism shine that much brighter? When we compared him to Ted Williams - no, when Ted WIlliams compared him to Ted WIlliams. When Jeter and A-Rod said he was the best shortstop there was?

When he left, I thought it was a good move on Theo's part because he'd gotten moody. I thought he just couldn't handle the media attention in Boston. I thought that wherever he landed, he'd make records, top dogpiles, knock lights out like The Natural.

I guess I thought wrong. According to the Susan Slusser of the San Francisco Chronicle, Nomar Garciaparra is widely expected to retire. All that promise reduced to one line: a .313/.361/.521 line over 5,596 at-bats. So long and good night.

Nomar was never my personal favorite player. I was fine (even good) with his leaving. It's his fade that's gotten to me. The slow fade from star to anonymity. Nomar was (and I guess still is) a hard worker. A get-up-and-go guy. An early morning training, no excuses, no offseason kind of guy.

I'm that kind of guy too. I blog (ged) all the time. I wake up and work out (for 20 minutes, but still). I carry my computer everywhere. I'm stressed out. I work like a maniac. And I ended up in the hospital last week with a migraine so bad I couldn't do anything but lie in the dark and cry.

Seeing Nomar fade to black has made me wonder if it's all worth while. What's it all for? Nomar's got a gorgeous wife he loves to be with, and I've got a yummy husband - and the cutest imaginable son, too. It's a good life. With or without baseball. Maybe I'll start to fade too, I thought. Slow down. After all, when I'm gone all I'll be is a line anyway.

But Lou Merloni, Nomar's buddie, says he's not ready to retire. Lou says he's talked to a few teams but he's just waiting for the right situation.

And after some moping (and a warm weather vacation, and lot of newly married bliss), I've decided that I'm not going down like that. I'm not ready to fade. I'm a get up and go kind of girl. Good times and good love and dark chocolate are all good things. But they're not enough. Even if I'm not sure stardom is within reach, I want to play ball.

Breaking News

Mark Maguire has come forward to admit that he was using steroids in the sweet spot of his playing career. In other news...

Women have come forward to announce that we want to be heard by our s/os.

Men have come forward to say that they cannot handle being sick and that they moan like wounded baboons at the remotest suggestion of a cough.

Skinny Hollywood hangers have come forward to admit that they don't actually eat anything they want and just stay skinny by running after their kids. Also that they were not in fact "really geeky in high school."

Mice are now saying they like cheese.

It seems that Bill Clinton has inhaled and did have sex - if not with that woman, then with a bunch of others. Oh wait, this just in...Tiger Woods, too.

Bears have announced that yes, they sh*t in the woods (pardon my French).

Who knows what will happen tomorrow? Thank goodness for CNN, keeping us all informed.

Nascent Forever

So Jason Bay is going to the Mets for tons of money. Good for the Mets (sort of. I know their fans are demanding something, but there's certainly weight to theory that the something they really needed was pitching).

But in spite of the money, I get why Bob Klapisch of FoxSports tell us Bay "put the Mets on hold while his agent, Joe Urbon, circled back to the Red Sox, asking if there was a way to get Bay back to Fenway." It seems to me he realized too late the value of building a shared history.

I recently read an incredibly moving piece in The New York Times' Modern Love that talked about the shared history of a long marriage. The bond that develops with a partner who sees all your flaws, who still loves and admires you, a bond that grows richer and more meaningful with time. I can't wait to grow that bond with my husband, to build it up tear by tear and laugh by laugh.

"Being single is all about the future," says the author, David Sarasohn, "about the person you’re going to meet at Starbucks or after answering the next scientific compatibility questionnaire. Being married, after a certain point, is about the past, about a steadily growing history of moments that provide a confidence of comfort, an asset that compounds over time."

Boston - a town and a team that are all about history and loving our flawed heroes and finding a place for a guy like Pesky who is family - was willing to build that bond with Bay. We accepted him after being shelled by our relationship with Manny, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable again. We were willing to take him with flaws - his strikeouts, his lack of durability. And our strengths meshed with his weaknesses, notes Klaplisch: "His defense is... a potential problem [now that] he won’t have the Green Monster to cover up his flaws in the field."

In spite of all that, we made him an offer, and he chose to look for more. I can't imagine that. I can't imagine trading what he had, a nascent forever on a team he truly loved. I'm there too. In the same place that he was. I've found a team that makes me happy. Where I can be myself. Where my weaknesses are okay and my strengths shine and are celebrated. I've found a fan base. I've found loyalty. I know I'm at the beginning, and there will be innings and innings and years and years full of not only celebrations but tough breaks and injures and gut-wrenching moments. But I'm looking forward to all of it. To building a history that becomes even more than what it begins as, cemented by years and moments.

Jay Bay, it's too bad you left so soon. We were just getting started.

Sound Advice

Jason Bay loved playing here. Now, because he refused to accept a very good offer, I don't know where exactly he's going to go. I suppose we're still talking, but with the crowded outfield, I can't imagine how he's going to work his way back in to where his agent now acknowledges he was so happy and played so well. But Bay got some bad advice.

It's tough getting advice when you're in a marriage. It's not the same as when you're dating someone and the person's not family, not a real part of your cocoon, your essence. In those instances, you can tell all your friends, get tons of input, take time off, contemplate tossing the guy.

But to me talking about my marriage to friends is a betrayal of something I consider one of the pillars of my life. It's just not right. On the other hand, there are times when something happens, and I'm worried that I'm too mired in the muck of it to get a good read on the situation. Before I get too upset, I need someone to tell me I'm not nuts. (Or, as is sometimes the case, that I am.)

Luckily, I have someone (two people, if you count my therapist). A friend I trust implicitly and whose marriage I admire. She tells me when I'm overreacting, when a dustup is normal (usually she laughs her butt off). When it's worth saying something about how I feel or when it's a better idea to forget it and have a good cupcake. After all, I love this guy. he is family. He is my best friend. He gets the benefit of the doubt. And being good to him - in ways big and small - is crucially important to me. Sure, I'm a strong person, and I like things a certain way, and I expect a certain kind of treatment. But life is too short for making unfair and unnecessary demands of someone you love.

Jason Bay apparently didn't have anyone to tell him that. If he'd had someone like my friend, she would have said from the outset, "Okay, I think you're being a little nuts. You love playing on this team. Why not back down a little? How much money do you need?" But instead of a friend with a vested interest in his happiness, Bay has an agent with a vested interest in his bottom line.

Too bad. Had he negotiated differently from the outset, he wouldn't be in the position he is now - just wanting to get back into the arms of the team he knows he belongs with.

Key Draws

Some players are more than the sum of their parts. There’s lots being said about Scutaro and whether trading Gonzo was just giving up “leather for stick.” I think it says a lot about making the most of the tools you’re given - in love too.

1. Be affordable. Scutaro’s affordability certainly was a draw. Although traditionally pop culture tells us that women like men with money, I think that’s on the wane. I don’t think women like entitled princes with that only-the-best-of-everything mentality. And I’m sure men don’t want to be with women who insist on the best of everything and never just want to grab some Korean food. Of course cheapness is never cool.

2. Be versatile. Defensively he’s supposed to be just an okay shortstop. But Scutaro was a hotter commodity because he could be a lot of things to a lot of teams. I think any potential mate is more appealing if s/he’s versatile. I know my husband liked that I could do black tie one night and sit on a log eating corn on the cob with butter dripping down my chin the next. Go-with-the-flowness is not quantifiable – but it’s valuable.

3. Get it started. Scutaro has emerged as a great leadoff, and that’s huge. Being able to lead the way, to get something started when things are flatlining is key. Someone who can break up the mood with a big laugh, make a great get-out-of-a rut plan – that’s huge.

4. Improve. After his Toronto trade, Scutaro shortened his swing and took the ball the other way more. The best s/o’s keep bettering their game. I’d never want to be with someone who wasn’t willing to keep trying to be a better player, and I’m always trying to be a better wife and friend.

5. Have an accent. I really liked it when Scutaro said, “We have a chance to win a championsheeep.” I haven’t heard sporting publications mention this accent as a key factor. Or any factor. But if all else fails, it can’t hurt.

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.