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.

The Place

I'm a day late, I know. Forgive me! I needed inspiration.

So today I went to The Place in Guilford, CT, and if you've never been, you have to go. This is the restaurant that inspired my s/o to start his business, and it's his "girlfriend test" - if a girl has a problem with The Place, she's not girlfriend material. I am so not that girl. I fell for The Place about as fast as I fell for him.

It's a remote outdoor place with a huge firepit in the middle. You sit on tree stumps and BYOB. The tables (which get scarred by the end of the summer) are decorated with Ernest & Juilo Gallo wine bottles full of wild flowers. And then there's the food - corn dunked in butter and seared and caramelized on the fire. Roasted clams and giant lobsters tossed onto the grill.

It's a seasonal thing, and, like baseball, I've been waiting for it to start again since the day it ended last season. Today was a perfect day for it, listening to the game in the car both ways (yes, it was my idea to drive 5 hrs roundtrip for lunch), sitting outside in a cotton dress to eat, Grateful Dead on the radio.

On the way home, we stopped at a Dairy Queen, and I stood behind a young boy in a purposefully faded Yankees cap. And I wondered, back in the car, as we caught the last strains of our win, putting us half a game behind the Evil Empire, if this young boy even remotely thinks of his team that way.

I'm sure he knows of all the old glory, but hasn't been around long enough to really be part of the Dynasty Days, when winning was a forgone conclusion. He knows a team of just-missed-its, talented players who get close and nothing more. Maybe he thinks of them in deserving underdogs whose time has come.

This day just made me want to think of that, to see the Yankees not as the entitled enemy, but as some boy's heroes. I can't explain it. But the sunshine, and the simple food, and the simple pleasure of it all - a car ride, a ball game, made me not want to think of evil and enemies at all. I want to think of dipped soft serve cones and giant firepits, and food that requires lots of napkins, and moments that involve no technology and cost next to nothing.

On the way home, a rainbow appeared right in front of us. Couldn't remember the last time I saw one.

I Have a Question for Judge Sotomayor

Based on everything I've read so far, I'm a big supporter. But like Senate Republicans, this democrat is going to need some answers.

Question: The president said that a Supreme Court justice should have compassion, and I agree. Is it possible to have compassion when you're a Yankees Fan? Explain.

Question: You grew up, in your own words, in "very modest and challenging circumstances." Is pledging allegiance to a dynasty akin to turning your back on underdogs everywhere? (Just wondering.)

Question: When did you discover that there are wind chambers in Yankee Stadium that only get turned on when Yankee players are at bat?

Question: Why not the Mets?

The President says you saved baseball when you ruled with the players in the 1995 strike. So go ahead and answer. I promise to give you a fair hearing.

Walk On

And I know it aches
And your heart it breaks
You can only take so much
Walk on, walk on
What you got they can't steal it
No they can't even feel it
Walk on, walk on...
-U2, "Walk On"


I went to the game last night, and I could tell you all the heartbreaking moments. I could tell you about the hard news we heard via email just before the game. I could tell you how sure I was we had it after Pap got those two batters in a row to strike out swinging like they didn't have a clue. I could tell you how excited I was to see how Instant Replay would change baseball - until they were instant replaying my guy, my team.

But the truth is, you can't look at life that way. It may be justified, but it's intolerable. You have to see the joy in sitting beside someone you love at the very start of summer, cracking jokes on a stomach full of pizza. You have to see the beauty and awe of flashbulbs popping against the black sky when your warrior runs onto the field. You have to see how what Beckett gave us wasn't just a waste - but a sign of promise. You have to see how much fun it was to sit in right roof box seats you never sat in before and get a completely different perspective.

We walked from the game behind some really loud, rowdy Mets fans. Every time they passed another Mets fan (it seems like Boston was flooded over this long weekend) they hugely cheered. You could hate that. But I liked that! I get that moment. I get seeing someone on your team while in a foreign land. I've cheered a trash truck guy wearing a Sox shirt in New York City in the wee hours of morning and thought it was one of life's better moments. I get wanting to wring everything you can out of life's sweet spots.

And when these fans behind me passed Sox fans, they of course got flack, which they dismissed. Until some Sox fan yelled "Yeah and you guys totally choke!" One of them started to say something, but his friend, even drunk, restrained him.

"Dude, he's got a point," he said. "We do totally choke."

And they yelled "Yes, we totally choke!" in acknolwedgment but continued their walk anyway.

I loved that.

Yes, let's call it all what it is. When confronted with weakness, like last night, let's not weasel out of it. But let's still celebrate victories, however we define them, however they reveal themselves.

When faced with hard moments, with tough breaks, with our own weaknesses, we can keep walking anyway. We can march through the dark. Walk on.

Winning with Wake

Oh, Tim Wakefield. I've always loved you, and now that Manny's out, you could be my new favorite player. You have so many of the qualities that characterize the kind of man I want in my life:

1. You can be counted on.

2. You've got a few tricks up your sleeve.

3. You have less hair than I do.

4. You work quickly but get the job done.

5. You're a one-team kind of guy.

6. You have a soft spot (calligraphy, anyone?).

7. You volunteer your time. You have compassion.

8. When we need to exact revenge, you help (see, 2004).

9. When we get tired, you step up and complete the game.

10. It's not always simple to catch what you throw (you're complicated) - and we wouldn't have it any other way.

11. At 42, you're grown. You've had injuries. You've weathered storms. And you're still in the game.

Here's to a winning season.

Island Time

"No man is an island unto himself." -John Donne

One of the Sox commentators today was talking about how Masterson hangs out with the bullpen guys, even when he's starting. They speculated that he's just not a solitary guy, the way a starter is. He's social. Not that solo guy on the mound.

I've always thought I was social too. A "more the merrier" kind of girl. I always liked to have a lot of plans with a lot of people. I never liked to stay in. I didn't like freelancing, because, like Masterson, I relished (and still do) the camaraderie and in-person exchange of ideas.

Now I have a s/o who's like the mayor of our town. He is very big on giving back to the community and does it with a vengence, so we spend many weekends at charity events. He's a big supporter of the local music community, so we're often listening to music and talking with musicians. He's a successful entrepreneur, so his phone rings off the hook with friends from all walks of life seeking advice and favors, and he listens with great care. He's also just plain friendly. Every snow shoveler, car parker, desk worker, cop, fireman seems to know his name, and he gives them all a greeting and a sincere inquiry about how they are doing.

Anything we do is social because everyone knows him. I am reminded of my grandfather (whom I adored and for whom my son is named) who was a Hebrew School principal - and a beloved one. Every time we went out, students and former students would call out to him, "Mar Burke, Mar Burke!" Something as mundane as a Starbucks run just isn't with him. I'm there smiling, and hoping I look okay for the "This is my girlfriend" introduction.

I admire all these qualities in him. How could you not? I love our life of outings and music. I love the fact that he cares so much about his community and his fellow man. But I find sometimes (and it's the first time I've felt this way about anyone) that I feel greedy! I don't want to share. Sometimes I'd like to be anonymous in Starbucks in my sweats, playing footsie like there's no one else in the place.

There's nothing I'd change. I love who he is. I'm honored to be his girlfriend. He makes me feel like a better person by association, and truly, I know there's no harm done in taking some time to talk to someone. We'll have time to talk more later. After all, they only have little pieces of him. I have his heart.

But what I'm realizing is that, even me, Ms. Social, now that I've found someone like this, has some island tendencies. Sometimes I crave some time all alone on the mound. All alone with him.

I Don't Suck

So it looks like we have a problem that no mango salsa will solve. The Globe is reporting that Papi doesn't even want to talk to reporters. "Just put down that I stink."

"You stink" and "You suck" are a big part of baseball. Especially baseball in a place like Boston. Our expectations and entitlement are through the roof and our sense of decorum is pretty lacking. Or, depending on how you spin it, we're not afraid to be very authentic. We don't feel the need to sugarcoat our opinions.

Personally, it may not be very sporting of me, but I find it jarring. As highly paid and used to the spotlight as they may be, these are, after all, people. Papi, for one, is someone who you'd think has earned some respect given what he's done in Boston over the years. Would we have shaken Babe Ruth without him?

So why is this giant saying "I stink"? It seems to me to be a tool of self-preservation. As if maybe we'll be easier on him if he acknowledges it. Which is kind of sad. Have we made a key figure for us so insecure and worried about public opinion (It's not his fault that he's injured, is it, and looking for his swing? Clearly he's trying his best) that he has to say terrible things about himself for everyone to hear?

It's like people who say they just aren't interested in someone or they're not interested in dating, when what they really are is so afraid of being hurt again. It's sad. Whatever part of hitting is psychological (and 'd guess much of it is), I can't imagine that Papi does himself any favors with these self-flagellating words. Nor do we by being the kind of fan base that makes a bad streak into a grave character flaw.

Personally, even when I feel like I stink, I adopt the opposite mantra. I tell myself the things I'm good at until I calm down. Even if they're small. Even if I have to start by telling myself that I'm good at amassing a collection of great dresses at below-retail cost. Because maybe admitting the worst on some level takes the pressure off, but I don't think that being hard on yourself is the first step out of the Bell Jar.

They're on Their Feet at Fenway

Out with the old. In with the new. And up on my feet.

Why "They're on their feet at Fenway?" Because I love that moment. I love the moment, in our beautiful little green gem of a ballpark, when sometimes-jaded Boston fans just can't do anything else but get to their feet in unison.

That moment is like, RECOGNIZE. Stop everything and just recognize. Pay homage to the talent and the feats that are in front of you. And I'm doing that now.

My son is a doll and a dream. I am saying yes to him more, when he wants to take the long way, jump off the high ledge. I'm honoring his achievements. I love it when he brags, "I'm a really good baseball hitter." I'm going to recognize that.

My dad (knock on everything) has a clean bill of health. I'm not going to think about what ifs. I can't. I'm just getting on my feet. I won't get back in my seat. Not for a good long time.

This man I'm with, I want to scream it to the rooftops, that's how happy I am. That's how he makes me feel. I'm not looking back - I'm here, fully here, in this present, unbelievable moment. I'm holding nothing back. I'm not sitting down. I want a curtain call.

Perspective, Part 2

No more excuses. No more justifications. On the plus side, at least 'roid range finally puts an answer to my questions about why Manny went toe to toe with the traveling secretary.

For the most part, I'd already moved on. As much as I'd initially vowed to follow Manny when he went to the Dodgers, I had my own team to think about, and that's a full time job.

In Red Sox life, no one could replace Manny. (Although I have to say, I'm starting to fall for Jason Bay a little.) The charisma, the bat speed, the clutchness.

But in my real life, I have a player who leaves nothing to be desired. A star and a role model. A clubhouse contributor. A fielder with range. A power hitter. And someone who's honorable to the nth degree.

Manny's drugging is disturbing because it's knowing. It makes him something more than careless and childlike. It makes him a cheater. A guy who doesn't care about the little kids who watch the game and dream of being that good themselves if they work hard enough.

Manny's drugging makes it easier for me to say goodbye. In real life, I already have.

Perspective, Part 1

There's nothing worse than finding out that someone isn't what you thought. And your brain and heart will go through all kinds of hoops so you don't have to make that kind of discovery. It's why some pilot has three different families who only discover each other at his funeral. We want to believe what we want to believe. We want to believe that we're being honored in the most primal and basic ways we deserve. We want to believe we couldn't possibly be taken.

So we learn to disregard our innermost suspicions. We stay longer than we should. We become the world's most fecund most creative rationalizers. Until one day it all comes crumbling down. One day something gut wrenching and in our face and all too clear replaces the fragile web of fabrications with the unstoppable and undeniable power of logic. Of fact.

This is it for me. I had a second where I thought "Well, maybe his doctor...." and then I had to laugh at myself. The truth is, it's really over.

- to be continued -

The Shadow of ... My Former Self

S/o says I should re-name my blog immediately. (Actually, he said it for a full half inning is we sat second row field box last night.) So do I? Do I let go?

Say it ain't so, Manny

Say it ain't so.

Bleeding Green

My alliances are torn.

I've always been a one sport, one team kind of girl. A card-carrying member of Red Sox Nation. And that's all. I could not care less about football. Actually, I care enough to say I don't like it. I find the Patriots annoying. Still mad at Brady for leaving Bridget and taking up with Giselle five minutes later. And hockey seems like just a bunch of guys smashing each other in the cold. No thanks.

But suddenly, I care about basketball. There's no denying it. On Saturday night, alone, with no one jockeying for the remote, I watched the Celtics. The s/o has season's tickets, and I didn't want him to give them away tomorrow night. I want to go! I can't wait, actually. And I've even picked out something green to wear.

So we beat the Yankees. I don't know why - because we've beat them so many times? - but I find myself not caring as much as I used to. I'm nervous about the Celtics tomorrow. I'm starting to know these guys. Squeaking around on the squeaky parquet. Garnett's sad eyes on the sidelines. No it's not the Garden, but I do feel the history. Unlike football and hockey, I see their faces - the earnestness, the wanting it.

So I'm expanding my horizons.

The relationship has done this for me a lot. I like him and respect him and believe in him - so I've given things a chance I might not have before. So far, I like it. Tomorrow night, 8 pm. I'll be on my feet. Eyes open. Ready.

The Drop Off

I was listening to Curt Schilling on the radio today talking about Justin Masterson. Schilling said that when a pitcher with electric stuff like that has a very sharp, sudden drop off it means there's an injury.

I like this. I don't like the idea of losing a talented player to the DL. But I like the idea that rather than a mysterious drop off, there's an answer.

My dad's been sick, and my s/o has stepped up and been by my side, been incredible. More than I could ask for. Because of the circumstances, I've thought of someone I once dated, someone who lost his father to cancer. This guy, as far as I knew, and I knew him for many years, was a good guy. And we had a terrible ending.

He treated me badly. The things he did - and didn't do - were unforgivable. And after he never came through, when he saw me start slipping away, he still tried to hang on.

And while I long ago stopped missing him, and while I breathe a sigh of relief at how much easier and more satisfying my relationship is right now (and, may I add, far more electric), when I was worrying about my father and thinking about his, a thought just skittered into my brain about why this kind person I knew (someone I thought was promising) turned out to be so horrible. A liar. A phony. Weak.

I like Schilling's explanation. Maybe when there's a dropoff like that, it's not mysterious. Or an unanswered question. There's something wrong with the guy. When a player goes down like that, you put him on the DL. Sometimes it's career ending. But you say "Ahh, that's the problem." And then you get someone who can pitch.

Poor guy. There was something wrong with him. And that's sad.

But thank goodness I found out. And got this ace who's unstoppable.

Brown (Brad) Penny

Brad Penny
(With apologies to Yeats, see below)

We WHISPERED, 'He’s done his work,'
And then, 'He’s healed enough';
Wherefore we threw in Brad Penny
To find out if he might have any stuff.
'Go and pitch, don’t go and love, young man,
Even if the lady be Maxim material and fair.’
Ah, penny, Brad Penny, Brad Penny,
Don’t get looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is a distracting thing,
There is no ballplayer wise enough
To say no to Alyssa and Eliza,
For he would be thinking of love
That’s thinking (you know, with your brain)
So just stay away from the Key Club; please don’t howl at the moon.
Ah, penny, Brad Penny, Brad Penny,
Get married and settle down soon.

Brown Penny
William Butler Yeats

I WHISPERED, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.