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.