They're on Their Feet at Fenway

To Have and to Hold

2010-08-10T20:26:00.003-05:00

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?

2010-07-18T20:40:00.007-05:00

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

2010-06-21T19:15:00.006-05:00

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

2010-06-20T09:24:00.013-05:00

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

2010-05-16T07:38:00.009-05:00

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

2010-05-09T08:37:00.007-05:00

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

2010-04-21T18:16:00.005-05:00

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

2010-04-13T20:34:00.003-05:00

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

2010-04-04T19:57:00.000-05:00

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

2010-02-27T15:29:00.003-05:00

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

2010-02-21T18:40:00.004-05:00

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

2010-02-15T17:34:00.001-05:00

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

2010-02-09T21:13:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-11T21:15:00.004-05:00

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

2009-12-30T06:01:00.003-05:00

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

2009-12-29T06:38:00.002-05:00

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

2009-12-05T11:30:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-07T07:36:00.007-05:00

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

2009-11-02T19:59:00.001-05:00

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

2009-10-24T07:02:00.004-05:00

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

2009-10-19T22:15:00.007-05:00

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

2009-10-08T20:25:00.004-05:00

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

2009-10-04T19:39:00.004-05:00

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

2009-09-25T19:40:00.003-05:00

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

2009-09-12T07:29:00.004-05:00

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

2009-08-25T17:25:00.004-05:00

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

2009-08-21T19:58:00.002-05:00

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

2009-08-03T20:26:00.003-05:00

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

2009-07-20T08:00:00.003-05:00

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

2009-07-16T20:49:00.003-05:00

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

2009-07-09T22:20:00.005-05:00

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

2009-07-05T22:32:00.003-05:00

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

2009-07-03T20:11:00.004-05:00

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

2009-06-28T18:11:00.007-05:00

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

2009-06-15T20:08:00.004-05:00

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

2009-06-06T21:29:00.007-05:00

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

2009-06-03T19:41:00.004-05:00

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

2009-05-31T19:29:00.004-05:00

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

2009-05-26T19:02:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-24T07:04:00.007-05:00

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

2009-05-19T21:27:00.003-05:00

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

2009-05-17T18:38:00.003-05:00

"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

2009-05-16T06:59:00.006-05:00

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

2009-05-11T21:32:00.004-05:00

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

2009-05-10T22:45:00.002-05:00

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

2009-05-09T07:54:00.002-05:00

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

2009-05-08T18:26:00.001-05:00

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

2009-05-07T12:13:00.002-05:00

Say it ain't so.

Bleeding Green

2009-05-05T23:05:00.004-05:00

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

2009-05-02T15:55:00.006-05:00

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

2009-04-28T19:44:00.004-05:00

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.

Stealing Home

2009-04-27T20:28:00.004-05:00

There is a chance that I might be Jacoby Ellsbury. Here is the evidence I've marshaled so far:

1. Ellsbury was born in Madras, Oregon in 1983. I was wearing madras in 1983.

2. Ellsbury said he felt the urge to take off after seeing Pettitte's slow wind up. I feel the urge to push people down when they congregate around the train doors rather than move back.

3. In the clubhouse after the game, Ellsbury said: "I knew I had a great shot at making it. That's the reason I went." I too like to undertake things that are squarely within my reach. This is why I don't bake anything that requires frothing egg whites into stiff peaks.

4. Ellsbury stumbled a little before his full-belly slide, prompting JD Drew to say, "it worked out good all the way around other than Ellsy tripping and falling over home plate." I tend to trip on the way back to bed, prompting my s/o to hold up a lit cell phone and say "right here, honey."

5. Have you ever seen me in the same room as Jacob Ellsbury?

So there you have it. Not sure what my next steps are. Oooh, maybe I should measure my finger so they know how big to make the ring.

Pitching Change

2009-04-24T18:37:00.004-05:00

(*In my defense, I had this done Saturday morning, spent most of the day at a Fisher Cats game, and my BF's internet connection wasn't working.)

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome.

I guess love is insane. Like baseball. Youk has no idea why Chamberlain keeps going after his head. But he does. I watch the clips, and what's at stake really isn't just livelihood, it's life if you think about it. You throw at a guy's head and you could kill him. I look at Youk's face there, full of not only anger, but shock too. And in baseball, he has to square his shoulders and face him again.

In love, after someone comes after you, threatens the essence of your very being - unjustified, unprovoked - you hopefully pick a different kind of person. Hopefully. But I've done it myself and have friends doing it now - squaring their shoulders and getting up there again as if they had no other choice.

But unlike Youk, we get to choose. Unlike Youk - although it's hard to get in the batter's box after getting thrown at, period- we at least don't have to keep getting in there to face the same lousy guy who came after us. But we sometimes do. Sometimes we keep stepping in to face that guy and crazily expecting a different outcome: This time, he'll play by the rules.

If that's you, I empathize. I've been there. You feel completely nuts and out of control when you're in that cycle, like you can't stop yourself from stepping in there again and again. But I come bearing good news. Unlike in baseball, where Youk has to wait for a coach to pull his pitcher if he hopes to face someone else, in our case, we decide that. We decide when we've had enough of this guy and it's about time for a pitching change.

And when we finally do, and when we finally come head to head with someone who plays fair, anything is possible. Losing and winning fairly. The excitement of being on the field with someone who respects the game and those who play it. Who knows then what might happen? If you're watching the Sox, you know that on a reasonably level playing field, even a walkoff home run is possible.

The Tao of Pedro

2009-04-21T20:23:00.005-05:00

This is the longest I've gone in forever without writing. Sorry about that. From now on, I'm promising to update at least every Tuesday and Saturday. I need discipline.

I'm going through something really hard right now - a family thing, not a love thing. And I think maybe I need to take a lesson from Pedro.

I'm back to reading the Yankees book, and I'm surprised at how much there is about Pedro. I didn't know (not sure how I missed it) that he heckled the other team from the dugout.

I miss Pedro. Our team right now is completely lacking in Pedro-ness. I was saying to someone at dinner the other night, when this year's Red Sox get together, what do they talk about? The benefits of Wonder vs. Sunbeam?

There are so many things I've learned from The Skinny One. Like:

1. Protect the inside.
2. A little bravado makes people have respect.
3. It's okay to make jokes all day and be deathly serious on the job.
4. Don't let anyone talk about your mother without repercussions.
5. 37 isn't too old. Just work out and wait for an offer you like.
6. If you find your natural skill eluding you, wiles and determination will often do the trick.
7. If you get charged by a bull, sometimes you have to play matedor. (Even if that bull is seemingly harmless and a senior citizen.)

This thing I'm going through, I just want to shove it away. I just want to make it watch its head. I want to show it who's the boss. And after this game is over, I just want to go back to smiling.

Red Sea Parts, Red Sox Lose

2009-04-10T11:13:00.004-05:00

Yesterday at work, as a treat, there was a raffle, and six of us got to go to a Sox game. You were told to take your name out of the running if you couldn't go. Which I did, because I was going to Seder with my s/o's family. (If there ever were a question, clearly it's love.)

But it made me think. What's more fun, a Seder or an April Sox game?

1. Both are all about Spring and hope, and in both, a story unfolds. Draw.
2. We leave the door open for Elijah and then close it. Sox open the door for a come-from-behind win. And then close it. Winner: Seder. (Less heartbreak.)
3. Gabe Kapler could make an appearance in either. Draw.
4. Beer in a plastic cup vs. Manischevitz. Draw.
5. Fenway franks vs. brisket. Winner: Seder.
6. Exorbitant ticket prices and parking vs. free parking. And I brought chocolate matzo bark (cost minimal). Winner: Seder.
7. Surrounded by family & friends. Surrounded by colorful strangers. Winner: Seder.
8. Ask why is this night different from all other nights. Ask why is Dice-K getting ripped tonight? Winner: Seder.
9. Chant the plagues and drop wine on a plate. Chant YOUUUUUUK and have beer spilled on you. Winner: Seder.
10. Dip herbs in salt water to remember our bitter tears. Listen to EEI callers cry fresh tears. Winner: Seder.
11. Participate in the National Pastime and its storied legacy. Participate in time-honored traditions of the Old Testament. Winner: Seder.
12. Kid might catch a ball or get autograph. Kid guaranteed to find afikomen. Little-to-no risk of getting beaned by it. Winner: Seder.

Wow, a clearer result than I predicted. Glad I spent the night exactly where I was. And so. Next year in Jerusalem. And next time up, maybe Dice-K will settle in.

Code

2009-03-31T19:57:00.003-05:00

Certain things, in baseball and in life, are Code.

For example, if someone on your team is hit by a pitch, it goes without saying that your pitcher retaliates. It's Code. If you're up by double digits, you don't steal a base. It's Code. Because they're men, because they're ballplayers, because they're part of a storied tradition, the unspoken Code is respected and upheld. If not, it's shocking.

We women are not without our Codes. We discommunicate someone who breaks our best friend's heart. We don't leave a friend at the party just because the cute bond trader wants to take us to the martini bar around the corner. We don't steal someone's thunder by wearing white at her wedding.

We do, apparently, flirt with other women's boyfriends. The other night, I was at a black tie event with my s/o, when this woman comes up and says to him, in a singsong voice "I think we know someone in com-mon!"

Seriously.

Hello, I'm right here. I'm clearly the girlfriend, I mean I'm next to him in a dress and we don't look like siblings. That, to quote Jennifer Aniston when speaking of Ms. I Have No Code herself, is just "uncool."

And I have to hand it to her, there was not even a glimmer of pretense on her part. When he said, "This is my girlfriend," she didn't even make eye contact for a fraction of a second, just kept on talking. I've always thought that fantasy of women fighting was ridiculous. What would we ever have so much venom against one of our own for? Although a kiddie pool full of jello wouldn't be my chosen location, I understand that venom now. I wanted to claw her eyes out and toss her into a pool by her hair, ala Dynasty,

Oops, was that my out loud voice?

Maybe it was payback, because my biggest regret is my own one-time violation of Code. I could try and defend myself in a million ways (I was unhappy, it was unconscious, it was via email) but the truth is, there's no justification for that. I broke Code. I know better now. It's been years since it happened, and it taught me that I'm not a Code breaker. Because I still feel so much guilt for that one nonphysical, not even in person transgression so long ago.

We women need a stronger Code. How can we expect to ever advance, to make more money on the dollar, to get respect at work, to get promotions, to get into the White House when we're still giddily stabbing each other in the back? I realize (believe me) that there aren't a lot of viable guys out there, but you can't just take someone else's, Grabby Hands.

We're not cavemen of animals or kindergartners (finders, keepers, losers, weepers, na na na na na na). We need to be ballplayers. If we're going to clear the benches and go after someone, it shouldn't be each other.

Exits

2009-03-23T22:09:00.006-05:00

Sometimes people have to go. Plain and simple.

Curt Schilling is ending his career. After the bloody sock, and lots of work for great causes, and mentoring of others, and gutting it out on the field, and support for the community, and World Series rings, Curt's leaving. And the Red Sox issued a lovely statement, thanking him. And everything is graceful and good.

And then there's Manny's departure and subsequent Dodgers contract rewnewal. And that's completely different - for many reasons. Because we're mad at Manny for his lack of hustle. Because we're mad about the things he's said on the way out and now (Suffering? In Boston? The ingrate!) And then there' the fact that one is leaving the sport - and one left us.

When someone leaves a job, for whatever reason, it's not personal. But it can still be hard. It's the end of an era. When an employee leaves you and goes somewhere else - it can feel incredibly personal. It's one thing if he/she's going back to school or having a baby - that's a case of leaving the game entirely.

But when someone leaves and goes to work somewhere else - that hurts! It feels personal. It feels like a breakup. Worse, it feels like being left for someone else.

If someone leaves a job, even if a friendship ends, I think it's good to take the high road. I think it's good to not make it personal. To write a nice press release and move on. Even if someone says asinine things on their way out, there's no need to respond in kind. I'd rather remember those long balls over the Pike with a smile, and save the exertion for my team and the season ahead.

And Speaking of Road Trips

2009-03-19T08:20:00.002-05:00

Forget the glamour of dating a ballplayer. And the tight pants. What I'm thinking about is all the time apart. Even if you move to wherever your s/o plays most, chances are you spend a lot of time in that city alone during road trips. And I can't imagine many wives follow players to spring training. At last glance, Ft. Meyers didn't seem like a cultural mecca worth transplanting the kids for in the middle of the school year.

My own s/o is gone for a couple of days now, and I'm trying to see the bright side. Here's what I can come up with.

1. Chance to coat yourself in all kinds of lotions and treatments before going to bed.

2. Good opportunity to wear retainer that you promised ortho you'd wear every night into adulthood, or at least every other night.

3. This is the opportunity to debut all the unsexy but cool clothes you've been dying to wear. Giant full skirts, avante garde cut tops, thick handknit sweaters, those heels that make you look like you have elf feet but are so.damn.cool.

4. Nothing to distract you from sorting and xeroxing 500 women's magazine receipts to send to accountant.

5. Finally you win on that unlimited calling in the US deal.

6. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And maybe he'll bring back taffy. Is that from Minnesota?

I hope the Red Sox wives are okay alone during spring training and enjoying plenty of bubble baths while coated in face masks and reading Tattler.

Hot Jobs

2009-03-10T23:02:00.007-05:00

My mom knows someone whose son is a baseball player. And this baseball player married some gorgeous girl. And the mom said to my mom: They all do. Baseball players' wives all have one thing in common: they're gorgeous. Baseball players - regardless of how they look - all have hot wives for a reason. They're baseball players.

I've never dated for money. But I can't say that someone's career isn't part of the draw. Whether it's the passion, the creativity, or the sweatiness, certain jobs just, well, have sex appeal. Let me give you a rundown:

Supreme Pantheon of Hotness
-Chef
-Baseball player
-Anything involving power tools
-ER doctor

And may I suggest that you stay away from
-Magician (Take it from someone who once had a date launch into a series of card tricks. Even if you could get past it, you know one day you'd have a fight, say the magic was gone, and burst out laughing.)
-Plastic surgeon (Whenever you took your clothes off wouldn't you worry that he was mentally drawing red circles on you?)
-Masseuse (In addition to "I'm too tired" he'd have "I did that all day" as an excuse.)

Come to think of it, I may have to move "baseball player" to the second list. Sitting in the players' wives section might be fun at first, but there's too much travel. And I'm starting to realize, I'd miss my guy.

Big Fish

2009-02-28T08:38:00.007-05:00

It's not just Yankees/Red Sox anymore. Dan Shaughnessy recently wrote a story on the Rays being "big fish" these days. Tito said, "They're not old. They're not going to forget how to play. They certainly make our life more difficult in the American League East."

I think sometimes as women, we're guilty of thinking a guy will suddenly forget how to play. He's Just Not That Into You is a whole universe built around that concept. That women need to be hit in the head to know when to give up.

We've all done it - had that project mentality. If I only do this, everything will turn out right. For us to believe in this way requires a major suspension of logic. It requires us to think that you can take all the same components and conditions and get a different result on a second trial.

The Rays aren't going to forget how to play, and the smart teams won't imagine that they will. They'll try something different. Say what you will about the Yankees, but at least they did something. They made an attempt to shore up. They made the investment necessary to take a meaningful stab at fortress building.

I've had a terrible relationship where I suspended logic and hoped for a different outcome every time. And I felt like such an idiot doing it, putting aside everything I know to keep thinking that this is it, this is when things will finally be different. I have a friend right now who's going through the same thing to a much worse degree, and it's gut-wrenching to watch. As I type this, I'm watching a news scroll about Rhianna going back to Chris Brown.

The difference between the Rays this year and the Rays last year is that "they're not going to sneak up on anybody this year." After the first time you take someone back who mistreated you, you know what you're getting into. If it happens again, you'll feel worse, because you'll come down on yourself.

I want to tell my friend that it's 100% clear that this guy is going to make her life difficult. And that unlike in baseball, she can choose not to play.

100,000 Paper Cuts

2009-02-22T22:00:00.006-05:00

"I'd rather get a hundred thousand paper cuts on my face
Than spend one more minute with you" -Weird Al, from "One More Minute"

So this is charming.

First, if you're eating, may I suggest that you completely digest before reading. Ready?

Jose Guillen was told by team doctors that he'd have to have surgery to treat an ingrown nail on his right big toe. So what does he do? Oh, just removes the nail by himself with a pair of tweezers.

Um, that so does not make the list of "things I would do if I ever became a professional baseball player."

I immediately thought back to the time when I was dating, and one of my friends would say "Maybe you should give him one more chance. You know, just a lunch." And I'd say something like "I'd rather hang by my wrists from the ceiling while rabid rats gnaw my cheese-covered toes." Inevitably, there'd be a pause, followed by "Okay, no lunch then."

Guys who split the check on the first date even though they were the ones who asked me out and made the plan. Guys who talked about sex on the first date (check please!). Who bragged about the size of their flat screen. Who wanted a strawberry margarita, asked the waitress if it was pink, and then refused to drink it because it was "too gay looking." Here's my face - I'm ready for those paper cuts now!

Guillen says his sans-anesthesia Rambo operation hurt so much that tears ran down his cheeks. That's saying a lot coming from a macho ballplayer. Was it so hard to just have the surgery? Some acclaimed physician with an ingrown toe nail expertise would probably do it for him right in his own home. So why did Guillen do it himself? A few possibilities:

1. Some sort of fetish. It's a pain/pleasure kind of thing. (In which case, double ewww.)

2. Practicing for second career as a podiatrist.

3. Practicing for second career playing podiatrist on Grey's Anatomy.

4. Self-surgery part of shell game to distract public and media from associating him with Angel Presina.

5. Fun to watch club officials' faces turn red and steam come out of their ears.

Or, maybe one of his friends said "Which would you rather do - be out there dating, or pull out your own ingrown toenail with nothing but a pair of tweezers" and Jose just wanted to be crystal clear about his answer.

In which case, I can completely relate.

Red Faced in Love

2009-02-17T22:12:00.005-05:00

So I'm reading the Torre book and loving it. (Yes, I did skip ahead and start with the A-Rod chapter.)

The stuff about Steinbrenner is really interesting - there's someone who really needs some big-time, digging-in, on-a-couch therapy. One thing he seems consumed with, according to Torre, is this idea of being embarrassed. Forget just winning, he's always telling Torre just not to let him be embarrassed.

In spite of the fact that he's clearly obsessive and mildly freakish, you know what? I can relate. Sometimes - most of the time - I think the hard part about being in love is the risk. As a woman, ever since I was at my all girls' high school (actually, before that, back when I was listening to Free to Be You and Me in my parents' living room), I've learned to be strong. As a lawyer, I used to really have to act. I remember this one phone call where I kept saying "You will respect me or this conversation will end" over and over. I got what I wanted and then I went home and bawled my eyes out.

I've never been all that good at putting my fears away. I have no poker face. Everything is right there. I'm like one of those watches with the clear face where you can see the gears turning. But I think that serves me well in love, because I couldn't fake it even if I tried. To me, the scariest thing about love is being vulnerable. Afraid to be exposed and embarrassed. When you come out of a bad relationship, maybe you go through this period of never wanting to let someone really see you like that.

I know people who never get past that point. Who just can't expose who they really are because the risk feels too great. Who act tough all the time. Never show a little vulnerability. But I think if you're afraid of that exposure, you miss the best possible alignment of the stars - when you are totally truthful, totally out there, and it does work out, and you're accepted and loved for being exactly yourself.

I don't think avoiding embarrassment is what it's all about. I don't think one game is what it's all about either. For me, it's got to be about winning it all, and I don't mind falling flat on my face on the way there.

Confession Culture

2009-02-09T20:41:00.004-05:00

A-Rod admitted he did something wrong.

Oooooh. Ahhhhh.

A-Rod admitted he did something wrong. And now we want to give this guy a medal. Look at the way he came forward! Took his lumps! Told the truth!

It's sad to me. For starters, yeah, the guy's telling the truth now - after lying before. He's also making excuses: "Wahhhhhh, I was under so much stress because I was making so much money!" Poor baby. And then there's the fact that he cheated. He cheated the game and the fans.

As Obama said tonight "It tarnishes an entire era....The thing I'm probably most concerned about is the message it sends our kids. Our kids are hopefully watching and saying, 'There are no short cuts...your integrity is not worth it.' "

I hope so.

Admitting you were wrong is a good thing. But ever since Hugh Grant, it seems like we will forgive anything, like we've created a culture where you act however you want and ask for forgiveness later. And we bring you to back to our collective bosom and love you even more.

I've known guys who apply this approach. Guys who do wrong and then confess. And the first time there's this feeling that you're getting this deeper level of intimacy. Stripping down. Being real. But what I've come to realize is that admitting when you're wrong is a starting point. The people I really admire do more. They try not to get in that situation in the first place. They maintain a moral core and build on it. They choose not to make excuses. And they do better the next time.

A-Rod's confession doesn't make him a hero. It makes him a cheater who's apologized. Until he shows us something more. Which doesn't seem likely.

All You Can Do

2009-02-08T15:14:00.001-05:00

Dodgers owner Frank McCourt made a pretty heroic attempt to sign Manny. He presented as strong an offer as you can imagine for both sides: one year, $25 million. And in spite of the fact that it’s late in the off season, Manny chose to walk away. In The Globe’s Baseball Notes, Nick Carfado says that this rejected offering may be the best Manny sees.

Carfado quotes a rival NL West official “Maybe Frank McCourt can raise it to $28 million or $30 million for one year. If he did that and Ramirez walked away, all you can do is shake your head and know you did all you can do.”

In the past few years, I’ve seen so many of these relationships that come back and come back and come back. At the end, there is something (supposedly) left uncommunicated. Something still to talk about. And so they meet to talk. And end up together again. Until they realize they broke up for a reason.

I think it’s better to leave nothing unsaid. To explain just where you’re coming from. To know that when he comes back around wanting to talk, that you can cleanly say “I said everything. There’s nothing left to say. Please don’t contact me again.” And mean it. And not look back. And sleep well at night.

Sure , Manny “put on a scintillating display that electrified the fans” as Carfado says. And if McCourt gets lonely at night, until something else as amazing – or even more amazing - happens for the Dodgers, he might think about that from time to time. But if Manny turns down McCourt’s best offer, none of that matters.

When you get out of a tough relationship, having said all you needed to say, having given all the chances you needed to give for that person to accept your best offer, then there’s a certain clarity. If you’re lucky enough to then fall in love with someone new, that former player can’t come back asking questions, trying to strike up negotiations again. If he does, there’s no reason to listen.

If Manny ends up without a multiyear deal, full of regret about not taking McCourt up on his offer…oh well. McCourt by then has fallen in love with some other player, and is giving everything he has to him. Maybe he’s even realizing that what he has is better. That was the risk Manny took. McCourt shouldn’t have a moment of regret.

A guy you break up with has no right to come around a year later wanting more answers or more chances. And if you’re in a new relationship, you have absolutely no responsibility to even answer that email or call. I think you have a responsibility not to, actually. I think contact with an ex no matter what the circumstances, isn’t appropriate when you’re in a relationship.

You make your best offer – and then you move on. It’s all you can do. That and then make sure your team always plays its heart out.

Great Tekspectations

2009-02-01T17:40:00.004-05:00

I think I should be really happy that we re-signed Tek. This is a guy who feels like a true member of the Red Sox. He’s been with us for so long. Say what you will about his getting older, his batting average, his best years being behind him. This is a guy who guts it out, a guy who handles our pitchers and has their undying respect, a guy who helped us win two World Series. He is, I always say to myself, the heart and soul of this team.

So why don’t I feel more about the fact that we re-signed him?

I think it’s because, in my heart of hearts, and this is a tough admission, I really find having Tek on our team to be, well, joyless.

I was talking to someone about it the other day, and I’ve written about it here – the theory of cognitive dissonance. When you invest so much of yourself in something, when you get into it so deeply an devote so much of your life to it, when it’s part of your identity and involves other people too, when it would be too hard to unravel, your brain won’t let you admit that you’re unhappy. This is what my someone once told me when I complained that my friends who had babies (before I read The Bitch in the House) seemed like Stepford wives- they’d never own up to a negative thought about being a mother.

She said they can't. Too much is at stake. They know there's no turning back now. They can't undo it. Too much is at risk to own up to having doubts. The mind goes into survival mode, tricking you into believing everything's okay with extreme force.

Saying you have a doubt about Tek feels unthinkable. Traitorous. Divorce, or ending a significant relationship, is like this too. You’re admitting something no one else wants you to admit when so much is at stake. That you’re unhappy. And that you’d rather be alone than go on that way.

The truth is, if I'm honest with myself, I’ve always found Tek humorless. I met him in spring training, and even though I finally got him to chuckle (when I said Arroyo should never shake him off, it always seemed to cause problems), he wasn’t warm or cinematic, or even just interesting. And I find him frustrating to watch at the plate. And I hate that his plate music is “Superman” by Three Doors Down – what a bland band, a song that tells me how I’m supposed to feel about him rather than gives a window into his authentic self the way, say Manny’s Sapnish music did.

But you were supposed to like him. You were supposed to see his straight line seriousness as laser focus and dedication. And so I did. I've been in relationships before where I was afraid to admit my own unhappiness. Relationships where I just, in my heart of hearts, didn’t like the guy or how he treated me. Where I’d hang up the phone and a tiny voice inside me would push itself up and want to whisper “What an asshole" and "He is NOT my best friend." But I didn't want to hear it. And for too long, I didn't.

Tek is still here. And he’s not superman. In fact, he himself is divorcing, so that it’s safe to assume that his cool façade of unflappability at some point has cracked. Maybe this year he’ll show us something more, a little admission of imperfection, a little humanity. A little anything.

I know in my own life, when I finally admitted to myself that I wanted much more, I got it.

Local Boy

2009-01-16T01:10:00.004-05:00

Rocco Baldelli is coming,

This is not necessarily a big deal because of his numbers. It's a big deal because he's local.

Every time he played here with the Rays, they always proclaimed his local status over the PA. And he always seemed to perform better than he did anywhere else. And I always figured it was because he was home.

"The Rhode Island native said it was a childhood dream to play for the Red Sox," The Globe said, the day of his press conference. "My family and friends are as crazy as any other Red Sox fans out there," said our new guy. "I know the loyalty that these people here have for this team and it’s really an honor for me to be a part of it."

My own family always had this idea that I'd end up with a local boy of sorts. Someone like me. Someone like them. Someone Jewish, educated, a mensch who loves his grandparents, the kind of guy who talks it out and doesn't let you go to bed angry, the kind of guy who is generous with forgiveness and I love yous, like we are.

But that was never who I found. For starters, I never found them here. I found them away at school and at law school, boys who didn't grow up near me. And who maybe somehow didn't understand me. I believed in the theory that opposites attract. Maybe I sometimes saw their nontransparency as interesting. But in the end, it was tiring trying to figure them out, endlessly twisting the Rubix cube and never having even one wall of beautiful, uninterrupted color.

"I’ve always said as much as anyone what it means to be a Red Sox fan and somewhat around the game," Rocco said, according to the Globe. "My family and friends are as crazy as any other Red Sox fan out there. I know the loyalty that these people here have for this team and it’s really an honor for me to be a part of it."

A local boy knows Red Sox legacy. Understands the pain and heartbreak. The history. A local boy guts it out. He leaves it all on the field. He shows respect. He's not simple and happy go lucky. No matter his age, he wears a little bit of the curse on his shoulders. A local boy understands what's on the line and honors it.

I'm starting to realize that maybe my parents were onto something. There's something about dating a boy who grew up near me (even in my hometown!), whose parents are brainiacs and readers and democrats, a boy who went to Sunday School like me and who's had therapy and who's generous with I love yous.

A blogger named Ricky, posted this after the press conference story: "ROCCO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You were one of my favorites in mlb. Your a hometown boy(and italian too!!!). I WILL buy your jersey this spring and wear it PROUDLY!!. Looking forward to seeing you in a Red Sox uniform(finally)."

Yeah. Finally.

Serenity Now

2009-01-03T09:53:00.005-05:00

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

-The Serenity Prayer

The other night I was talking to a therapist (not mine - it was a social setting), and she was telling me a little about her work with addicts. One thing that completely resonated with her observation that anyone who can digest and really live by The Serenity Prayer (I don't know its origins, but you hear it at every AA meeting) is in great shape.

To me, the essence of the prayer (and yes, I will get to baseball) is in knowing what you can't control. And then not wasting time trying to control it.

Which brings me to baseball. We lost Teixeira to the Yankees. They did great. They did big, huge, exciting stuff. And I'm not going to sit around rationalizing how we're still okay. How we didn't need him anyway. How they throw money at everything and never build from within. How they never gel when they throw together a bunch of superstars.

I just can't control this.

I know the whole essence of baseball fandom is about acting like you have control. Calling in to EEI like someone might hear you. Riding the emotional roller coaster like the ups and downs affect your real, bill-paying life. And, when you can't get close enough, but you just have to feel like you're in there, playing fantasy ball.

But I don't think I have to ride that roller coaster to enjoy being a baseball fan. In fact, I think I can enjoy the season more. I can't control the trades we make and don't make. And rather than fret about that, I'm trying something new. I'm just going to shrug my shoulders and see what happens.

The season is shimmering in the (too far for my taste) distance. Just waiting to be discovered. There will be more moves. Chemistry will work or it won't. What the Yankees have done puts a lot of pressure on them to perform. Without the burden of trying to affect an outcome that's impossible to affect, I can just watch it unfold.

I'm looking forward to it.

Unexpendable

2008-12-21T21:47:00.006-05:00

Brian MacPherson has an interesting take on the Teixeira shenanigans in the Union Leader. In "Teixeira or no, Theo and Tito have work to do," MacPherson talks about how Mike Lowell "signed a team-friendly contract just a year ago, turning down more years and bigger money elsewhere, but he became trade bait as soon as the Red Sox began courting Teixeira." And now "[t]he Teixeira negotiations have sent a message to everyone who wears a Red Sox uniform: We don't care who you are. You are expendable."

Pedro talked about respect right before he left; other players have too. He wanted to feel that he wasn't expendable. And we answered back that this is a business. That it makes business sense to wait, to not commit, to hold back. But McPherson says something I don't think I've seen articulated before: "Loyalty isn't pointless sentiment in baseball. It's good business. You can't just treat players like disposable parts if you want them to keep coming back. If you don't treat them like you value them, someone else will."

I've been in a relationship where I was treated like I was expendable. I imagine most people have. And if you have, I think it makes you more vigilant. Macpherson reminds us about good old Bronson Arroyo - he signed a team-friendly contract before the 2006 season and was traded 6 weeks later. "The longer you play the game, you realize there's no loyalty," Arroyo says in the story. "I wanted to stay in Boston, gave them a discount, and got shipped out. It makes you a little leery of people's intentions."

Having seen how things unravel when someone starts to feel expendable, I think I'm hypervigilant to making sure my MVP never feels that way. I devote a lot of time and energy to that, actually. And I think it's totally worthwhile. Not for just any player. But when you stumble on that great one. One who's unexpendable. Whatever thing you can do to let him know that he is valued, that you'd never trade him...why not? Big or small. Love notes, soup when he's sick, a kind way of talking, buying the right iced tea...

"Baseball is a business, sure," MacPherson says. "But when your product is your people, you have to treat them a certain way."

That's my plan. And I never want to stop.

Desperate Times

2008-12-15T19:43:00.008-05:00

Does anyone else think the Yankees' recent moves smack of desperation? I know I hardly present an unbiased opinion. And I know if the Sox had made those moves I'd probably be handmaking truffles for Theo right now (BTW not even remotely fun having hands full of chocolate and being unable to lick your palms because you're off sugar and carbs).

But it's not us, it's them, and I can see it clearly, and it seems pretty desperate to me. What happened to building your own talent from the ground up? What happened to chemistry, the chemistry that develops over time? What happened to guys who are more than their numbers, guys who have that gutty Yankee sensibility that can't be put on paper? I mean wasn't it just five minutes ago that they tried this gobble-up-the-random-stars approach (Lofton et al) to no avail?

I've been thinking a lot about desperation lately.

Wanting is good. Wanting is how you get things done. Being hungry is good. Yearning. Good. But what defines desperation to me (and there's no doubt it has a negative connotation, especially in love) is the aftereffect - the actions taken in desperation. Acting from desperation leads to bad stuff. Hasty, emotional, not made from a place of power decisions.

If love is important to you, wanting it (even wanting it a lot) doesn't make you desperate. Really wanting it doesn't make you desperate. Going out all the time. Looking, hoping, praying. Doesn't make you desperate. But accepting something less than you deserve to be in a relationship? Pure desperation. And scary, too.

The thing about making a great trade is that you have to be able to walk away. To get there, you have to know that life goes on when it's just you. You have to know that you're stronger than any one player. If you act from desperation, you're powerless. You have to accept what you can get. Even if the fit's not right for the team. Even if the player is a clubhouse nuisance, acts out, has a temper, demands special treatment, is an overgrown baby.

I'm thinking about a friend of mine. And I'm wishing her the strength to know what I've learned as a Sox fan. Goodbye Nomar, goodbye Pedro, goodbye dear Manny. No matter how big and gut wrenching and devastating the loss, no matter how much you mourn, the team still remains. What you think you can you can't live through, you live through.

And I'm starting to believe it's only after that - only after you know you can live through anything - that the good stuff really starts to happen.

LOL

2008-12-07T23:01:00.003-05:00

Dustin is in. 6 years. Locked down. I like it. I read on Washingtonpost.com that it wasn't just Pedroia's bat and glove but his leadership that make him so valuable: "His leadership in the clubhouse has been mentioned as a developing asset that could make him the frontman in Boston as the team slowly transitions into post-David Ortiz years," wrote Cameron Smith. "The two combined as running mates in clubhouse pranks in 2008, once connecting with Jonathan Papelbon's mother to release film of the Red Sox closer dancing in drag and performing in West Side Story while in high school. The duo released the film in the clubhouse under the sobriquet 'Large Father Productions'."

I love that when citing his leadership, what Smith writes about is Pedroia's sense of humor. A prank (which, by the way sounds hilarious - the production company name especially) gets a full paragraph in the story.

People always say that they want to meet someone with a sense of humor, and lately I've realized just how meaningful that is. There's something about spending a whole weekend laughing. The fun of one upping each other, the flirtiness of wordplay, and just the complete release it is to throw your head back and let go. To get outside of yourself and your daily stresses and whatever is on your mind.

I can see why that would be so valuable in the clubhouse, in psychological sport where staying loose is important. I can see why that prank gets a paragraph, why laugh makers are leaders, why Pedroia might be worth even more than his stellar qualifications.

I once thought I could be with a straight man - that I could be the funny one and that would be enough. But I was completely wrong. I didn't realize until I started laughing just how much I needed it. Hearing that sound coming from me feels like a relief and a celebration. And hearing it reminds me of how quiet it was before.

The Long Term

2008-11-28T16:28:00.004-05:00

He's got a Rookie of the Year award, a Silver Slugger, a Gold Glove, and now an MVP award.

Maybe he wasn't exactly we envisioned when we dreamed of the ideal ballplayer. Maybe in our movie fantasies it played out a little differently. But really, at this point, there's no denying the fact that we've fallen in love.

So are we going to do it or aren't we? Are we going to sign Pedroia the Destroyah to a long term deal?

I know right now this isn't what I should be thinking about. It's the opposite of in-the-moment (Junchi, the Crisp/Ramirez trade, there's so much happening in the present that's exciting). And it's the opposite of Thanksgiving (stepping back, being thankful that right now Pedroia is on our team, that we're obviously doing exciting things and getting ready to make a run for it again).

But I can't help it. Try as I might, there's an little voice inside of me saying "If you've got something this good, don't you want to lock it down?" Maybe I've been listening to too much Beyonce - Have you seen the way she shakes her bootie when she sings, "If you like it then you better put a ring on it!"

This is a ridiculous line of thought, right? There's no action step that needs to be taken right now. Amalie Benjamin of the Globe assures us that "The Sox are speaking with certain of their younger players about potential long-term deals this offseason, though the team is keeping a lid on the names of those they're targeting."

And I've said it here before: Postponing committment is a highly efficient and desirable course of (non)action. The longer you postpone committment in business (and I include baseball, which is a business), the more power and choices you have. Making a choice and then making it irrevokable is a nondesirable business situation.

But baseball, though it is a business, is different because it's emotional and because people are involved - and not in an ancillary way. The baseball commodity is players, and the players are people who want to feel respected (ah, Pedro, I still miss you) by the team they play their hearts out everyday for. People who expect more than an all business attitude when they are giving their loyalty and devotion.

Beyonce's in-you-faceness notwithstanding, is there really something wrong with wanting someone to make an emotional, non-business decision about you, when you know in your heart of hearts that you're good, and that the team is not the same without you? Why wait? Why not sign Dustin to something meaningful? Why not make what's good a forever thing?

Down Time

2008-11-18T21:05:00.005-05:00

Sorry it's been a while. I've stopped and started this so many times.

I'm living a different life than I did before. I'm not going out so much, and not in the same way. I'm not hearing random conversations the way I used to. I'm not alone observing human life. I'm not experiencing trials and tribulations in love. I'm experiencing calm.

The Sox aren't playing. Obviously. And they aren't training, either. They aren't working on something. They aren't on the edge of their seats wondering if they can win. There are no machinations. No almosts. No tears. No prayers. No all night battles. No panic.

I have a friend right now who's wrapped up in a World Series against the Yankees. It's exciting. Every game is a nail biter. She can't take her eyes of the field for one second. Will he call? When? She's got her rally cap on, begging: please please please please please. In her mind, she's always just one swing away from victory. As soon as this one thing happens/stops/changes. I know. I've been there.

I'm glad I'm not there now. I'm just calm. I'm peaceful. I'm not traveling all over. It feels like I'm home, with family.

After All, It's a Small World

2008-11-09T22:15:00.004-05:00

I have to own up to loving the offseason for all the rumors. Just like I own up to my love of Star magazine. Sure, you never know how much of it you can believe, but there’s something pleasurable about ruminating over the soap operatic ins and outs. Anything is possible, and what I find most interesting of all are the good stories of players reuniting. I read a headline a few days ago about the possibility of D. Lowe back together with Tek – more than his former battery mate, someone who he’s known since long ago in Seattle.

We’ve all heard that great story (I know I’ve written about it here) of Ricky Henderson seeing Olerud wearing his batting helmet in the field saying, “I used to play with a guy who wore a helmet like that in the field.” And the punch line, of course, is Olerud saying that he was in "that guy." That they played on the same team.

Baseball, like life, is a small world.

I used to think that going to a big school gave you anonymity. But in a class of 2300 and a campus of 20,000, without the benefit of internet, texting, or blackberries, my classmates and I managed to cultivate a rumor mill that could disseminate a sighting of some marginal shenanigan faster than Perez Hilton.

I used to think that big city life meant anonymity. But that’s not true either. Just as a ballplayer you thought you’d said goodbye to for good can reappear as a spring training hopeful, so too can someone you blew off after a blind date pop up when you least expect it. Say, at a benefit dinner you’re attending with your new boyfriend.

At dinner on Saturday night I met a lovely woman who was dating lots of people at the time of her sweet sixteen party, and married one of them. And after many blissful decades together, he passed away. And another of these men, one she hadn’t chosen, found her again after all these years. Today, he is her beloved boyfriend. Even in rejecting him all those years ago, she clearly was kind enough that he would want to be with her still.

I want to be sure to act in ways that represent the best of me, even when I’m frustrated. To consider that my moments of weakness are something I have to live with. Nobody’s perfect, and I can’t undo what’s been done. But I can remember that the little moves we make create a track record that follows us from team to team, from city to city. That we are accountable, no matter where we live, and no matter who we play for.

The Man on the Mound

2008-11-05T05:57:00.006-05:00

All season long, I was so excited when Dice K took the mound. Excited because he could be counted on. Even when things unraveled. Even when things got tough. Even when he struggled. Because he always battled back. Because I could believe in him. Because he gave us a chance to win.

Today we have a chance to win again.

Today we have someone on the mound I believe in again.

Today we've made history, too. When I see Dice-K on the mound, smiling his matinee idol smile, I always call my son into the room. "He came here from Japan," I tell him. "Just like you came from Korea. Take a look. See how good he is?" I want him to see what he won't see on TV shows or in the movies, that an Asian man can be a big strong athlete standing up there alone. That his options are not just kung fu fighter or excellent student or someone behind a a lab door, parsing fibers.

I want him to see that a face just like his, a body like his will one day be, can lead a whole team to victory in this country.

Today I can show him something that will make the story of segregation a little less hard to tell. Today I can show him that merit and passion and a sense of justice and the content of our character count for something. That the damage of the past and the back of the bus will never be undone, but that we are finally making meaningful progress.

Today I can tell my son that when the game is on the line, this country - his country - can see past color. And turn to the best man - the best person - for the job.

After

2008-10-31T00:13:00.004-05:00

It's over.

You have to hand it to the Phillies.

And now, here's the good part. Wipe your hands. Season done. After the end, there's an initial sadness, of course. And after that, there's a sense of finality. And after that, there's a clean slate. And after that, a sense of power sets in.

As much as you love baseball, devotion can get taxing. Watching every game, planning around it, the highs and the lows. After it's over, there is the freedom to do whatever you want. To sit someplace where there's no TV on game night. You turn back to you and your routines. You run all your errands again. You cleanse - not clean, cleanse. Get rid of all his stuff. Reclaim the closet, the fridge, the remote.

A calm sets in when what went wrong is over. You can breathe better. That heart-racing-slightly-panicky feeling disappears. You feel light and free. The world seems full of possibilities.

Here we are now. Every close call is behind us. Every tense moment has vanished. There is no praying, no pleading, no working so hard. Instead, there's just us. And any minute now, the dust of the old will settle. And pitchers and catchers will report. And in the sunny glow of spring, hope will return. For that next big victory we know we deserve.

Let's (Not) Be Friends

2008-10-26T15:27:00.003-05:00

I haven’t been watching baseball.

I had all good intentions, really. The season is over, but the one sport I love is not. And it’s the best time in the world to watch. So what’s my problem?

Watching baseball after the Sox are out of it is like staying friends after a breakup. It’s a good idea in theory, but in practice it’s just never as appealing.

The idea of being friends after a breakup has a big draw. For starters, when you’re in the throes of looking back on your time with this person, it crosses your mind that in fact you wasted your time. If you were to start a friendship, your mind reasons, then it wasn’t a waste. You got a friend out of it. Plus it’s a lot easier to look back on it when you have a friendship to keep you from thinking “What a complete tool!”

I’d love to be watching baseball now and having this high road, big picture view. I wouldn’t sigh every time I thought of the Sox, every time I heard that someone saw Dice-K out having lunch, every time it occurred to me that after feeling so victorious, so tough, we ended up no better off than the Yankees. I’d think: We made it pretty far. I’d think: It was a great season. I’d think: It was a tough contest and someone had to emerge the loser. I’d think: There’s still more baseball.

Instead, I think this: How could they?

How could they let Manny go? How could they drop games two and three? How could they let this slip away? If I'm not careful, I risk thinking back to every moment that might have impacted every game and wondering why they blew it. How it could have been different. If only.

As much as I might theoretically like to have a little of it in my life in a manageable way, in practice I prefer to have a clean break with baseball. And look forward to a better season next year.

The funniest thing happened...

2008-10-19T23:07:00.003-05:00

...We lost and it's over and I'm still okay.

Maybe it's because I've built up a little toughness.
Maybe it's because we've won it all twice and I know we can again.
Maybe it's because the world keeps turning. There's still Thai steak salad and Mad Men and skinny jeans and a five-year-old boy who will learn that sometimes bad things happen to good people but you pick up and keep going.
Maybe because I have a teammate who knows how to console me. A teammate I value enough for that consolation to mean something.

Or maybe it's because it's just after midnight and it hasn't hit me yet.

At any rate, if I wake up tomorrow full of grief, I know how to handle it. I have cereal, strawberries, a fabulous job to go to, and a concert Friday night that I've been looking forward to since forever.

And there's always next year. I believe in that.

I Believe

2008-10-19T19:30:00.002-05:00

I believe.
I believe before the first pitch is thrown.
And I believe when most have already filed out of the ballpark.
I believe in spite of being let down before.
I believe even when believing puts a knot in my stomach.
I believe even when the tears from the last time I believed are barely dry.
I believe because this team deserves to be believed.
I believe because if you can't leave the past in the past, life is too unhappy.
I believe because the risks of being let down just can't counter the reward of believing without faltering.
I believe because I know what this team is made of.
I believe because they have soul.
I believe because they have grit.
I believe because they have conquered obstacles before.
I believe even when a game or a moment, an error or an injury breaks my heart a little.
I believe because it's the right thing to do.
I believe because I am not fairweather, because to be fairweather goes against the very fiber of my being.
I believe because I have since I was a little girl.
I believe because I'd rather put my heart on the line and get crushed than play it safe and miss the joy of the moment.
I believe when we're down.
I believe when the odds seem insurmountable.
I believe in the face of "never been done before."
I believe there's a first time for everything.
I believe even when I'm scared to believe.
I believe in a world where good wins over bad. Where the just are rewarded. Where guts and effort really get you somewhere.
I believe in this team.
And I can't imagine anything in this world that could make me stop. Or regret it.

Play ball.

Smitten

2008-10-13T16:21:00.003-05:00

I got worried when I saw Beckett pitch the other night. In and out of sleep during that long game like a fitful patient.

The next day I woke up, had a Korean lesson. During the English conversational part, we talked baseball. My teacher doesn't have an allegiance to any particular team, which frees him from being a slave to outcomes. He has an allegiance to baseball.

He plays on a Korean team himself - their season is over (they didn't win, but played hard to the end even after mathematical elimination) and they have all agreed to keep playing, to keep practicing. Because it's warm. Because there is still baseball to be played. Beacause they can.

My teacher wants the Phillies to win. For no other reason than he loves to watch Maddux pitch. Why? Because he pitches. Like he's teaching pitching. Because he long ago lost the electric stuff and now you get to watch him be so incredibly smart. A lesson in using what you have. In relying on what lasts. In enduring. Not mourning for what's slipped away.

I tell my teacher that I'm worried. That the loss in extra innings felt so awful - gut wrenching, a palpable momentum shift. "What if the Sox don't make it? A World Series without the Sox," I whispered. Not a question. Just uttering the unthinkable.

"There would still be baseball," my teacher said. And added, in the pause: "I'm in love with baseball."

In love with baseball.

Usually I write here that I want to be better about being in the moment. I want to be better about knowing joy when it's in front of me. But I am there right now. I am happy, and I'm knowing it, and I'm thankful. And I'm showing that gratitude the way I want to. And I am not worrying about outcomes, so much as I am so enjoying being in love.

Giving Signs

2008-10-06T21:15:00.007-05:00

During the game last night there was so much talk about the communication between Beckett and Veritek. I found it really interesting - and instructive. Beckett says, according to the commentator last night, that when Tek calls the same pitch a few times, he listens. Then there were all those in-depth conversations on the mound. Getting on the same page, determining their joint approach.

I couldn't help but admire that relationship. Not to mention be inspired by it.

The thing that I really appreciated, actually, was when they gave a close-up on Tek's fingers, showing us how each one had been wrapped in white. This was so that, with the shadows at play in Fenway, Beckett could accurately read the signs.

I like that. I like the idea of making it as easy as possible for the other person to pick up what it is you want. I think too often, we're shadowy. We want something, but we don't say it. And then we expect the person we're with to pick it up anyway. We say things like "He obviously doesn't know me." "He doesn't get me." And "I'm not going to spell it out."

That doesn't make any sense at all to me. Not when you're on the same team. Why make it into a guessing game? I think men and women are different, and we often times don't understand each other. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that somehow he doesn't know you or doesn't care. It's just shadowy. Why not just say what's on your mind? When I'm upset with someone I love, I want to just clearly say what's upsetting me, talk about the game plan for a few seconds, and move on.

The last thing I'm going to do - or expect have done to me - is get upset about something, and rather than saying what's on my mind and moving on, just act all short and say "fine" when it's not. I've never understood that.

And it's not just when I'm upset. It's when I'm happy. I don't believe in withholding. I don't need to act reserved. I'm busy enough that I don't have to pretend to be busy. I don't have to play hard to get - life makes you hard to get in fact. Too much so, if you're not careful. I'd rather take the James Taylor approach and shower the people I love with love.

I want to win. Not to see if my partner or teammate has good mind-reading skills. It seems ridiculous to be opaque when the game is on the line.

Wool Over My Eyes

2008-10-03T10:45:00.007-05:00

The thing that's not acceptable is being fooled.

This is what I kept thinking when I watched Palin last night. This schtick about Main Street and Joe 6-pack is so obviously calculated and schtick-y. But that's not what so offensive about it. WWF is about schtick and it doesn't offend me. Because the people who like it are in on the joke. They're not being made a mockery of. Palin, though, she'll have middle Americans believe her little "I'm just so down-home" affectations are not calculated, not affectations, but her authentic self. When she's so blatantly hamming it up. Executing a snow job. Pulling the wool over the eyes of those she claims to represent.

What was so horrifying to me about the Black Sox scandal was the same thing. Not the illegality of it, but that idea that the very fans who believe in you, support you, revere you - their hearts are breaking out there while you surrender your dignity and drop games for money.

And that's the one thing I wonder sometimes about Manny - wonder and worry about. Now he says he was unhappy the whole time he was here. So what were all the smiles? He said he loved us. Now he says how crazy the Boston fans were. Did he have us fooled? Was he laughing behind our backs?

I think in relationships, the most diabolical part about cheating isn't the cheating itself. It's the idea that your partner, best friend, soulmate...snowed you. Acted like s/he was in it while all this was going on. Laughed behind your back because you never figured it out. I understand why it must be so hard to forgive after that. The transgression itself might be forgivable, but that feeling of being fooled, the loss of dignity in that, is not.

Right now Sarah Palin is patting herself on the back for doing such a good job peppering her debate with folksy aphorisms. She put on quite a show. And I shouldn't care - she's not fooling me. The Black Sox were never my team. But I do care. Because the hubris of thinking you're fooling someone like that is an affront. To the game. And more importantly to our country and everything it represents. I think we deserve better.

Plot Twist

2008-10-01T23:32:00.004-05:00

I was out walking tonight with a friend of mind who's going through something excruciatingly hard. And she said: "I just can't believe I'm here."

And I started thinking about how the path to where we are is so utterly twisted. And the destination may take forever or maybe that particular spot won't appear at all.

In no way am I today living the life I envisioned for myself long ago. I've made no accurate predictions. Everything has been a surprise. And some of it has been incredibly painful. But it's amazing to me that somehow I'm where I want to be. I'm happy.

I'm watching the game tonight, and it feels like the most joyous game to watch right now. But I almost gave up. Back when Lowrie made that error and the Angels capitalized on it. My shoulders slumped. I felt exhausted. I thought about going to bed. I hated the injustice of this incredible effort by Lester being wasted.

And then it all turned around. At the hands of Jason Bay.

Flashback a little further. When we lost Manny, I thought that was it. Really, how would we get anywhere without Manny's bat? What did we have left with Papi injured? Quiet Jason Bay isn't so quiet after all, though, is he?

Right now, I'm flying. Things are falling into place. I'm getting the calls, painting the corners. But I know by now that the next broken bat blooper could be lurking right around the corner.

I also know we sometimes get where we're going in unexpected ways. And when things feel dark, I want to remember that.

My dear friend, if you're reading this, trust me (I'm older): The timing and particulars may not be what you imagined they'd be. But you're going to emerge victorious.

You will get where you want to be. And as long as you've waited, it'll taste all the sweeter.

Sweet New Year

2008-09-30T09:49:00.004-05:00

So I'm puttering around getting ready to go with synagogue with my son, listening to ESPN while I make an apple cake to have with family later. And finding ESPN surprisingly thought-provoking and Rosh Hashana appropriate - almost like a sermon.

They're talking about Manny, of course, and his comments about leaving Boston and how much he hated the level of scrutiny here. I can only imagine EEI's take on this very issue at this very moment. I suppose that's why I turned this on instead without even thinking.

The ESPN guy understands Manny's position and empathizes. He cites David Wells too, saying that Wells commented that he never watched more DVDs than he did in Boston - you just couldn't go out. In New York you could. In LA you could. Here, you can't.

I don't think anyone has higher expectations than we do in Boston - and not only do we have those expectations of players, but we expect players to love those expectations. We're real, we're gritty, we're the most devoted and invested fans anywhere. That's why we get mad. We pride ourselves on that. Players should be thankful for this fan base, selling out and staying for every meaningless game in pouring rain, biting cold, oppressive heat. When we yell and scream, we're showing our devotion. And you better love it.

But I'm thinking about how, as I dip apples in honey and challah in honey, we Jews at this time wish for a sweet new year.

Just sweet. We emphasize that over and over. Sweet New Year. After everything we've gone through as a people, sweetness is enough. I think it's one of the few times we say and feel that way. The rest of the time, we place such high demands on ourselves. We want a productive year. A lucrative year. We want to do something, get somewhere, advance. We demand progress and even perfection.

What's wrong with just wanting sweetness?

Why do we look down on those who want warmth and kindness? Why do we have to hate Manny for wanting to go into Starbucks after a loss and have someone say, rather than "what the hell happened last night, you bum?" just "Get em next time"?

Our society admires toughness - especially in men. In the world of sports, all the expressions tell the same story: "shake it off" "get back in the game" "just do it." I know I have been guilty of the same. I know I respect tough men who fight through pain and adversity - shrugging off those things in pursuit of a goal.

But more and more, I long for sweetness too. I expect to not be snapped at in this short little life. I want my feelings protected. I want that arm to come across my shoulders without a word when I get a little shaky.

And I'm not going to apologize for wanting that. Insisting on it. I'm not going to apologize for, like Manny, being willing to pack my things and go if I don't have it.

I am going to have lots of honey today to make sure I remember. I want that sweet taste locked in my memory.

Happy New Year.

Put Him Down

2008-09-19T06:06:00.005-05:00

I find it really annoying that Curt Schilling is badmouthing Manny. Regardless of what you think of him, he's gone. Doesn't Curt have anything better to do? (Sure, he can't pitch, but maybe he could needlepoint his political theories onto charming pillows.)

There's something really kind of sad about holding a grudge. And I have to think it's not good karma, either. When you talk about someone you can't stand - especially with that person out of your life - it just makes you sound completely fixated and hung up. And apart from the way it sounds, I can't imagine it's good for you, either.

I bought my son this book called Zen Shorts - kids' stories based on principles of Zen. In one, two monks see a rich woman (actually, I think it's a rich woman mouse, this being a children's book and all) struggling to cross a river. One old monk carries her across, and when he lets her down on the other side, she doesn't even say thanks.

As the two walk away, the first monk says how he can't believe how rude she was to the other monk, who replies: "I put her down long ago, why are you still carrying her?"

Sour grapes weigh a ton. I know I'm sometimes tempted to still focus on the right and wrong of something that's already over, but I want to try not to. What does it matter? I want to let go of grudges with a quick "Oh well, her/his loss" (to myself) and get on with life.

I can understand if Curt's bored right now, but he's got a big political campaign to get fired up about. Maybe he can spend his days downloading pictures of Sarah Pallin and leave Manny alone. So what if it's true that his team and his coach made excuses for Manny, kept their mouths shut, whatever. Now he's all the way on another coast. In another league. They're no longer teammates.

Why is Curt still carrying him?

First Refusal

2008-09-15T03:22:00.004-05:00

And another thing.

Yesterday, watching the Sox, I realized that it wasn't just about the moments where we played our best game and capitalized on something with an act of our own that turned out to be significant. It was also about the mistakes they made. Mistakes that turned out to pave the way for our success.

Even more shocking than the way our own small actions can turn out to be big is the way the inactions of others can.

We hung onto victory - barely. And we wouldn't have been able to if it weren't for Toronto's mistakes - Overbay booting the ball, Scott Rolen's double pump while waiting for Marco Scutaro to cover second. (The ensuing delay gave Alex Cora enough time to get to first and keep the inning alive.)

Waiting is no good.

Just like in real estate law, I think there's a right of first refusal. When I talk with girlfriends about breakups and the relationships that follow them, most of the time it's that they wanted to stay with their partner, and they gave him every chance to make it work before walking away. If you get the right of first refusal, and you refuse, well, then, you know. That's it. You can't be surprised when another buyer comes along.

If you lie down in a game, or wait too long, if you slack on the little things, you can't be surprised when someone else capitalizes and ends up walking away with the win that seemed destined to be yours.

The thing about this game is that the small mistakes Toronto made, mistakes that might have had no effect in a vacuum, proved to be game altering in such a close situation. That led to a loss even with one of the best pitchers in the business on the hill.

What's hard to believe, looking back, are not just the choices you made that put you where you are now - at least you control those. But the choices, actions, or inactions of others. You can't believe that someone refuses, in whatever way, to accept your offer. But in the end, these refusals might be the best thing that ever happens to you.

Even when you're not able to play your best game - when you're tired, when you're not seeing the ball clearly - sometimes it turns out that someone else's error ends up putting you in a position to win.

Game Altering

2008-09-14T09:47:00.006-05:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about those moments in baseball where the commentators look back on something that happened earlier in the game and say "Wow, that [walk, defensive play, steal] really looks significant now."

Isn't that amazing? Isn't it unbelievable how something that happens and seems fairly insignificant in real time can be completely different later? How something that's just alert ballplaying in the moment can prove game altering in only a few more innings?

Remember that movie Sliding Doors, where we see how Gwyneth Paltrow's life would have been different had she not missed the closing doors of a train? I think about that sometimes. There are so many close calls. I'm happy right now in a way I haven't been in a long time, and I can't help but look back on all the what ifs.

I don't know how I've managed it, but I've made some decent decisions, in retrospect. Sometimes it seems miraculous to me - we make alert plays without any idea how important they'll end up being. Leaving someone you're still in love with because you know it's not right. Leaving someone you could be happy with when you know it's not love. Ending something without having another option lined up because you'd rather wait, alone, to be over the moon.

Of course the converse is true - and scary. A move you make or don't make now could turn out to be game altering and not in a good way. But there are choices I made in the past, hard choices - just trying to be a good person, to protect myself - that I now see are game winners. Had I not made them, had I made them differently, I wouldn't be where I am. Not standing triumphantly at home - but close enough to get a good look at it and believe I'll get there.

Official Business

2008-09-09T22:31:00.005-05:00

Lots of talk tonight about when the game would become official - I guess because of the rain. But then I realized how throughout every game we talk about it - because it determines whether the starting pitcher can get the win.

According to baseball, you don't win unless it's official. What about in relationships? Does being "official" matter? I have to admit something. I've lied. I've called it official when it wasn't. There have been times when I suppose I was just seeing someone, but for whatever purposes, I needed to call it a boyfriend. Most often, I've done it when some guy asked me if I had a boyfriend. What's the alternative - "No, I don't think so, but I've been out on 12 dates with this guy I find really compelling"?

I guess I use the official word to signal exclusivity. But to me, you know when you're supposed to be exclusive even before the "boyfriend" word is uttered. So who cares if the word is ever uttered? I do! I don't know, apart from the fact that it's a much easier way of blowing off unwanted advances, it's just nice. The idea of a boyfriend - one you're really into - is nice. It's clear. it's comforting. It makes me think of sock hops. It makes me think of partnership. It makes me think I could do nice things for this guy. Have a place to go for Thanksgiving - or at least a buffer for Thanksgiving with my own family.

According to baseball rules, a regulation baseball game consists of nine innings, but an umpire can call the game and it can still be official if five innings have been completed. In life, I know exclusivity is for some the determination of whether you're official. I've heard about people who meet on Match and then have a talk where they decide they are official. Then they actually make it official by taking down their profiles. Wow. That's hard core.

I took an informal poll, and here are some of the other things I heard about when it's official:
1. Not until you talk about it.
2. When s/he uses the word boy/girlfriend.
3. When you meet the family.
4. When you no longer have to ask each other about Saturday nights.
5. When you have a drawer or a key.

This is all very confusing. Probably because there are no official rules. On the other hand, I think this playing is much more fun. At least with the right conditions on a good team. As long as you can stop worrying about when it's official and just enjoy the inning you're in.

And Another Thing About First

2008-09-02T17:32:00.005-05:00

Here's something else I noticed while I was at the game Saturday night. There was this space on the Jumbotron where, all night as we watched, the firsts kept being announced.

The two I remember most were about Dustin Pedroia: That he was the first player to have five hits and five runs in club history and later that he was the first player to with back-to-back four hit games since Boggs.

That got me thinking about first again.

Before, I thought of baseball as a sport that makes so much of every insignificant first that it led me to ask whether first is really everything. Whether we're really going to elevate first for first's sake so high that we're going to rule out more significant and meaningful qualities and victories in love.

But this time I thought of it a little differently. What's nice about baseball is that there's a new first every night. More than that even. No need to deny the romance of first. In one inning alone, the Jumbotron keeps offering them up. And rather than see the negative of that - that if there are so many teeny random firsts, then first must be meaningless - what about seeing the hopeful side?

That when one "first" closes, another opens.

If you are that guy in his thirties or forties looking for someone for whom you'll be a first - maybe you are. Just not the first you imagined. Maybe you're not her first husband. Maybe you're her first real love. Maybe you won't have a first child together. But maybe you'll be the first person who ever made her feel valued as a mother. You might be the first man she's ever felt passion with. The first who ever made her feel safe. The first she can honestly say she admires.

And in fact, these firsts may be far more significant to her than the firsts you imagined sharing. Are they really not significant to you?

Look, long ago you gave up being someone's "first" in all likelihood. But it seems to me you don't subsequently determine that true sexual satisfaction is not a worthwhile pursuit. (I'm just guessing here.) Why isn't the same true in love, in marriage?

Whatever the "it" is in your personal scenario, maybe you can't, because of circumstance, be the first to get it with her. But maybe you can be the first to get it right.

Time to Grow Up

2008-08-31T09:40:00.003-05:00

One famous story in my family lore goes like this. I'm three, in the car with my aunt, on our way to another relative's. And my aunt turned to me at some point and said, "Rachel, where are we?" And I said, with indignation: "I don't know. YOU'RE my grownup!"

As a child I did things I probably didn't want to - like flying to Canada alone from age 5 - and grew up faster than I wanted to. And maybe that's why after childhood, I suddenly stopped.

Like a Tab-drinking pre-pubescent smoker, I stunted my growth. I think I diagnosed myself with "grown-up too soon" and then proscribed myself years and years of immaturity. Since high school I have always, always felt young for my age. I've taken too many risks. I was a nervous litigator, out of place in a suit, who got most of her results by smiling and working late. I've had younger friends, and I've felt like their peer more than their mentor.

And then I had a son.

Thankfully, that grew me up in a flash. I'm still experiencing it. I made a vow to him to always be the grownup. I don't ask him where we are. I get up on ladders and change light bulbs. I enforce rules. If I'm ever shaky, it never, ever shows. And I love the way all of this makes me feel. As a result of being more in change for him, I get the benefit of feeling more in charge for me. The safety that I give him - I get to feel it too.

But it's more than that. My whole world view has changed. Things that I used to relate to selfishly as about me, I relate to as a mom now.

On Friday, I attended the funeral of a young friend's father. Once I would have sat in the church thinking about my own father and my own frailty. But I didn't. I thought about her, this sweet, smart friend of mine. I thought of her the way I think of my son, that I wish I could protect her from the unfairness the world has to offer.

Last night I went to the Sox game an saw the debut of 21 year-old Michael Bowlin. I don't know how else to describe it - I felt proud of him. He handled himself up there, so poised, so together, standing in the spotlight all alone. In the past I would have imagined myself being him - what it would feel like, how scary it must be under that lens with those expectations. But this time I thought about his mom - incidentally, a single mom - how proud she must be, what she did to instill such grace in this boy.

And I was disgusted to open the Globe today and read Ozzie Guillen's comments about Bowlin: "He didn't really impress me, He beat a team right now that is not swinging the bat well. When you deserve credit, I'll give you credit. He didn't impress me."

What an inelegant, graceless thing for him to say. Think of how Francona would have handled it. You know he would have spoken of Bowlin's poise and deliberation. Like a gentleman and a father.

But poor Ozzie Guillen. Ugeth Urbina's pal (you remember Oogie; I think he's still awaiting trial on charges that he was part of a group that attacked five men with machetes, doused them with gas and set fire to them for stealing one of his guns) seems to have missed a few of the key lessons moms impart to their sons, things like "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

And when I read his sour grapes remarks, my first thought was "I'd love to wash this kid's mouth out with soap."

Don't Burst My Bubble

2008-08-29T17:20:00.003-05:00

I know, I know. I haven't written in forever. And that's not like me. I love writing this blog. I usually don't think of it as work, more like a place I can go to when I want to sort things out. But lately I've been doing less sorting than usual. And feeling more happy than usual. One of my coworkers said, "It's like you're dancing around inside a pink happy bubble." Wow, it must be so annoying to work with me.

I've been thinking a lot lately about when doing what you love becomes your life work. I've always thought that was a good thing. After all, that's why I left the practice of law. I didn't want to just do something that I could do and make money at. I wanted to do something I loved. Something that mended my split self so I wasn't one handful of things at the office and another handful of things when I got a blissful moment away.

And so I write - mostly about three of my great loves: the Sox, fashion, and love itself. But I think the key to doing it decently is allowing myself the luxury of not forcing it.

When Jason Giambi was beating us out of a series sweep the other day, I thought about whether he likes baseball. In a New York Times story on Jeremy when he was with the Sox, Jack Curry wrote: "John is more than a dedicated father who likes to watch his son hit and occasionally tells him to expect a fastball on a 3-1 count. When Jason first picked up a red plastic bat, his father turned the natural right-handed hitter into a left-handed one. After letting Jason swing at any pitch as a young boy, John used Ted Williams's famous strike zone chart to teach his 10-year old patience."

Sounds like fun.

I used to love riding my bike. I remember riding from home to school, feeling so happy to be alone, under the pines, the wind blowing in my hair. And then my (well-meaning) dad got me a ten speed. And toe clips. And something I loved became something I was supposed to master to please my father. I don't think I've liked it since.

For Jeremy Giambi, the pressure didn't end with childhood. In the same story from when he played with the Sox, Curry wrote "John Giambi stood about 15 feet behind the batting cage at Fenway Park tonight and watched every one of his son Jason's practice swings. He followed a pitch to the plate and watched Jason uncork his ailing swing. Then the process was repeated, as the elder Giambi searched for flaws."

And how is Jeremy these days? Jason may have kept his team from getting swept, but according to most accounts, he's about to get October off. Those boys must have loved baseball once. Do these men love it now?

Come to think of it, that's one of the things I miss so much about Manny. Say what you want about him, I always felt that he still loves to play the game - and that it makes him better at it. Forget the money and the controversies, even though he works hard at his craft, you get the feeling that he's joyous when he plays. That whatever happens next, he's out there in La La Land dancing around inside a pink happy bubble.

As for me, I want to keep it that way. Even if it means taking a few days off.

What Becomes of the No-Hit Pitcher

2008-08-24T17:13:00.005-05:00

(with thanks to Billy Chuck of Billy-Ball.com)

As I walk through Portland with broken dreams
I have visions of many things
Decent fastball is just an illusion
Botched fielding play started massive bruisin’.

What becomes of the no-hit pitchers
Do they ever end up 20-game winners?
I know I've got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
Maybe.

Love for Lester grows all around
But for me it comes a tumblin' down.
Every day heartaches grow a little stronger
I can't stand this pain much longer.

I walk in shadows
Searching for an arm slot
Cold and alone
Without a number 5 spot,
Hoping and praying for someone to care
D-Lowe and Nomo, gone to where?

What becomes of the no-hit pitcher?
Do they ever end up 20-game winners?
I know I've got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
Maybe.

I'm searching though I don't succeed,
My curve became so easy to read.
Oh, he is lost, there's no place for beginning,
Hope Double-A won’t be my ending.

Now what's become of the no-hit starter?
Had nasty stuff that’s now departed.
I know I've got to find
Some kind of peace of mind

I'll be searching with the Sea Dogs
To figure out that 3 and 1 to Luke Scott.
I'll be looking everyday
To stick a pin in my ERA
Nothings gonna stop me now
I'll find a way somehow

Clay:
Anything's possible, even when it doesn't seem that way. Trust me.
-Rachel

Losing Battle

2008-08-22T19:19:00.005-05:00

On Wednesday I was on my way to dinner when I glimpsed the Sox score through a window. We were down. And virtually out. I think they were in the double digits and we were in blanksville. Later, my dinner companion asked "Do you want to catch the end of the game?" And I - a girl who loves a Sox game, who at the time had access to a TV the size of a small movie screen - said no. I said it without even needing to think. In fact, I was so bent on making sure that my eyeballs didn't glimpse one iota of the game that I think I squealed a little: "Nooooo!"

If the Sox had been down but not out, I would have loved to watch. Because I am a believer, and the prospect of watching a magical comeback has unparalled appeal for me. And surprise is not a requirement. I'm even amenable to watching a game a day later - when I know we won. What I won't do is watch a game I know we're going to lose.

In the beginning of a relationship, you mine for dealbreakers. Why? Because no one wants to fight a losing battle. If you know at the outset that you're going to lose, why set yourself up to watch it happen? Better to find out and be able to skip it entirely. Watch Mad Men instead.

The problem is that you're usually too invested in the game by the time you figure out that there's a dealbreaker. At the outset, you're hopeful, so every glitch seems faded and surmountable. Not only that, but to some extent I wonder if unwillingness to get into the game becomes self fulfilling prophesy. Holding back to protect yourself may be what keeps your would-be teammate from putting dealbreakers aside and really falling for you.

As much as I hate to see the team I'm crazy about go down in a heartbreaker, it's even worse to imagine missing a something magical because I'm too scared at the prospect that we might throw it away.

The Stopper

2008-08-19T20:01:00.004-05:00

After last night's Beckett debacle, here's what I'm hearing on the radio: Beckett is not the ace. Lester is the ace. Why? Because he's the stopper. He picks us up. When we're in the gutter. When we need it most. We define the ace of our staff not by innings pitched or veteran status or swagger or ERA or Cy Youngs or number of wins.

The ace is the one who stops the bleeding. In this season. Right now.

They say that when times are tough, you find out who your friends are. I think that's true. And I think you also find out who your ace is. Who among all the passing-through suitors, you could really love.

It's funny, sometimes something bad comes up early in a relationship that can bring you closer than you technically should be given the time that's passed. Every few months, about six times a year, I have these terrible nightmares. They are horrifying, but I have no idea why. I never remember them; I just wake up with unshakable terrors. The after-effects can last a whole day. I think sometimes that someone who could comfort me after these nightmares, that would be the person for me.

Someone who makes you feel safe. Who makes you feel that there is a way to deal with whatever life has to offer. Who stops those heart-thumping, damp-brow pre-dawn moments. Who comes through, not to celebrate in the winningest hours, but to shoulder the burden in the darkest ones.

First Served

2008-08-17T11:23:00.005-05:00

Last night at Eastern Standard everyone was watching the Olympics. Watching Phelps swim galvanized the whole packed post-Sox game crowd of strangers to exalt in unison when he took first again. Had he taken silver, we would have been crushed. And I can understand that.

But the first obsession in baseball is far more serious. In baseball, every insignificant first is noted. In the Globe notes, on the radio there's such an emphasis on first that even the smallest firsts have to be marked. Every time someone does something even mildly remarkable in a baseball game, the commentators are on the internet looking up the information they need to instantly tell us that this could be the first time since whenever that we see this feat. That this could be the first time for this team. The first time in this decade. The first time in his career. The most random, obscure first - only because it's a first - is enough to merit attention.

In relationships, there are people who need firsts too.

Long ago, there were guys who wanted to be your first. And today, there are still. There are guys who want to be a woman's first (and, I presume, only) marriage. Who want to experience parenthood for the first time with the person they're with. But the chances of finding a first like that decline as you get older. Older guys who have never been married and envision themselves having a white wedding and everything that comes with it might instead find women who have been there already. If you're that guy, finding someone to be your first who is also on the same wavelength with you and makes sense as a partner can be hard.

So how much does it really matter? I am not an advocate of settling. And I would certainly never expect someone who has waited this long to settle - he is clearly not the settling kind. But you can't have everything. And at some point, you have to decide what's important.

It boils down to this: Is first the most important thing?

I'm a fan of romance, so I can understand the romance of firsts. That is the white picket fence dream. Experiencing all these major life moments together for the very first time. But on the other hand, I think there are things that we learn from experience that make us a better partner. A woman who has already been married might bring something very different to a relationship with a guy in his thirties or forties. Maybe she comes to it with a better sense of what she wants. She knows well how it can fall apart if you don't compromise. She has reality-grounded - rather than just romantic - expectations of a partner that can make life much easier for him.

A woman who has been married and has had a child isn't in that place of rushing to get married and have a child. She is in a very different place. After all those years of being goal-oriented in those ways, she's not anymore. She has the luxury of focusing her energy on being a supportive and loving partner. So many women come into their own at this stage. I talk to friends who feel, as I do, that they are the most confident they've ever been. The most secure in their skin. They aren't needy, because they don't need anything. They're clearheaded about love. They know what they want. And they know how to value it when they find it.

A woman in this position is going to do things like support her boyfriend in his career. Understand his dreams. Have her own life and give him plenty of space. Be sexually aware and confident. She is going to understand how to compromise. She has already had those big explosive fights and knows how to not have them. And the big life-issue fights are already behind her. She will probably be appreciative - she has dated enough to know that a great guy is hard to come by. A guy I know described a woman like this by saying: "She knows how to make a man feel like a man."

Time and time again, women who have been married and have kids tell me they feel the best they've ever felt - the most secure, the most settled and calm, the most satisfied in their careers. Loving someone like that can be incredibly peaceful and sweet. Without the maneuvering and push-pull and games and goal-orientedness, what you get is enjoyment. Just enjoying each other.

What you don't get is first.

Tough call.

Scare Tactics

2008-08-13T21:40:00.006-05:00

A 10-run lead is wayyyyy too boring. That's clearly why the Sox had to blow their massive cushion last night and end up pulling out a two-run win.

And I'm guessing that's why, with Texas trailing 8-0 in the eighth inning, we needed Milton Bradley's three-run homer to make it 8-4. And we needed the Rangers to then put two batters on base in the ninth. Whew. That was almost boring. Instead, we made it scary.

We are a nation of adrenalin junkies. Fast cars, games of chance, scary movies - why sit comfortably when you can be constantly on the edge of your seat?

Sometimes I think the same is true of relationships. I think we get addicted to being afraid. I think about Sex & the City - how safe Aidan was. There was this weekend where Carrie suggests that the two of them be less available to each other. So Aidan stops returning her calls. And she has a panic attack, chases after him, and falls more deeply in love.

I have been guilty of freaking out when everything is safe. When someone is too available. And I have been annoyed with myself for feeling that way. The idea that someone is open and communicative and into spending time with another person - and the other person responds by panicking - that's so juvenile. Who wants to be that girl?

Would we keep watching these games if the Sox didn't fall apart and make us suddenly scared? Would we be interested in watching a nice lead become a nice win?

Lately I've been thinking that when you're in your favorite ballpark, watching your favorite team, the answer is yes. I've been feeling sure of it, actually.

Tender

2008-08-10T08:14:00.003-05:00

I still want you by my side
just to help me dry the tears that I've cried
And I'm sure gonna give you a try
-Cat Stevens

I won't hesitate no more,
no more, it cannot wait I'm sure
-Jason Mraz

Well, we're winning. And I'm scared to be happy.

Bay's helping us win more games than Manny's helping his team win. Dice-K is a machine. Papi's back, and apparently getting something he can hit. Writers are suggesting that maybe separating ourselves from the Manny controversy has had the galvanizing effect the team hoped for already.

And this sentence right here is where my transition line should go, you know, the one that reads: "And I'm finally happy too." But there's just one problem: I'm terrified. I'm terrified to have that hubris, tempt fate, to watch the universe prove me wrong.

It's the classic mind trick of the pre-2004 Sox Fan. Do not, under any circumstances, let yourself actually believe or you'll get the rug pulled out from under you and look like a damn fool. And be heartbroken. In short: When in doubt, DOUBT.

And if you don't? The Yankees spring to life when you took them for semi-dead. Routine plays cease to look routine. Someone key ends up on the DL for the season. Historically, the Sox can find ways to disappoint you that, in your most fertile bouts of creativity, you could never, ever dream up.

I took (okay, I'm taking) the loss of Manny very hard. And my initial thought was that we couldn't possibly win without him. Without this unparalleled livewire; this right hitting wonder; this magical, unnamable chemical component, cleaning up, protecting Papi, keeping things loose.

I was crushed when he left.

And now, if I read correctly, I'm supposed to pull myself together and believe in this team again. I'm supposed to buy a new Red Sox shirt. To consider these victories more than fluke or momentum. Put my tender heart out there. I'm supposed to let myself fall. And I'm supposed to enjoy it.

I really want to. I do.

Emerging Victorious

2008-08-07T19:35:00.005-05:00

Remember on Sex & the City when Miranda and Steve break up, and then Miranda starts dating that hot doctor for the Knicks? The the girls are at brunch the next day, and Samantha turns to Miranda and says, "Well, honey, you win!"

I pretty much always imagined that everyone loses in a breakup. I mean, think about it. In grown-up breakups, you know you wouldn't even be dating to the extent where you could have a breakup if there weren't some possibility in your mind that this could be The One. So it's sad.

But you know what? Maybe I was wrong. Because really, when someone acts like a tool, and then you break up, and then sometime after that you meet someone who makes you jubilant (I'm talking walking to work singing that "It's Love" song from the Heineken commercial), you do have a slight tendency to think "HA!" from time to time. Especially if Mr. Tool comes around wanting you back.

And, in one of biggest baseball breakups since Sox/Babe Ruth, there is a clear winner and loser in the Manny breakup.

It's funny, the day after he left, Jason Bay make a heads-up hard running play to stretch a triple, and EEI callers were saying that Manny would never have done that. All I could think was, yeah, he would have hit it over the Pike instead.

In his story "Life with Manny: Dodgers playing loose," Michael Schwartz at MLB.com describes Manny in his post-Sox era. "It didn't take long for Ramirez to make himself at home in Los Angeles' clubhouse with a spirit that has rejuvenated the Dodgers, about as long as it took for him to make an impact on the lineup."

"With the Dodgers already leading 8-3 in the ninth on Sunday, Pablo Ozuna punctuated Ramirez's opening weekend with a triple to dead center to score Ramirez, capped off by dramatically flying through the air like Superman, as Martin said, while diving into third, a play that symbolized the exuberance flowing through the club."

And then there are his numbers: "After his first four-hit game of the season on Sunday, Ramirez is now batting .615 with two homers and five RBIs in 13 at-bats through three games as a member of the Dodgers." (Still think there's no winner in this breakup?)

Good ole D.Lowe had this to say: "'He's one of the easiest guys that I've ever known to get along with. He's a superstar player, but he acts like he's 12. If you can't get along with him then shame on you."

Yes, shame on us.

I bet Manny gets into bed every night with a big smile on his face. And I bet every morning he's waking up singing "Walking on Sunshine."

We're nowhere near the end of the season. But you win, Manny. Congratulations, honey.

Tell Me Why

2008-08-04T21:25:00.006-05:00

One of the hardest things about this Manny thing is the lack of closure.

I. don't. understand.

Seriously. Explain it to me. Why had Manny been acting so out of character so suddenly? Pushing McCormick, holding up that sign, saying all that evil stuff in the media? It makes no sense.

It's not like him. Taking calls in the wall. Watching the arc of his hit. Ignoring the media. That's Manny Being Manny. Was he brainwashed by Boras? Did he think the team wouldn't call his bluff?

The Globe ran a story on Saturday saying at the last minute Manny asked to stay. Could that be true?

Some relationships are like this. So close. I keep thinking to myself - what if he'd been quiet and just had fun playing out the year. Or what if he'd backed down at the end, rather than forcing the team's hand? It just seems like there's such a clear right ending - the season in Boston, the World Series, Manny & Papi BFF, MVP, our hat on his head in the Hall of Fame.

Once, after a breakup, I listened to "Why" by Annie Lenox over and over. (Lest you think I have a shred of dignity. I broke up with the same person twice, too.)

Some things are better left unsaid
But they still turn me inside out
Turning inside out turning inside out
Tell me...
Why
Tell me...
Why

Why is it that after breaking up, we get so focused on the "why" - on this need for answers, for closure?

I think it's just another distraction, really, another useless mind twist to keep us from dealing with what's really in front of us.

Big grief.

So, head on. What's really in front of me now:
The rest of the season. And who am I watching here? They all look the same. Sound the same. Wonder bread. No tempest. No handshakes. No shots over the Pike. It's just all so boring. And whatever the reason, I do not believe in this moment that we have what it takes to win. And I'm not sure that I want to see us try.

In real life, though, someone new and wonderful came along after that awful, so-close breakup.

My son says that about Manny: "Don't be sad Mommy. We'll get someone else great. Like Michael Jordan."

So Long, Boston

2008-08-01T10:43:00.002-05:00

Hey bro. Thanks for all the good times, you know? Here’s some of the things I’m gonna miss:

-The doormen at the Ritz
-Dirty Water (I never got to ask what that song was about)
-Paplebon’s silly dancing
-Peeing in the Green Monster – though I can still do when I’m at Fenway during interleague play if Torre lets me play left
-Hugs from Papi
-Snow falling on my braids
-The local accent being stronger than my own
-The check for 50 grand and other random things I left in my locker when I was distracted by a funny bird chirp while packing my bags with Pookie
-Play wrestling with Youk in the dugout (but if it wasn’t playing, I’m not gonna miss it)

But, you know, there’s some great things about Cali, too:

-More Dominican restaurants
-Less yelling when I’m giggling with A-Rod
-That mean Schilling won’t threaten to cut my hair while I’m napping (Boooooo, Schilling!)
-I can run around with my flag and pretend I just became a citizen again
-Will fit in much better when I say “dude”
-Can mess with Nomar’s head by tying his shoelaces together before he shuffles up the steps
-Maybe Nomar still has connections to get me on Saturday Night Live
-Could meet Matthew McConaughey and get in on his workout routine with that cancer bike guy
-West Coast rap makes excellent at-bat music
-Little Manny can go to Disneyland and Legoland more
-I can go to Disneyland and Legoland more

Well, anyway, it’s been a nice few years, you know? Except for the mean owners, it was all good. The fans, man. They were cool. Well, I gotta run, ‘cause I’m supposed to be on the field at 4 and I’m planning to leave the Mercedes and drive there in one of my custom low-riders. Cool right?

Xoxoxox
Love, Manny

The End of an Era

2008-07-31T16:53:00.007-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a girl who fell madly in love. So in love, in fact, that every guy she'd loved until that point paled in comparison. She loved his success. His feats. His power. And she loved his quirks too. Every funny little off thing that he did stood in contrast these other manly heroic feats and made them stand out that much more. This guy had everything.

Everything, that is, until things started to fall apart.

He had always had a flaky side. She found it charming. But the feats started to look smaller and this flaky side started to look larger and larger. She had to defend him to friends who wanted to know why he did these things, acted out, failed to show up.

It got to be that way all the time. The joys seemed fewer and fewer and the disappointments like an avalanche. It became harder and harder to laugh at the funny stuff. When she defended him, she felt like a lone voice. She wondered - and worried - that so many people she respected disapproved of him and wanted him gone. (Sometimes, she stopped listening to those people. Or thought less of them.)

She caught herself praying he wouldn't do one of those flaky awful things he so often did. Praying she wouldn't have to explain. But instead, the things got worse - less like quirky, inconsiderate mishaps and more like just plain lousy, inexplicable acts.

But she was in love, flaws or not. And love is a hard thing to get out of. Somewhere inside she knew it would take some bigger force to make her give him up.

And then that force came knocking.

And he was gone.

And even if somewhere inside she knew the end was, if not inevitable, certainly possible, it still hurt. She saw forever with him.

She heard everyone saying she was better off. Saying she'd forget. That someone new would come along and be, in so many ways, even better. That she could win without him - that she may not have even been able to win with him, as disruptive as he had become. But she grieved for him.

She knew it was delusional to pretend it didn't matter. To try to talk herself out of it. Because the truth was, as much as he was imperfect, he was a Big Love. And the loss was jarring and incredible and made her gut hurt.

And even as she said goodbye and hoped (prayed) that she would eventually move on, she knew she was still thankful for him. He showed her how good it could be. The things they did together were real. And she hoped to be a big enough person to wish him happiness - and mean it.

Goodbye, Manny. It was a wild ride. Rest assured that we will never, ever forget you.