Our Stories, Our Songs

            For as long as I can remember, I’ve put my girls to sleep by telling them stories and singing them songs. For our older daughter, Katie, it has always been stories. When she was tiny, she preferred fictional tales, such as the one about the purple-polka-dotted bunny who was ostracized for his unique appearance – that is, until a little girl found him and loved him just the way he was. After awhile, Katie grew to prefer real-life stories, especially ones about the things I did with my brother when we were young. For some time, she even requested more specialized stories about times when I was playing with my brother and one of us got hurt. (Thankfully, I had a limited supply of those.)

            For our younger daughter, Chelsea, it has always been songs. She has found comfort in being sung to sleep by my wife or me, with our voices at lullaby volume as we croon “Rainbow Connection” or “You Are My Sunshine” or “Hey Jude.” As we move closer to the holidays, songs like “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” ease their way onto the bedtime song list. At some point, we find ourselves singing to a child who is fast asleep, her breathing slowed and her pink blanket cuddled in her arms.

            On a recent evening, Chelsea asked me to sing her a few songs, and when I thought she was asleep, she popped back up and requested another. By the eighth song, my 7-year-old was still awake, and I’d sung the equivalent of a late-‘90s John Mellencamp album. I told her that she was old enough to start easing herself to sleep on her own after a few songs. She cried about that for a bit, and eventually gave in to sleep.

There are times, when the girls are begging us to stay up with them for just a little longer, that I want the stories and songs to end for the night. I crave some time to myself, away from the kids for a bit. The desire for some downtime is a natural feeling, and I don’t feel guilty for thinking it. Of course, Friday’s events in Newtown, Connecticut, remind me of just how precious every moment is with my children. But when I think of Friday’s massacre, as well as the past seven weeks since Hurricane Sandy, I also am reminded of the importance of our own stories and songs.

            We have a little wooden decoration in our house that reads, “You Are the Author of Your Own Life Story.” I bought it because I think it’s true: Each of us tells our own story each day through our actions and words, and together we work to tell our society’s story through our collective expressions. In the last two months, there have been a whole lot of stories in our immediate world that are sadder and more shocking than most of the things we’re used to here in the Northeast. Of course, additional stories of war and natural disaster around the globe compound the sadness.

            But we still hold the key to so much of this societal story. We still have the ability to turn that story into a song. My friend Steve Politi, a tremendous sports columnist for the Star-Ledger of Newark, wrote a piece a few weeks ago about the Point Pleasant High School football team, and how these young men walked from house to house after Hurricane Sandy in order to help people clean out their storm-ravaged Jersey Shore homes. A new friend of mine named Judy in Bay Head, N.J., has told me some stories about moms who can’t afford holiday gifts because of all they’ve lost to the storm, and my school is working to buy gift cards so those moms can go out and buy those gifts. Yesterday, President Obama told stories of teachers and students whose heroism defies description in the midst of true terror at Sandy Hook Elementary School.

            We tell these stories through our own words, and we tell them through our actions. Steve wrote the inspirational story about those football players, but they lived it themselves. There is no storm that can overpower that kind of goodness; Sandy’s a chump in comparison. The president can share the anecdotes in his speech, but these adults and children found grace in a conflict far beyond what most of us will ever face. That’s part of their story now, and it’s shocking in its sheer courage.

            It’s the holiday season, and some of us are not in the mood to celebrate much this year. That’s a natural feeling in the wake of so much sadness and loss. But if we had the chance to ask all the individuals who died from Hurricane Sandy, and if we had the chance to ask those who were killed in Newtown on Friday, I think they would encourage us to celebrate our lives with one another. They’d remind us that our stories are not over, and that we’ve got some people out there whose lives we might be able to touch today and tomorrow.

            They’d also remind us that we’ve got some catching up to do – there’s been too much sorrow in too short a time period. The story has fallen too far off course. We need to bring some joy back now, with little time to spare. Our individual and collective stories need a lift; they need to feel like a song again. So what do you say? Let’s reach out to one another and begin. I’ll start with the one about the purple bunny … 

Down in a Hole

The kid didn’t ask for much; he just stood next to me with a metal shovel in his hand. My nine-year-old nephew had his lotion and bathing suit on, and he wanted me to take him to the beach. To dig.

He wanted to pick a spot in the sand and dig the biggest hole ever. Bigger than any he had ever dug before. I’d been in on some of those earlier holes, and they weren’t anything to sneeze at. But this was going to be the greatest hole that Connor had ever made. And he wanted my help. Like Barack Obama and John Boehner, this was our chance to “do something big.” But unlike our president and House speaker, no one was going to stand in our way.

And so we dug. It started at 11 a.m., and the digging quickly moved from smooth, white sand to brown, moist sand. Rocks and shells began to surface, making the work more difficult. But the kid wasn’t fazed by a thing. We widened the hole as we dug deeper, and eventually made steps so we could get in and out. We took turns, as there was room for only one digger at a time. We put stakes in the sand around the hole to notify others that this was a construction site. Occasionally, we took ocean swim breaks to refresh ourselves.

By 4 p.m., the hole was deeper than my nephew is tall. Almost five feet of digging, all in the glorious bright sun of July’s final day. By the time he had finished, Connor felt very proud of himself. He would have kept digging, too, had it not been time to head back for dinner. He posed for some photos, jumped into the hole one more time, then worked with his mom and me to fill the hole back up with sand.

As we worked, the English teacher in me surfaced just a bit. “Connor, do you know what ‘endurance’ means?” I asked. We talked about the word, and compared the runner of a sprint to the runner of a marathon. “The marathon runner needs endurance to go all that way,” I said. “Today, you’ve got endurance with the way you’re digging this hole.” He understood the point, and when I asked him about it again this morning, he remembered the word and its meaning.

Endurance. It’s definitely a buzzword in baseball this time of year. Which teams have the endurance to plow through those dog days of summer? Can they stay cool in the heat and keep their focus? Are they able to hang in there for the grueling marathon of six months and 162 games? In the end, having the opportunity to win in baseball or any other sport is all about one thing – how far you’re willing to dig.

We’ll find out who baseball’s best diggers are as August unfolds. I can tell you this, though – whatever those athletes do on the diamond this summer, they won’t impress me as much as Connor did yesterday. I saw endurance with my own eyes, and it was about as impressive as watching a kid dig all the way to China.

Woes of a Pinstriped Democrat

This November 5th feels a bit different for me than it has in recent years. Two years ago on this day, I drove around town buying as many different newspapers as I could in order to save all accounts of Barack Obama’s election the day before as 44th president of the United States. Last year, I did the same thing in order to save all accounts of the New York Yankees’ 27th world championship the day before against the Philadelphia Phillies.

But oh, what a difference a year or two makes. There was no reason to hit up the delis for newsprint today. Unless, of course, I want to chronicle the rise of Marco Rubio for my children. Or share the detailed accounts of the San Francisco Giants’ victory parade.

For a man who has found much inspiration from the slogans “Yes We Can” and “Let’s Go Yankees,” November 2010 is a rather downcast month. The Republicans are back in power and rarin’ to dismantle the president’s policies. And the Giants used rock-solid pitching to overpower a Texas Rangers team that had easily dismissed New York’s superstars a week earlier.

So what’s a Democrat in pinstripes to do?

I could join the crowd, turn on Obama and chide him for any number of reasons – from failing to turn around the runaway economic train in time for the midterm elections, to failing to communicate as effectively as he did while campaigning, to being too moderate/centrist/liberal/socialist (pick your label, then spin away). I could watch the cable stations, listen to the pundits, and let their words become my own.

As for the Yankees, I could blame manager Joe Girardi for his playoff pitching decisions. I could blame the overpriced hitters who didn’t hit in the postseason. Or I could chalk it up to a shortage of pitching, and hope that the teams spends the equivalent of a developing country’s entire GDP on Texas Rangers starter Cliff Lee.

I could complain, lower my head, and remind myself that fairy tales don’t last forever. I could retreat to cynicism, that safe harbor where we all can drop anchor and protect ourselves from ever having the audacity to hope. It’s an eerie place, that harbor, one where everyone hides inside a shell only to pop out every so often to shoot a spitball at somebody else.

I could go there, sure. But every April, when a new baseball season begins, I find myself unable to do such a thing as lose hope. I can’t ever stop believing in the Yankees, no matter what the lineup looks like. You simply can’t associate yourself with such a long, hard, unpredictable sport unless you’re willing to pour all the hope you’ve got into your team. The game will break your heart far more often than not, but the heartbreak is all worth it if you’ve followed those balls and strikes with passion.

Our nation’s government is exponentially more important than a baseball game. But the sport’s rhythms can serve as a guide for this cold November rain I’m feeling right now. When you’ve felt inspired and deeply moved by the words and ideas of an elected official, a few months of disappointment and defeat cannot be enough to turn your hopes into hardened bitterness. Like baseball, politics is a game of seasons, and when one season ends that simply means another is on its way. In between those seasons, we witness adjustments and reevaluations. We hear about new game plans, new supporting players, and new energy.

There have been very few politicians in my 39 years who have inspired me to become a better person through their words and leadership. Two years ago, I voted for one of those select few. I have hung my hat on President Obama, and that hat is staying right where it is. He is retooling now in the White House, just as the Yankees are doing in the South Bronx. The next season will differ from the previous one. The road map toward change looks different now, but that’s a result of the democratic process.

I stopped into a deli today and checked out the front pages: A few stories about the Tea Party. A feature on Conan O’Brien. Obituaries on Sparky Anderson, the legendary baseball manager. The post-election stories explained quite clearly that our political landscape looks much different than it did two days ago. But the remaining stories reminded me that life has gone on. There is still a country to lead, and still a need for inspiring guidance and encouragement.

This is not a time for quitting. Not for the president, and not for those who have placed their trust in him. You pick your head up, you look ahead, and you keep hoping. Can we at least do that? Yes, of course we can.

A Change in Command (One Sixty-Two: Day 63)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Sixty-Three: Gaby Sanchez, Florida Marlins

The man in charge had changed on Wednesday. But Gaby Sanchez didn’t miss a beat.

When the Florida Marlins decided to fire manager Fredi Gonzalez on Wednesday morning, it left the team’s players with a significant challenge – to continue playing their very best without the man who had led them all year. Obviously, the Marlins’ front office believes the team will be even better under interim manager Edwin Rodriguez and whoever the permanent replacement is. But however it turns out, it’s clear that the Marlins have been thrust into a period of transition. The question, of course, is just how smoothly that transition will go.

Last night, just hours after Gonzalez had been fired, the Marlins faced the Baltimore Orioles. Sanchez, who has been excellent in his first full season as a big-league first baseman, led his team to a 7-5 win with a home run and three hits. For the moment, at least, the transition seemed smooth. Tonight, Sanchez produced three more hits. But the Orioles had 17 hits of their own, which led to a 11-5 Baltimore win. Tonight, the Marlins most definitely missed a beat.

When the man in charge is dismissed, we pay close attention. In a much more important arena on Wednesday, the president of the United States replaced the commanding general in charge of the longest war in American history. President Obama placed Gen. David Petraeus in charge of the war in Afghanistan, removing Gen. Stanley McChrystal after McChrystal and his staff made disparaging remarks about the White House staff in a magazine interview.

There are millions of Americans following this war, and thousands of Americans fighting in this war. Those soldiers who patrol the mountains and streets of Afghanistan want to know that their leadership is strong. According to published stories of a news conference today, the president was as clear as he could be regarding the transition’s impact.

“We will not miss a beat because of the change in command in the Afghan theater,” Obama said.

The troops in Afghanistan want to believe this. The proof, of course, is in actions rather than in words. The same applies to those ballplayers in Florida. They’re looking to their manager and front office to see if the plans are sound. They know there’s a new man in the dugout, and they may not be happy about it. But these things happen in life; it’s the overall direction, mission, and confidence that you study closely. The Marlins’ owner, Jeffrey Loria, says he wants to win, and I’m sure he means it. But his entire team payroll is equal to the left side of the New York Yankees’ infield. Is that really enough? The president says our mission in Afghanistan is sound. But if there is significant infighting about the war within his own administration, can that administration really lead a viable war effort?

It’s hard to avoid missing a beat sometimes, even when you have a steady commander. Gaby Sanchez is trying to do his part; he inched his average above .300 tonight. He’s not even supposed to be the next great Marlins first baseman. But he’s executing wonderfully. Someone has reached him, and tapped into Sanchez’s resolve.

That took leadership, and so far it’s producing results. It’s the job of the true leaders in this world to bring out our best, and to make us better than we ever thought we could be. When we feel that personal growth, and we see ourselves working together as a team, we know the men in charge are doing something right.

Racing to the Top (One Sixty-Two: Day 36)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Thirty-Six: Franklin Gutierrez, Seattle Mariners

New Jersey, like so many states across America, is seriously considering major education reform. The federal “Race to the Top” grant program, championed by President Obama and Education Secretary Arne Duncan, has dangled $4.3 billion in educational funding in front of cash-starved states with one critical caveat: In order to win a piece of the federal funding, states must institute major educational reforms.

Merit pay. Charter schools. Data-based performance assessments. Challenges to tenure systems.

Movement toward educational reform is coming from both Democrats and Republicans, and teachers’ unions find themselves wondering just how much they can hold the line on some of these issues. For the first time in years, many individuals are stepping back from their traditional lines in the sand and taking a good, hard look at the ideas that educational reformers have presented. Is it worth changing the way we do things in order to “Race to the Top”? Can public schools really operate better than they do now? It’s a question many are asking.

Changes can be uncomfortable and strange sometimes, but there are moments when you realize they’re coming whether you like it or not. Many teachers across America are deciding to get involved in these conversations about reform, rather than ducking for cover. Over in the world of baseball, similar changes have altered the way teams look at run production.

For years, the prevailing thought around baseball was that you built a quality team through offense. But now that our technological revolution has given us a way to crunch numbers on the defensive side of the game, teams have had a collective epiphany: They’ve realized that some players save so many runs through their play in the field that they need only be adequate offensively in order to contribute mightily to the team’s success.

So a team like the Seattle Mariners trades for centerfielder Franklin Gutierrez, locks him up on a long-term deal, and lets him roam the outfield freely. Gutierrez catches balls all over the place, with tremendous range, and the baseball world of 2010 values this man far more than it had during the steroid era. Throw in Gutierrez’s 18 home runs, 70 runs batted in and 16 steals in 2009, and you’ve got a poster boy for baseball reform.

So merit pay has come Franklin Gutierrez’s way. His salary improved by more than 400 percent from last year to this year. The data supported it, so the Mariners gave it to him. It’s a new era, Franklin, and the reformers adore you.

'The Price and Promise of Citizenship'

His name was Joe. He was livid because he had been replaced as the starting third baseman on our high school baseball team. A fellow senior had taken Joe’s spot thanks to some strong defensive glovework. As one of our home games was being played, Joe sat on the sidelines and pouted about the unfairness of it all.

As one of the team’s captains, I felt the need to speak out. “Either be a part of this team or get off the field,” I told him. Joe looked at me, picked up his equipment, and quietly walked away. He never did return to the team.

Four years later, as a senior in college, I found myself covering the University of North Carolina men’s basketball team as part of my work with the school newspaper. I spent many days watching Coach Dean Smith preach the value of teamwork and sacrifice, and I saw his student-athletes listen intently. They listened all the way to a national championship by drawing fouls, grabbing offensive rebounds and playing tight team defense. They also had a senior leader, George Lynch, who sacrificed overall statistics for the good of the larger group.

Yesterday, I was reminded of my encounter with Joe and of my time watching George and Dean in Chapel Hill. As I listened to the words of our new president, I heard him speak of sacrifice, of unselfishness, and of humility – the kinds of qualities that don’t lead to splashy headlines, yet have long been at the core of our national identity.

“What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility,” President Obama said to the millions watching around the world. He called for “a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character than giving our all to a difficult task. This is the price and the promise of citizenship.”

How do we heed these words in an American society that has let competition and a “me-first” approach to life run rampant in recent years? Are these core values still present within us? Can we play Dean Smith’s game in life itself? Can I do it?

I looked up Joe, my old baseball teammate, on one of those high school classmate web sites. Apparently, he’s been in the U.S. Coast Guard for some time now. So if I’m looking for advice on how to make sacrifices and fulfill those greater duties, it appears that Joe might just have a lot to teach me these days.

A new era of responsibility. Count me in.

The Promise of a Nation

My grandfather passed away two years ago at the age of 88. He had lived a long life, and in doing so had grown quite a bit in his outlook toward those of different races. I can recall, some 30 years ago, sitting in the car with him while he told me that black players were ruining baseball. He said that guys like Reggie Jackson and Dave Parker, with their “cocky” attitudes, were bringing the game down. I can remember feeling an uncomfortable pang in my gut while he told me this, hoping his diatribe would end soon.

Maybe it was his memories of Mr. Henry that brought about the changes I’d see later on in my grandfather’s life. Mr. Henry was a black man, a teacher, at PS 12 on Staten Island. One day, nearly 80 years ago, Mr. Henry asked my grandfather if he wanted to try pitching during a baseball game. Some 15 years later, my grandfather was earning a living as a minor-league ballplayer. He’d go on to play semi-pro ball for years. His success in baseball gave him self-esteem and business contacts that would affect his life forever.

So while my grandfather may have had trouble figuring out what to make of Dave Parker, he knew deep down that labeling a race wasn’t the way to go. As he grew older, our baseball talks often centered around our mutual appreciation for African-American players such as Derek Jeter and Bernie Williams, as well as other players of color, from Mariano Rivera to Hideki Matsui. As he told me stories of his youth, he spoke with fondness of Mr. Henry.

My grandfather still had his blind spots, but he had seen so much change, so much growth, in America that he was willing to reevaluate things. I thought of him on Monday, when Madelyn Dunham, the grandmother of Barack Obama, passed away at age 86. Obama has spoken about his grandmother’s racial blind spots as well, but he has also spoken with such gratitude for the devotion she showed in helping to raise her African-American grandson. Her views toward race were imperfect, but in the end deeply compassionate and deeply hopeful.

I think my grandfather would have had a great time talking with Mrs. Dunham. They would have had a lot in common – pride in their grandsons, and pride in America. They would have talked about the changes they’d seen around them, and about the need to understand and adapt.

Because sometimes, the change we need is a kind that requires growth and acceptance and, yes, equality. There comes a time when the best candidate for the most important job in our country is indeed African-American. And when that time comes, we ask, can we push past those blind spots? Can we take that step forward? Instead of calling this black man “cocky,” or something far worse, can we just call him “Mr. President”?

Yes. We. Can.

Yes we did. On November 4, 2008, there were so many people, with stories just like my grandfather’s and Barack Obama’s grandmother, who took that step forward. They cast a ballot not only for the best candidate we could have hoped for, but also for the promise of the Declaration itself. It is a promise that, in our very best moments, guides the moral compass of this nation with breathtaking beauty. It is the kind of promise I will gladly share with my own grandchildren.

Take Me Out to the Debate

Four years ago, I asked a friend a pointed question: “Which do you think would be worse, the Red Sox defeating the Yankees in the playoffs, or George Bush defeating John Kerry?” His response was simple: Let’s not take our baseball too seriously here.

He was right. I didn’t get either of the victories I was looking for in 2004, but it was only the latter that made a difference. Four years later, I don’t have the luxury of rooting for the Yankees in the playoffs this season. But I do have my vote, and in October 2008 the American presidential race is really the only game of consequence.

As I watched the final presidential debate Wednesday night, I found myself reflecting on the emotions I’ve felt while watching these contests. This year, I find myself deeply invested in one ticket, as I believe Senators Obama and Biden are clearly the more qualified candidates. With that in mind, I’ve found my body language during these debates to be strikingly similar to the behavior I show during Yankees playoff games.

I can’t sit still. I roam from room to room, cleaning the house while listening to their words. I stop and watch one of them answer a question, but when the back-and-forth gets going, my heart races some more. I move about the house again, making my lunch for the next day or getting my clothes ready. In Wednesday’s final debate, with Obama riding high in the polls, I felt as though I were watching Mariano Rivera pitch the Yankees through the ninth inning, trying to hold onto that lead by staying cool under pressure. Even so, that pressure was too much to take through the constricted medium of a television set.

I watched the CNN Ohio voters give their immediate reactions to the words in the debate, and it reminded me of the scrolling ticker at the bottom of a sports event. I listened to the political pundits speak after the debates, and their partisan bickering seemed as predictable as the goofy back-slapping in modern postgame sports desks. Even so, I found myself glued to the post-debate analysis, even though I knew what was going to be said – just as I find myself watching those postgame playoff interviews, even when I know players will give the standard responses. I even watched replays of key moments in the debates, just as I turn to SportsCenter after a big game to see the postgame highlights.

There are similarities between these Fall Classics, all right. But there are differences, too. The thing about a baseball game is that the fan at home has no impact whatsoever on whether the favorite team wins or loses. But democracy is different; the candidates’ fans don’t have to sit idly. So I’ve made my donation. I’ve got my lawn sign and car magnet. I’ve helped a half-dozen people register to vote. I’m thinking about taking a drive to Pennsylvania or spending a few hours on the phone with voters in North Carolina.

It’s the late innings, and my candidate needs to seal the deal. I’m willing to answer the call. Mariano Rivera doesn’t need me to do that.

Blazing a Trail

Katie is angry at Barack Obama. My oldest daughter wanted to see a woman serve as our next president. Hillary Clinton was her choice, and because Obama defeated Clinton, Katie strongly dislikes the presumptive Democratic nominee. At age 6, Katie’s take-charge approach to life at home leads me to believe that she relates to the idea of being a chief executive – although occasionally her behavior leans more toward dictatorship than democracy (“Chelsea, I want my toy back now!”)

The other day, as my wife and good friend Neil were talking about the presidential campaign, Katie heard their conversation and said, “I like John McCain.” Both Neil and Amy looked over to her and asked why she preferred McCain. She said, “He’s good on energy.” Uncle Neil’s eyebrows pursed as he asked her, “Where did you hear that?” Her response was simple: “That’s what it said on the commercial.”

Neil, who is a lawyer, was not going to let Katie off easy here. “How do you know that what the commercial says is true?” he asked. Katie’s response: “Because at the end he said, ‘I’m John McCain, and I approve this message.’ ” Neil explained that this commercial was paid for by the candidate’s campaign. He asked her if she would pay for a commercial that said she was the best bicycle rider in the world. She said she would.

“But are you?” Neil asked.
“No,” Katie replied quietly.
Chalk one up for Uncle Neil.

The girls like to watch baseball with me. They love the fact that I have a passion apart from work and family. Last week, while watching a game on TV with me, Katie said, “I wish I was a boy.”

“Why?” I asked.
“So I could play baseball,” she said.

I explained to her that she could definitely play baseball as a girl. Even though most girls chose to play softball, some have chosen to play baseball with the boys. It’s not impossible to do. Eventually, I said, there will be a woman who plays professional baseball.

“Who says you can’t be the one who does it first?” I asked.

Katie shrugged her shoulders and thought about it awhile. Somewhere in that blossoming brain of hers, there are thoughts of women running our country and girls running 90-foot bases.

I like that a lot. I approve that message.

Handing Out Stars

I’ve been reading Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope lately. I’ve been watching some of his speeches as well. As a voter, I’m looking for a leader who strives for unity – between individuals, between cultures, and between groups of every kind. I like what I see from the senator, and I’ve found the audacity to hope he might actually win.

When I watch and read about pro sports, I don’t see nearly as much unity as I’d like to see from a profession that has so often prided itself on teamwork. I keep seeing fights between teams and even between players on the same team. I keep reading about athletes who are unhappy with eight-figure salaries. I read of relationships between Hall of Fame players and their teams disintegrating over nonsense.

It’s with this in mind that I’ve been thinking about the 1979 Pirates lately. Before they were a team that refused to keep their good players, the Pirates were a powerhouse. Nearly a decade after the death of Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell led Pittsburgh to a ’79 World Series matchup with Earl Weaver’s mighty Baltimore Orioles. The Pirates had taken America by storm that year, as first baseman Stargell awarded stars to his teammates when they made a good play or had a good game, and the players placed these stars on their caps as if the stars were Cub Scout badges. The team also proclaimed Sister Sledge’s hit song “We Are Family” to be their anthem. This ballclub’s unity paid off well in the end, as the Pirates were able to keep their composure and rebound from a 3 games to 1 World Series deficit to win the World Series. Stargell and company were smiling the whole time, and they helped buoy a country galvanized by recession, terrorism and an energy crisis.

As the America of 2008 faces such similar challenges today, I look for signs of hope and unity. I hear Barack Obama, and I listen closely. I feel inspired. When I look over to the baseball field, I crave the sight of more selfless dedication to team on the diamond. I wait for someone to step forward, turn on some late-‘70s disco music and start handing out stars. Mr. Jeter, Mr. Varitek, Mr. Rollins, Mr. Pujols – what do you think? It’s worth a try. It’s a change I can believe in.