Opportunities Missed, Opportunities Gained

            I have a long history of missed opportunities at Yankee Stadium. There was that game against the Royals that my brother and I decided to skip back in 1996, only to miss a walk-off, two-run homer by Darryl Strawberry. There was the playoff game against the Mariners in 2001, when I landed tickets only to fall ill the day of the game and miss it entirely, including a home run by my favorite player, Bernie Williams.

There was the game against the Red Sox back in 1993, when my friend Stew and I drove to Yankee Stadium to see then-Red Sox stars Roger Clemens and Wade Boggs take on the Yankees only to realize when we got there that Stew’s automatic car window wouldn’t close on the driver’s side. He said there was no way he was leaving his car window open in a city parking lot, so we drove home.             And, to top it all, there was that Billy Joel concert at the Stadium back in 1990, when Amy and I had field-level seats but got caught in so much traffic that we arrived in time for the second encore. We stood on the field and sang along to the final three songs.

            When you go to events, you’re bound to miss some things. I obviously have. But I don’t get to Yankee Stadium as much anymore, so there’s not much room for any regrets. If I go to a game, I stay until the end and enjoy every minute. That was the plan last weekend, when I went to the big ballpark in the Bronx with my family.

            My mother had a tough summer health-wise, and we’re all thrilled that she’s feeling much better. So we decided to celebrate her birthday with a game at the Stadium. We arrived in our upper-deck seats behind home plate in time for the Saturday matinee, with six of us excited to watch the game together – my mom, my brother, my wife, our two girls, and myself.

            By the time the first inning had ended, the game was one hour old. The Yankees held a 3-2 lead in this sloppy contest, and our younger daughter was already wondering when the game would be over. But the girls settled down and started to enjoy the details of this ballpark, from the foul poles to the flags atop the stadium to the groundskeepers dancing to the Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” Unfortunately, the Yankees and their opponent, the Oakland A’s, had not come ready to play their best baseball, and they dragged a 5-5 tie into extra innings.

            Our oldest daughter got caught up in the excitement of the late-innings drama, and we hung in there through 12 innings. When the 13^th inning began, we’d been in Yankee Stadium for five and a half hours. Everyone was hungry, and the girls were restless. By the time we’d made our way down to the lower level, the A’s had started the 13^th inning with three home runs, taking a 9-5 lead and sending us out of the park with no regrets. True, the Yankees would have last licks in the bottom of the 13^th, but we had seen enough for one day.

            We took the D train downtown, and got off on West 4^th Street to stop for dinner before driving home. As we walked toward the Italian restaurant we’d chosen for dinner, I passed another restaurant that had its windows wide open on this beautiful evening. As I glanced at the tables and diners to my left, I noticed a wide-screen TV behind them. And on that TV, I saw a live shot of Yankee Stadium. Atop that image was a score: A’s 9, Yankees 9.

            Say what? My mouth dropped. I turned to my mom and told her what I’d seen. She called out to the others, who found another restaurant window in time to stand on the sidewalk and watch the Yankees score yet another run in the 14^th inning to win by a score of 10-9. We stood beside a man who’d left the game himself, back in the eighth inning, and he shared high-fives with us after the winning run crossed home plate.

            Sigh.

So yes, the Yankees did execute the ultimate comeback while we were cruising along an underground tunnel in Manhattan. And yes, we missed it all. Add it to the list, right?

            But I have to say, I have a different spin on those missed opportunities at age 41. Sure, I wasn’t there to see the end of the game, and it was chaotic and dramatic and wonderful for the home fans. But remember, this day was never really about a baseball game. It was about a family celebrating a birthday, a mother, and good health. The only missed opportunity would have been to not go at all.

            And that’s how it’s always been. The day my brother and I missed the Strawberry home run? We actually spent that afternoon hanging out together at the Jersey Shore. The time I missed that playoff game because I was ill? I got to relax at home with my wife, and she pampered her sick husband. The day that Stew and I missed a game because of his window malfunction? We ended up taking another car to enjoy a nice dinner together that night.

            The Billy Joel concert? Well, that just stunk however you look at it. No silver linings there.

            But last weekend, as the Yankees gathered around home plate to celebrate their win, my family stepped into a fabulous restaurant on Houston Street to cap our day together. The girls had perked up, they were hanging out with their uncle and grandmother, and my mom was telling stories. The pizza arrived at our table, and we dug in hungrily.

            It was a success, however you look at it. There are no regrets about quality time with the people you love. And hey – somehow in the midst of it all, our baseball team had won a ballgame. Go Yankees. Go Mom.

The End of Restlessness: Mr. Intensity Turns 40

As Amy and I snuck out to see True Grit Friday night, I found myself identifying more with Matt Damon’s LaBoeuf character than with Jeff Bridges’ Rooster Cogburn. The younger, greener LaBoeuf seemed more like me than the jaded, grizzled Cogburn. But as I write this blog, and reflect on the reality that I have turned 40 years old today, I must ask myself when it will be that I start identifying more with cagey curmudgeons than with young idealists. After all, does the word “young” even apply to me anymore? And what about that 6-year-old who was jumping on me Saturday morning, taunting me about being “old and 40”?

Resolutions. It’s the time of year when we make – then break – them. Chelsea, at 6, is working on limiting the amount of tattling she takes part in during 2011. I’ve taken to calling her WikiChelsea due to all the leaks she’s spilled on her sister lately. Katie, who is now 9, has apparently resolved to play outside as much as possible, perhaps taking our advice that she has her whole life to watch Teen Nick but only a few precious years of so much blissful free time to venture out and imagine.

My wife Amy has resolved to make no all-encompassing resolutions this year, but instead to take what each day brings and handle it with care. Not a bad idea. As for this 40-year-old, my 2011 resolution is a simple one: to relax.

It sounds so easy, of course. But for a man once nicknamed “Mr. Intensity” in college, making room for down time is about as foreign to me as rooting for the Red Sox. It’s just not really a part of my makeup. I am the kind of person who has always chosen to clean the house over sitting down and watching TV. My young adulthood is chronicled extensively through two decades of to-do lists, day-by-day calendars and white-board scribbles.

A week ago, my last full weekend as a 30-something was filled not with writing or relaxing but instead with a sudden realization that I needed to re-insulate the attic. After six hours of non-stop work, I collapsed into bed only to awaken the next morning with an allergic reaction that led, eventually, to a doctor’s visit and a round of antibiotics. So much for resolutions.

When I reflect on the now-completed portion of my life known as young adulthood, I think of so many fabulous moments – of marriage, parenthood, family life, friendships, teaching, writing, baseball, vacations and service. But I also view my young adulthood as an era of restlessness: No matter how great the moment was, I was always thinking, “What next?” I never felt quite satisfied with the present, and always found myself pushing hard for something bigger and better in the future. While this bespeaks a certain kind of optimism, it also makes it awfully hard to relax.

So perhaps it was fitting that the last weekend in my 30s was spent exhausting my body in order to save on heating bills. It served as a perfect bookend to a young adulthood that began with the mass-mailing of 125 resumes to newspapers across the country. I’m not a 22-year-old embarking on the life of an independent young adult anymore, but I have maintained that restless soul. And while it’s helped me get a lot of stuff done, I have to admit it’s worn me down a bit.

And so 40 arrives. The attic is insulated now, and that should cover a good 25 years. The medicine has me starting to feel better again, as I hoped it would. But will I respond to the return of bodily energy with yet another grand idea that requires 110-percent effort? Will Mr. Intensity be at it again? Which project will the to-do list herald next?

I don’t know. I did ask Amy for some yoga classes for my birthday. I don’t know how it will work out – when I tried yoga 15 years ago, I found myself sitting there thinking about the things I needed to get done during all those quiet moments with the lights turned off. But perhaps two decades of restless exhaustion have produced at least the awareness that it’s time to make this year’s resolution stick. I’m not talking about an end to goals and dreams – they live on forever. But if 40 teaches me anything, it may be that a little relaxation can do more for those goals and dreams than any day-by-day calendar ever could.

Some down time might just slow the pace enough to carry me from a state of frenetic accomplishment to one of peaceful fulfillment. And if that’s where I’m headed, then please, bring on the yoga, the meditation, and the big four-oh. I will trade you my hectic young adulthood in exchange for an era of composure and perspective. It may be a sign of age, but that’s OK. It’s time.

We Meet Again (One Sixty-Two: Day 161)

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 One Hundred Sixty-One: Grady Sizemore, Cleveland Indians

It had been nearly four years since Ron and I had gotten together. He had moved to a different state, made partner at his law firm, and traveled five days a week nearly every week of the year. To say his plate has been full would be an understatement. I have no idea when the man sleeps. In Ron’s life these past few years, getting in touch with friends was secondary to finding some time to actually eat, exercise, and rest.

But a few weeks ago, Ron got in touch. He asked if I’d like to go to a Yankees-Red Sox game with him. I told him I would love to go. And so, on a cloudy Sunday evening in late September, I met up with one of the best friends I’ve had in my life after missing his presence for the better part of my late 30s.

We hugged, exchanged greetings, hopped into my car and began the complex work of catching up on four years. I know the clock said we spent seven hours together, but it felt more like ten minutes. There was so much to discuss: Stories of family, work, friendships, travels, daily routines and personal growth. We talked in the car, on the subway, and on the street. We talked in Staten Island, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and the Bronx. And, of course, we talked at the ballpark.

The rhythms of a game provided the perfect backdrop for two friends who’ve attended several dozen games together, yet haven’t done so since the pinstriped unit played in a different home stadium. As we sat together in the new digs, Yankees-Red Sox in the South Bronx was as exciting as you’d expect, especially as this game saw New York win in extra innings. But, to be honest, Ron and I could have just as easily been sitting in Arizona, watching Indians centerfielder Grady Sizemore rehab his knee at Cleveland’s spring-training facility. The location didn’t matter, so long as there was baseball before us.

We talked eagerly of seeing each other again, and continuing the business of reconnecting. The vow to meet again soon was more than optimistic chatter. As I reflected on my visit with Ron, I realized that there was a time, earlier in my adulthood, when I would have felt more hurt, betrayal and anger at a friend who’d fallen out of touch with me. But the years have softened the demands I make of friends, and left me feeling grateful for whatever time I can get with them. There’s not enough hours in the day or space in the heart for those kinds of hard feelings. Just tell me what you’ve been up to, and let’s head out to a game.

Ron’s girlfriend is a Cubs fan. During the season, they walk from their home to Wrigley Field whenever they can catch a game. I look forward to joining them there, along with my wife. We’ll enjoy the game and the gorgeous ballpark, I’m sure. But mostly, we’ll just talk. That’s what friends do.

Don't Look Down (One Sixty-Two: Day 138)

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 One Hundred Thirty-Eight: Daisuke Matsuzaka, Boston Red Sox

She was really nice about it, actually. This sophomore sitting in the front row of my classroom smiled and asked me, “Did you wear different shoes today for a reason?”

I looked down. My jaw dropped. Thankfully, both were brown and somewhat similar in style. But it was easy to see that these were from two different pairs of shoes. How many students and colleagues had seen this and chosen not to say anything today? The sympathetic sophomore asked this during my final class of the day. I walked quickly through the halls for the rest of the afternoon. Don’t let ‘em see you step.

It is September, all right. As the alarm rings for me at six, and I stumble out of bed and reach for my clothes, interesting things can happen. My shirt and pants matched just fine today, but tomorrow’s no sure thing.

Some days, you just don’t have it all together. When he woke up this morning, I’m sure Daisuke Matsuzaka fully expected to pitch well against the Tampa Bay Rays tonight. But after eight hits, four walks and eight earned runs, it was clear that Matsuzaka was not carrying his A game with him this evening. For the slumping Red Sox, this was not a good thing.

Perhaps the Boston pitcher would have done better had he mixed up his shoe selection a bit. You know, wear one red cleat and one blue. After all, I did teach well today. I just looked a little funny. As for tonight, though, I’m going to put the shoes out ahead of time. Like Matsuzaka, I want to stand out for the right reasons.

All I Have to Do is Dream (One Sixty-Two: Day 128)

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 One Hundred Twenty-Eight: Jason Varitek, Boston Red Sox

I’ve heard a lot of noise in recent days about who should be allowed to worship in what portion of New York City. I’ve also noticed that some very loud individuals have claimed the 47th anniversary of the Civil Rights Movement’s March on Washington to put forth their own vision for America.

These voices sound a lot more insular than inclusive, and it was my impression that acceptance and equality were important ideals in this country. So maybe it was my anger at all of this noise that produced my own dream this afternoon as I snatched a rare mid-afternoon nap in the hammock. I did have a dream and, my brothers and sisters, I think I will share it with you.

As so many great dreams do, this one took place in Montclair, N.J. It involved baseball (what a shock!), and a legendary old man. The Yogi Berra Museum & Learning Center, located on the campus of Montclair State University, currently has an exhibit devoted to New York Yankees captain Derek Jeter. But in my dream, the Jeter exhibit had drawn to a close, and the legendary Yankee for whom this museum is named stood before a podium and announced that he was opening a new exhibit. This one, he said, would be devoted to players in the modern day who had excelled at his position, catcher. And, Yogi said, there would be an entire wall in the exhibit dedicated to Boston Red Sox catcher and captain Jason Varitek.

The response to this announcement was, in a word, bedlam. Yankees fans protested loudly outside the museum, outside Yankee Stadium, and outside the team’s Spring Training base in Tampa, Fla. “This is giving our enemies justification for their existence!” one fan blogged. ““Yogi: It’s Over!” another tweeted. The evening news trucks found a fan who compared this exhibit to opening a Fenway Franks hot dog stand two blocks from Yankee Stadium. Even Newt Gingrich got into the act, speaking about the “historic ignorance of baseball elites.”

But, in my dream, Yogi said he didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. “It’s déjà vu all over again,” Yogi said. “Every time we’re afraid of something, we reject it with so much hatred that we lose our ideals. We’ve been doing it since Salem, Massachusetts, more than 300 years ago. Why can’t we honor a Red Sox player in New York? All it does it bring people together. Plus, that guy Varitek seems like a pretty good man to me.”

So Yogi didn’t back down. And, in my dream, his exhibit ended up being more popular than any in the history of the museum. Once everyone had settled down, it actually became a gathering place for Red Sox and Yankees fans who wanted to talk about baseball without any of those elevated animosities that have plagued the rivalry over the past decade. The exhibit even attracted national attention, and led to plans for a new exhibit at the St. Louis Cardinals Museum honoring Ernie Banks of the Cubs. Exhibits honoring rivals of the past sprang up in museums, schools, churches, temples, mosques, skyscrapers and stadiums across America. A new movement for peace, love and understanding had begun, and Yogi watched with a smile the whole time.

Forty-seven years ago today, Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream of his own, and he shared it with America. “I have a dream,” he said, “that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’ ” Americans heard Dr. King’s words very clearly that day, and many of us have studied these words over the years. But we haven’t always followed the vision inherent in them as closely as we might like.

“The future ain’t what it used to be,” Yogi Berra once said. For the past nine years, a lot of Americans have felt the same. If we’re going to make that future brighter than our worst nightmares envision it to be, we have to take the bold leap of reaching out to all of our brothers and sisters in the name of peace, even when fear and anger stand in the way. That’s my dream, anyway. You might think there was something delusional in that hammock outside, but I’d rather think of it as a very real, and possible, vision.

Now You Find Yourself in '82 (One Sixty-Two: Day 120)

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 One Hundred Twenty: B.J. Upton, Tampa Bay Rays

We’re going to make a baseball-to-movies analogy here, and it manages to connect E.T. to B.J. Let’s start with the films.

In 1982, the Oscar nominees for Best Picture were so outstanding that Academy Award voters had an incredible challenge on their hands. The most notable nominee was Steven Spielberg’s E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, which had become the highest-grossing film in history as well as a critically-acclaimed masterpiece. But there was also Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi, also adored by critics and, with its three-hour-bio-epic structure, was just the kind of film that typically wins these awards.

But there’s more. There was the Dustin Hoffman-Sydney Pollack tour de force known as Tootsie. There was the Sidney Lumet-David Mamet-Paul Newman classic The Verdict. And there was the intense drama Missing, featuring Jack Lemmon and Sissy Spacek tearing up the screen.

These five nominees weren’t even the only ones labeled “classic” in 1982. Among those films not nominated for Best Picture: the Meryl Streep tragedy Sophie’s Choice, the Ridley Scott cult hit Blade Runner, the Richard Gere-Debra Winger drama An Officer and a Gentleman, and the highly-decorated German film Das Boot.

It was an unbelievable year for movies, with cinema soaring to a supremely high level. You can argue that any of the nominees from 1982 would have taken the Best Picture prize in 1985, when Out of Africa bested The Color Purple, Kiss of the Spider Woman, Prizzi’s Honor and Witness for the top trophy. But sometimes, a lot of cream rises to the top at once.

This takes us to our baseball connection. In 2010, the American League East Division has taken a 1982 Oscar bent. The New York Yankees lead the division with the best record in baseball, followed by the Tampa Bay Rays who at one game back sport the second-best record in the game. In third place, the Boston Red Sox sit 16 games over .500 and would be leading the American League West Division by one game were they in that group. Instead, Boston sits 6½ games behind the Yankees in the division and 5½ games behind the Rays in the Wild Card hunt. In fourth place, the Toronto Blue Jays remain six games over .500 and would be just five games back in the Wild Card race were they in the National League. But alas, they are in the AL East, and are therefore 11½ games behind the Yankees in the division and 10½ games behind the Rays for the Wild Card. In last place, we have the Baltimore Orioles, who would be in the cellar in nearly every division. But there’s got to be at least one punching bag in a division this strong.

There will be room for only two of these teams in the playoffs, as the American League’s Wild Card entry surely will come from here. There are a lot of games to play before it’s over, many of them pitting the divisional rivals against one another. Tampa Bay centerfielder B.J. Upton has begun to heat up, as he often does this time of year, and he’s certainly looking to help his young Rays defeat the mighty Yankees for the division title and, if needed, during the playoffs as well. But the Red Sox and Blue Jays aren’t done yet, either, and the Orioles under new manager Buck Showalter are ready to play the role of spoiler.

The baseball analysts will probably tell you to expect this year’s division winner to come from the South Bronx. They’ll tell you that the Yankees are just too strong a team to lose this year. And they may be right. But you never know. The experts can be wrong.

There were a lot of people thinking in 1982 that E.T. would win it all, with its blockbuster status and its heartwarming ending. But this was not to be. It was the year of Gandhi, as the film took top honors, as did Best Actor winner Ben Kingsley.

E.T. is, of course, the most enduring film of these 1982 classics, as it is rented, bought and watched far more than the others. But if even E.T. can go down in the Best Picture race, why can’t the mighty Yankees fall as well? It’s enough to keep B.J. and his boys playing their hardest, night after night. The cream has risen, and it’s about to overflow.

Don't Mention It (One Sixty-Two: Day 110)

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 One Hundred Ten: Jon Lester, Boston Red Sox (via John Sterling)

When you’re on an interstate traveling a couple hundred miles, and making your way through New York City along the way, you cross your fingers when it comes to traffic. When you’re halfway there and you haven’t hit even a single brake light, you wonder how long the luck will last.

So the last thing you want to do is call attention to your good fortune. Yet, when your oldest daughter asks how long it will take until we get there, you want to give her a straight answer. So you say, as part of your answer, “Well, so far we haven’t hit any traffic, so …. ”

And your wife gives you the look. Now you’ve done it. The jinx is on. The “Road Work Ahead” signs are clearly on their way.

No one mentions that they’ve avoided traffic so far, she says. You talk about that once you get there. Meanwhile, on the car radio, WCBS announcer John Sterling is calling the play-by-play for the Yankees-Red Sox game. Boston starter Jon Lester hasn’t given up a hit yet, and it’s the fifth inning. While Red Sox players are surely following the time-honored tradition of saying nothing about the no-no to their pitcher, Sterling is running a jinx-athon on the radio. With every other sentence, he calls attention to the no-hitter.

And so it makes perfect sense that Yankees outfielder Austin Kearns knocks a single to center in that fifth inning, ending Lester’s no-hit bid. John Sterling all but guaranteed it. At around the same time, our car finds some interstate traffic that slows down our trip for a while. Just as I prophesied with my no-traffic comment.

Jon Lester lost his bid for the second no-hitter of his career yesterday, but he did pitch a fabulous game and picked up a much-needed win for his team. We hit our patch of traffic, but we still arrived at our destination in plenty of time for dinner. So all was fine in the end on both accounts.

It’s just that when you want perfection, and you think you might get it, there’s no need to bring it up. Just keep driving, or pitching, and let the rest take care of itself.

No One Mourns the Wicked (One Sixty-Two: Day 106)

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 One Hundred-Six: Kevin Youkilis, Boston Red Sox

We’ve solved the mystery, although it took awhile. We know who planted a pair of red socks where they didn’t belong.

My parents have a metal sign hanging on the fence in their driveway reading “Yankee Fans Parking / Red Sox Fans Go Home.” Sometime during the week, an individual slapped a magnet on this sign. It was a pair of red socks – the unmistakable logo of Boston’s Red Sox.

No longer was it a lazy beach week; someone had declared war. Where will he strike next?

Tonight, my 8-year-old daughter and her 10-year-old cousin performed songs from the musical Wicked for the family, lip-synching to “Popular” and “Defying Gravity” with plenty of energy and emotional gravitas. While Katie and Megan have not seen Wicked on Broadway, they understand the theme to this story – that sometimes it’s hard in life to tell just who the evil people are around us. Is green-faced Elphaba the wicked witch we’ve always known her to be, or is perky Glinda the one with true wickedness inside her? Are there times when a person chooses a questionable path largely because of the ways she’s been mistreated by others? In that case, who’s the real wicked one?

Tonight they meet again: the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox have begun a four-game series in the South Bronx with the Red Sox needing wins to keep their season alive. For years, the fans in New England have called New York the “Evil Empire” owing to the seemingly unlimited cash that the Yankees have to spend. But are the Yankees really the evil ones? After all, didn’t this whole string of 27 championships begin because Boston’s owner wanted to sell New York a guy named Babe Ruth? Was that the Yankees’ fault? And how can you blame the Yankees when Mike Torrez helped pitch them to a World Series title in 1977, but then switched to Boston the following year and gave up the division-clinching homer to New York’s Bucky Dent? Didn’t both teams have the guy, after all?

My brother and I didn’t spend our summers lip-synching to show tunes, as my girls have done this year. We were more the baseball and Star Wars-figure types. If we weren’t playing ball outside, we were probably creating stories with our Han Solos and Luke Skywalkers. Sometimes, we’d even mix the two, creating a baseball diamond on the living-room carpet and placing a Star Wars figure at each position. We’d use one of the Ewoks’ cannonballs for a ball, and create a semblance of baseball using Gamorrean guards and Cantina bar customers. Somehow, it all worked.

It was rare that a member of the Evil Empire wound up on top in our fictional ballgames. The guys with the force usually won out. And when we played our baseball games outside, it was always New York sending Boston home with a loss.

And yet, some 250 miles north, it was surely the opposite every day. From Connecticut to Maine, it was the Yankees who secured the Dark Side; those magnetic red socks were a sign of goodness and northeast-American unity.

So really, who’s the wicked one? And how should we feel about the guys on the other side? Should New York fans be cheering because Boston first baseman (and sometime Yankee antagonizer) Kevin Youkilis is out for the season with a torn muscle in his thumb? No one mourns the wicked, right?

Or should we feel sympathy for those on the other side, and search for a way to finally get along? After all, Darth Vader did come back to the Jedis in the end, right?

Yeah, but Elphaba didn’t get all Goodie Two Shoes up on her broom, even if Dorothy did do her in. Rivalries are too much fun to give up, whether you’re battling through ballgames, musicals or action figures.

Oh, and those mysterious magnetic socks? My niece, the one who played Glinda tonight, has a dad who likes to joke around. He confessed to planting the dreaded logo on my parents’ sign. It took days before he came forward, but we finally got his story.

So, Glinda, when you and your family drive home from your vacation tomorrow, look to the western sky as you pass through New York City. You’ll surely see a blimp up there somewhere, defying gravity in order to photograph Yankee Stadium for a nationally televised New York-Boston game. Who, you might ask, is the wicked one on that field?

It depends on how you read my parents’ driveway sign, I guess.

Last Man Standing (One Sixty-Two: Day 96)

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 Ninety-Six: Ramon Santiago, Detroit Tigers

Wade Boggs has 3,010 career base hits, but the most famous at-bat of his career involves none of those hits. Boggs’ most-viewed at-bat shows him waving helplessly at a biting slider on a July 4th afternoon in Yankee Stadium. The pitcher, Dave Righetti, responds to this miss by hugging his catcher, Butch Wynegar. The Yankees storm the field.

Righetti has thrown a no-hitter against the Boston Red Sox on this day in 1983, and Boggs is the final out. And 27 years later, even though Wade Boggs has a plaque in Cooperstown and Dave Righetti does not, our visual history always shows Righetti as the better player. Thousands of people each year see that clip of Righetti dominating Boggs, while far fewer see any of the opposite-field singles that led Boggs to five batting titles and 12 All-Star Game appearances. That’s what happens when you’re the final out of a no-hitter – you live in infamy, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Ramon Santiago is no Wade Boggs, but he’s certainly had his share of hits in a nine-year career spent mostly with the Detroit Tigers. Yesterday, though, Santiago was called to the plate to pinch-hit against a man who had retired 26 batters without allowing a hit. As Tropicana Field reverberated with a roar not often heard in that building, Tampa Bay Rays pitcher Matt Garza had one more out to go in his quest for the first no-hitter in Rays’ history. Instead of sending starting shortstop Danny Worth to the plate for the third time, the Tigers sent up Santiago.

And so here it was – Santiago would either break up the no-no, and avoid falling on the wrong side of history, or he would succumb to Garza and see himself, decades from now, making that final out again and again.

He swung hard – let’s give him that. But Santiago got under a Garza fastball, and lifted a lazy fly ball to right field. Ben Zobrist, who had saved the no-hitter with a leaping grab earlier in the game, had no problem with Santiago’s pop-up. Garza had his no-hitter – the fifth of the year in Major League Baseball, with more than two months still remaining in the season. The Rays jumped all over Garza, reporters interviewed him on the field, and a teammate gave him the obligatory pie in the face.

As for Ramon Santiago, he went back to the dugout, surely hoping that his team would play a better game the next day. And assuming they don’t get no-hit again this evening, the Tigers can only improve. But even if he leads his team to victory with three home runs today, Santiago can rest assured that those homers will be contained within a 24-hour news cycle. After that, they’ll be forgotten.

His final out against Garza, however, lives forever. Someone has to make that final out, and yesterday it was Santiago. He can take solace in the fact that his final swing was much more impressive than that of Wade Boggs some 27 years ago. He did make contact, at least. But the ball didn’t drop for a hit; it was caught. And so, Mr. Santiago, we welcome you to the 27th Out Club. It's a lifetime membership. Mr. Boggs will be here to greet you shortly.

Just a Number (One Sixty-Two: Day 87)

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 Eighty-Seven: Jason Giambi, Colorado Rockies

Yesterday, I hit the halfway point in my final year as a 30-something. There’s no turning back now, like it or not. The age-39 roller coaster is in that moment of uneasy calm between the ominous climb and the terrifying fall.

Oh, it’s not that bad, I know. Forty is just a number. Of course, it didn’t help that my haircutter told me yesterday that she was skipping the step of thinning my hair after the cut, since it appears that the thinning process is now happening naturally. Nice. Thanks, here’s your tip.

So many people fret over 40 because they know that they will probably experience the aging process more distinctly during the next 10 years than they did during any of the previous four decades. There are reasons why most pro athletes retire around this age, if not earlier. And yet, there’s no one saying you can’t look and feel great while also accommodating the changes that will be there. And life in our 40s brings all kinds of exciting moments with family, careers, vacations and community involvement.

It’s just a number; that’s my mantra. Baseball-Reference.com has a list of all the big-league players born in 1971, and it shows that 14 players of that birth year have played in the majors this year. They range from Ivan Rodriguez of the Washington Nationals to Billy Wagner of the Atlanta Braves to Jorge Posada of the New York Yankees. Most of the players who are still around are either veteran catchers, like Rodriguez, Posada or Gregg Zaun of the Milwaukee Brewers, or specialized relief pitchers, like Wagner, Jose Contreras of the Philadelphia Phillies or Ron Mahay of the Minnesota Twins. In fact, there is only one active 1971 baby who doesn’t play either pitcher or catcher.

It’s a bit ironic that this individual is Jason Giambi, now a backup first baseman and pinch-hitter for the Colorado Rockies. For the past six years, Giambi’s name and his overall health have been sports-headline material, much of it related to steroid investigations taking place in and around baseball. The left-handed slugger has experienced severe blows to his reputation and career statistics over these half-dozen years, enough to ensure that his 412 career home runs, .405 career on-base percentage and seven years as a New York Yankee will not be enough to land him in the Hall of Fame. The latter half of Giambi’s career has not been without its highlights – he did, after all, slug 32 or more homers three out of four years from 2005-08 – but his life as a 30-something will always be connected with what-ifs and whys.

And yet, here he is, still suiting up to swing for the playoff contenders in Denver. Come January 8 of next year, Giambi will turn 40. While his career may be winding down, a new decade might provide him with a chance to contribute more positively to baseball, and perhaps to improve his overall reputation in the game. Maybe Giambi will coach a team’s hitters, and give them advice fueled by his own mistakes, successes and incredible batting eye. Perhaps he will find a way to pass along the competitive fire that guided him through those tough at-bats against Pedro Martinez back when the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry was white hot. Or maybe he’ll move away from baseball altogether, and instead help individuals who live their lives outside the white lines.

A few days after Giambi turns 40, I will follow suit. I don’t have a baseball career to look back on, nor have I ever found my name on the back page of the tabloids. That’s OK, actually. I’ll be moving on in my own way, as a teacher, writer, father, husband, son, friend. There’s so much to do, and so much to look forward to, that I wonder if I’ll even have time to count the years. Maybe the real number that matters when you start your fifth decade is 24 – as in the number of hours each day carries in it. If you’re as busy as many of us are at this age, you may find yourself wishing for 40 hours in a day more than you find yourself wishing against 40 candles on a cake.

The Underappreciated Man: Tweet All About It (One Sixty-Two: Day 77)

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 Seventy-Seven: Michael Young, Texas Rangers

This evening, we received news that Nick Swisher had been voted to the American League All-Star team in the increasingly popular fan vote to determine the final member of each league’s team. Swisher, who has a wildly popular Twitter account, spent part of this week actively promoting his cause via tweets. He edged out Boston’s Kevin Youkilis, who received a heavy dose of support from Red Sox Nation.

A little while later, ESPN broadcast the most-hyped free-agent signing announcement in the history of the world, in which LeBron James sat before Jim Gray, a group of youngsters and a VitaminWater vending machine to announce that he’ll be playing pro basketball for the Miami Heat this fall. LeBron’s announcement was broadcast via a one-hour special, which ESPN titled “The Decision.”

It was a day for self-promotion in sports. But what day isn’t? The potent combination of sports and electronic media in the 21st century has placed individual stars under the microscope more than ever before. Swisher and James, to their credit, seemed to be trying to maintain some humility in discussing their triumphs. But try as they may, they could not erase the fact that each had helped turn an event into a media frenzy.

Michael Young doesn’t do media frenzies. The Texas Rangers third baseman finished fourth in the American League fan vote, leaving him out of the midsummer classic for the first time since 2003. The Rangers certainly encouraged their fans to vote for Young. But the 33-year-old did not speak out on his own behalf.

And if anyone had a right to do so, it was this guy. No active major-league player has been as clutch in All-Star play as Michael Young, as he drove in the game-winning runs in both the 2006 and 2008 All-Star games. Young is a six-time All-Star, who at age 33 has more than 1,700 hits and a .302 career batting average. He rarely misses a game for Texas, and has agreed twice in his career to change positions when the Rangers asked. In 2004, he moved from second base to shortstop to accommodate Texas’s acquisition of Alfonso Soriano. Last year, months after winning a Gold Glove at shortstop, Young moved over to third to make room for the younger Elvis Andrus.

Humility may be hard to find in sports these days. But over in Arlington, Texas, the first-place Rangers have a healthy dose of it at third base. Michael Young may be the most underappreciated player of his generation. But he won’t tell you that. He won’t tweet it, either. Sometimes, just knowing for yourself is good enough.

Fielding Grounders from the Ground (One Sixty-Two: Day 71)

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 Seventy-One: Dustin Pedroia, Boston Red Sox

It was just a small item in yesterday’s New York Times, but the headline grabbed me right away:

“With a Broken Foot, Pedroia Fields From His Knees.”

The story, written by The Associated Press, focused on Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia and his actions before Wednesday’s game with Tampa. Just five days after fouling a ball off his left foot and breaking a bone in that foot, Pedroia was on his knees at the edge of the infield grass before his team’s game. The former MVP was fielding ground balls and having a catch. The 26-year-old was wearing a protective boot over his left foot, as the injury is expected to keep him out for six weeks. After the practice, Pedroia had to use crutches to get off the field.

But he still got in his work. And his baseball. “He’s pretty unique,” said Boston’s manager, Terry Francona.

It’s obviously quite impressive to see the dedication Pedroia has for his job. The Red Sox are very lucky to have a player like this. But for those of us who feel the pulse of baseball within our veins each day, it’s not entirely surprising to see this kind of behavior. While Pedroia’s work ethic is obviously amazing, I’m sure he was also fielding grounders because he needs the game. He can’t just sit there.

It was the spring of 1979, and I was on crutches due to a broken right femur and hip bone. I was a lucky little boy, as I’d been hit by a car and could easily have sustained a much greater injury. After six weeks in the hospital, I was sent home in mid-May. My schooling would be done by tutor that spring, and my Little League career would have to wait and start the following year.

So as my grandmothers watched me each day, I got down to business. I drew up lineups – Yankees versus Red Sox was the usual matchup. I grabbed my glove and a ball, and hobbled out to our backyard.

I sat on the edge of our cement patio, my right leg outstretched, with the lineups and a pen to the right of the leg. I wore a baseball glove on my left hand, and held either a tennis ball or racquet ball in my right. I faced the back of our house, which had 18 inches of white-washed concrete beneath its white, wooden siding. I reared back and threw the ball at the concrete, and the ball shot back at me – either as a grounder, if it had hit the concrete on a fly, or as a pop-up, if it had hit ground before concrete. I reached for each ball, and if I fielded it cleanly, it was recorded as an out in my scorecard. If I bobbled it, or if it landed out of my reach, it went in as a hit or error and a man was on base.

So there I was, Graig Nettles, reaching for Rick Burleson’s fly ball to third. When Reggie Jackson was up at bat, I might throw the ball just a bit harder, so that it landed just outside my glove for a double. If the Sox were winning in the later innings, I might orchestrate a late rally for New York. It’s hard to be completely objective when playing off-the-bottom-of the house baseball. You can manipulate the score.

Dustin Pedroia wasn’t born yet when I was fielding those hot shots off the house in a tiny backyard on Staten Island. And he wouldn’t have appreciated the regularity with which the Boston Red Sox lost to the Yankees. But other than that, I think he would have understood quite well what I was doing out there. It is, after all, the life he’s living right now.

When those red stitches are woven around your heart, you can’t stop playing ball. It doesn’t matter what kinds of bones are broken; the games must go on. Just hit me a grounder, please. I’m ready.

Stemming the Flow (One Sixty-Two: Day 44)

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 Forty-Four: Chris Tillman, Baltimore Orioles

When you view it through the box score, it looks like a disaster. He faced 11 batters, and five of them reached via hit. Two more walked. Four runners scored. The line tells you he pitched one and one-third inning, and watched from the mound as the Boston Red Sox belted him around the park. Once the struggles began for Chris Tillman last night, they didn’t stop.

Tillman is one of the Baltimore Orioles’ hot young prospects, and he’ll likely pitch much better his next time around. But last night, after absorbing a Boston pounding, the young man might have struggled to remember it was just a game.

If he did have some trouble letting go of last night’s loss, Tillman needed only to look at a newspaper for perspective. A lost ballgame hurts, but the flow of Red Sox runs means very little compared to the flow of oil beneath the Gulf of Mexico.

Tillman’s poor pitching numbers pale in comparison to the numbers we’re getting out of the Gulf: According to British Petroleum, more than 115 million gallons of oil may already have spilled into the Gulf since the Deepwater Horizon oil rig explosion of April 20. The lineup of animals affected by this disaster is much more frightening than any Red Sox lineup, ranging from pelicans and gulls to dolphins and whales to shrimp and plankton to tuna and turtles. Scientists and reporters are helping us to understand this crisis, and the government and BP are trying to fix it. But the reality is crystal-clear that this never, ever should have happened.

Two of my seniors gave a presentation this week on solar and wind energy. They constructed their own wind turbine using a bicycle wheel, duct tape, an old car jack, a car belt, scrap wood and a ’61 Ford generator. As wind blew on the turbine, the voltmeter displayed energy, created solely by air.

It’s the same air that lifted those hits off of Chris Tillman last night. But it’s clean and crisp and free, and the only thing it does to turtles and pelicans is fill their lungs. We bounce back from disasters by making changes. The sun and the wind are here, ready to provide for us. It’s time to change our approach to energy, because this kind of mistake needs a game-changer.

Hemingway's Kind of Hero (One Sixty-Two: Day 41)

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 Forty-One: Albert Pujols, St. Louis Cardinals

Do you believe the great DiMaggio would stay with a fish as long as I will stay with this one? he thought. I am sure he would and more since he is young and strong. Also his father was a fisherman. But would the bone spur hurt him too much?

I have begun reading Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea with my freshmen. While they haven’t yet reached the quote above, they are engaged in Santiago’s humble, dedicated life as a fisherman, and they are well aware of the protagonist’s devotion to the great Joe DiMaggio.

When I asked the freshmen if they knew who DiMaggio was, almost all said they’d heard the name, and that he had something to do with baseball. A few knew he was a Yankee. But that was about all. So I gave them a primer on one of the 20th century’s most famous Americans, from his humble beginnings as the son of an immigrant fisherman to his 56-game hitting streak to his life as the royal prince of New York and, eventually, of baseball. I explained that the level of popularity DiMaggio experienced during the 1940s surpasses the fame of any American athlete today, since baseball was simply the sport at that time in our history. We watched a video of DiMaggio, and the kids asked some good questions.

But afterward, as I flipped through the book preparing for tomorrow’s lessons, I wondered who Santiago would call his hero if he were out on his skiff in the Caribbean today. Which ballplayer would give him strength as that mighty marlin tugged on the line for days?

Would it be the great Mariano Rivera, relief pitcher for the New York Yankees, who maintains a regal grace and cool under pressure as he saves games for his team? Would it be Mike Lowell of the Boston Red Sox, who has been discarded like an old fisherman and tossed aside on the Boston bench, and who must wait patiently for his opportunity to ply his trade again for another team? Or would it be Kendry Morales of the Angels, the most famous of the current players born in Santiago’s country of Cuba?

All would be wise choices. But I think that if Hemingway were writing this novel today, he’d do just what he did 60 years ago, and shoot for the top. If you’re facing the greatest challenge of your working life, then why not take your inspiration from the mightiest baseball hero of all? Santiago’s choice would be easy: He’d be cheering for Albert Pujols, the St. Louis Cardinals’ larger-than-life first baseman.

It is the mighty Pujols, after all, who hits all pitchers, who has played with pain in his elbow, and who stops at nothing to excel in all facets of his game. Pujols has averaged 40 home runs and 123 runs batted in per year in his first nine seasons. He has won three Most Valuable Player awards and one world championship. At age 30, Pujols is already a sure-fire Hall of Famer. And he may still be improving. By the end of the year, this Dominican-born slugger will likely have more than 400 career home runs. Were he to play into his 40s, there may be no record he does not own.

So yes, Pujols would surely be Santiago’s man today. But although it’s easy to pick DiMaggio’s equal in 2010, it is much more difficult to visualize Pujols the hero in quite the same way that Santiago saw DiMaggio in Hemingway’s story. Santiago was a poor man, who might have had access to some radio, but whose main source for baseball news was the newspapers that he read, then used as a sheet to cover the springs that stuck up from his bed. Today, however, the fisherman would surely have access to countless Pujols images on TV and the Internet.

While this makes it easier to know just what the big guy looks like hitting his awesome homers, it also takes something away from the myth-makers inside of us. When you’ve got to create your own images from the agate type you read in the box scores, those home runs take on a whole new life. They become personal snapshots and videos that you can own and fine-tune all day long, as you hold fast to that great fish inside your skiff on the sea.

Biggie Played Dead (One Sixty-Two: Day 39)

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-Nine: David Ortiz, Boston Red Sox

Toward the end of a glorious Memorial Day weekend at the beach, Katie was digging in the sand by the water’s edge. As Amy and I lounged in the sun, our daughter came running up to us, her orange pail in hand.

“Mommy, I found a big crab!” she exclaimed, showing her mom a sand crab that was slightly more than an inch long an inch wide. Katie quickly named her crab “Biggie,” and soon had two smaller crabs in the pail to keep him company. The companions were named Sammy and Georgie.

Every few minutes, Katie would reach into the sandy bucket and lift Biggie out to inspect him. After a minute of checking him out, she’d drop Biggie back into the pail, and he’d quickly dig his way into the sand at the bottom of the bucket. After several minutes of this back and forth, Katie again dropped Biggie into the pail. But this time, instead of digging, he lay motionless in the water. Upside-down.

After a moment, the tears began rolling down Katie’s cheeks, and the guilt set in. She blamed herself for poor Biggie’s death, for all that lifting him out of his element. But just as we prepared to bury him, Biggie suddenly flipped himself over, scurried into the sand, and left an 8-year-old girl laughing away the tears.

Biggie played dead. Was that a recent headline in The Boston Globe? And didn’t I read those words in Beantown last spring, too? In Massachusetts, Biggie is better known as Big Papi, who is better known to the rest of us as David Ortiz, designated hitter for the Boston Red Sox. In 2009 and 2010, Ortiz started his baseball seasons in miserable fashion. Last year, Ortiz had just one home run and 33 hits through the end of May. This season, he had one homer and a .143 batting average by April’s end.

And then, just as the David Ortiz career retrospectives were going to press, the big man flipped around, dug his cleats into the dirt again and started bopping home runs all over the yard. Last year, he hit 27 home runs in the season’s final four months. This year, he slugged 10 homers and drove in more than a run per game in May.

So here he is now, as we enter June, just a few home runs off the league lead. Here is his team, playing winning baseball again and back in the pennant race. Indeed, Big Papi is back. And with him, so are the Red Sox.

Once Biggie the crab flipped over in the pail, Katie brought him back to the ocean. No more playing around with this crab. It was time for Biggie to do his thing again, in his own element. And the same went for Sammy and Georgie, too.

A Trusty Rabbit's Foot (One Sixty-Two: Day 27)

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 Twenty-Seven: Eric Hinske, Atlanta Braves

For some, it’s a beaded bracelet. For others, it’s a necklace. Still others choose a keychain. And, yes, some still carry a trusty rabbit’s foot.

Good-luck charms. We can say we’re not superstitious, but in the end we know we are. We allow little rituals and possessions to remain in our lives as comforts of sorts – a reminder that despite the twists and turns of life, there are some things that remain the same. And if we hold onto them tightly enough, we might just make it through to the other side.

Baseball has more superstitions than you can possibly list. From jumping over foul lines to spitting on batting gloves to taking a certain number of practice swings at the plate, ballplayers will do anything to lure a little luck their way. Right now, though, the most prominent good-luck charm in baseball is not a thing, but a person. His name is Eric Hinske, and he plays infield and outfield for the Atlanta Braves.

After winning the Rookie of the Year award with the Blue Jays in 2002, Hinske played a few more seasons with Toronto before he was traded to the Boston Red Sox in 2006. The following season, he served as a valuable bench player on a world-champion Red Sox team. In 2008, Hinske found himself on the Tampa Bay Rays, a team that had never made the playoffs in its history. But by October, Hinske was again in the World Series, where the American League-champion Rays fell to the Philadelphia Phillies.

Last year, after starting out with the Pittsburgh Pirates, Hinske was traded in mid-season to the Yankees. Once again playing a vital role off the bench, Hinske helped New York claim another world title. Now 32 years of age, the man has been on a roll. And he’s got rings to show for it.

In 2010, the Atlanta Braves are playing mediocre baseball. They certainly have some talent, and could make a move toward the playoff picture. But if they don’t, the Braves will surely trade Hinske in July. They’ll send him off to a contender in need of pop off the bench, and they’ll receive a minor-league prospect in return.

If that happens, then whichever team trades for Hinske will immediately feel lucky. The coaches and front-office staff will know that they have acquired the official Major League Baseball rabbit’s foot. Hinske’s teammates will treat him like a king, and will keep him as happy and healthy as possible. You don’t mess with good-luck charms; you just hold on tight, and send them up to pinch-hit.

On Pitching & Pollen (One Sixty-Two: Day 21)

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 Twenty-One: Brandon Morrow, Toronto Blue Jays

Last spring, I mowed the lawn three times with the gas-powered Honda mower I’d been using for years. All three times, I awoke the next day with an allergy explosion in my head. This spring, Katie embraced the beautiful weather that mid-April brought, only to end up in the house for several days of nebulizer treatments. Chelsea goes out to play in the yard with the dog each day, then comes in and sneezes through a tissue box. For Amy, the process is simple: Breathe in pollen, sneeze, feel mucus settle into sinuses, then drive to doctor for antibiotic.

Spring is, for many of us, the most beautiful sensory season. And yet, it’s also the most difficult season for many in terms of health. As the pollen swirls around us, we wonder how something so lovely can be so frustrating at the same time. Should we go outside or not? Such is the quandary of spring for the allergy sufferer.

We long for some consistency, some stability, to this season. In the world of baseball, there are teams across the country looking for stability as well. From allergies, sure. But more than that, from pitchers. Nearly every team can tell you about a guy who has all the tools to throw incredibly well, yet can’t seem to put it together. He’s like the spring weather – he looks so good, but toss in a little pollen and he’s making you sick. For this kind of pitcher, the pollen takes the form of bases on balls, or poorly placed pitches, or mental struggles that leave him battling himself on the mound, rather than his opponent.

Brandon Morrow is 25 years old, 6-foot-3, and blessed with a thunderbolt for a right arm. He can strike out anyone, at any time. He was drafted with the fifth overall pick in the 2006 amateur draft, and he has experienced high expectations every day for the past four years. And while he’s wowed them with the strikeouts, Morrow has amazed baseball watchers with his wildness.

In 232 innings pitched so far in the majors, Morrow has struck out 250 batters. That’s tremendous. But he’s also walked 154 hitters, culminating in Monday’s debacle in which he walked six Red Sox hitters before leaving the game in the second inning of a game his team would lose. Of course, Morrow also struck out four Boston hitters, and he only gave up three hits. But the hits will hurt you badly if you give free passes to six other guys.

When Morrow throws a heater past the man at bat, it’s a thing of beauty to see. But far too often, the beauty ends up turning into a beast as those deliveries sail far and wide. Something has to change; perhaps a look back at the basics of his windup.

I’ve gone back to basics as well. After spending a week in the house with an allergy-induced sinus infection last June, I gave up on mowers with engines. I dropped the Honda off with friends who’d just moved to Jersey from the city, and purchased an old-school, blade-rotating reel mower. It doesn’t work that great, and the grass lacks that clean, crisp cut that it used to have. But this mower cuts the grass gently, so I don’t get allergy symptoms from mowing the lawn anymore. I’ve also gone back to allergy shots, to build up my immunity.

I’m trying to adjust so that I can enjoy the spring. It’s too wonderful to give up. In the same way, I hope that Brandon Morrow can find a way to work through the rough spots and blossom, once and for all.

Welcome to Boston (One Sixty-Two: Day 16)

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 Sixteen: Victor Martinez, Boston Red Sox

There were days, Victor, when a 15-16 start was met with shrugs. Never acceptance, but a shrug nonetheless. Maybe a bitter “here we go again” tossed in as well. I know you’re still new to Boston, Victor, having come over from Cleveland at the trading deadline last July. But you missed the eras when 15-16 was met with patience.

There were those 86 years, of course, in between world championships. As generations of Red Sox fans grew up rooting for the team that Babe Ruth had left behind, the Sox had some pretty ugly records at times. For instance, the Sox had a string of 15 straight losing seasons from 1919-1933. They finished 42 games out of first place in 1954, and 40 games back in 1965. And yet, despite those dark years the Red Sox always managed to rise up again and field terrific teams. With players such as Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski, Jim Rice and Wade Boggs, Boston won 85 games or more a total of 30 times between 1938 and 2003 – only to claim not a single championship. In fact, the Sox made the World Series just four times in that span, losing in the deciding seventh game every time. Meanwhile, the Yankees claimed 26 world titles between 1923 and 2000, a record for professional American team sports.

And then, as you know, Victor, things did change. Your current teammate, the big lefty named David Ortiz, turned into the true Babe Ruth of Beantown, leading the Red Sox to their historic wins against the Yankees and Cardinals to claim the 2004 title. Then in 2007, Ortiz and Co. won it all again. Boston has won at least 92 games seven of the last eight seasons, and has become the standard by which 21st-century baseball teams are measured. Fenway Park, always a cinch to draw more than two million fans a year, now pulls in more than three million. Baseball executives study the moves of your general manager, Theo Epstein, as a model of how to build a winning team that also keeps an eye toward the future.

That’s how the Sox got you, Victor. You were smashing balls all over the place in Cleveland, but Epstein wanted your bat enough to give up young players for you. But not his best young players. He held the line, and got you anyhow. Now you’re starting in front of the team’s captain, because the Sox want to win at all costs. So does all of New England, as they tune in each night to listen to your team’s games from the Connecticut coastline all the way up to the tip of Maine.

You’ve finally started hitting the ball in recent days, Victor, just as you’ve done throughout your career. So it’s time you really thought about this – there’s an entire region of the nation about ready to lose their Cracker Jacks if you and your boys don’t start winning games. Embarrassing losses at home to the Yankees are the final straw.

You’re a catcher, Victor, and you’re a great player to boot. So you know what it’s like to carry a team. It’s getting to be mid-May, and the Boston Red Sox are not a 15-16 team. Fenway Park heroes get their numbers retired on the façade beneath the upper deck in right field. Your number 41 would look real nice up there. New England awaits, Victor. Your turn to bat.

Rivalry Royalty

Watching the North Carolina-Duke men’s basketball game last night was a little like watching Yankees-Red Sox, circa 1992. The rivalry was there, sure. The fans were intense, as always. But the talent was not the same.

Eighteen years ago, the Yankees and Red Sox both finished at least 20 games out of first place, both with losing records. That was the last time that neither New York nor Boston finished in the top two in the American League East standings; most years since then, they have both finished in the top two. The last dozen years, in particular, have seen the Yankees and Red Sox bring their storied baseball rivalry to an unprecedented level of excellence. Since 1998, in fact, Boston has won at least 92 games nine times, while New York has done it 10 times.

In the same way, it’s typical this time of year to see both North Carolina and Duke ranked in the top 10, both battling furiously for the Atlantic Coast Conference title and a top seed in the NCAA Tournament. Since 1975, only two seasons have ended without UNC or Duke having won either the ACC’s regular season or tournament titles. The two schools have a combined 32 Final Fours and eight national championships between them.

I’ve been fortunate enough to see the UNC-Duke rivalry up close – first as a student, then as a sportswriter. And I’ve been lucky enough to see the Yankees-Red Sox duel many times from the seats of Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park. They are, without question, the two most impressive rivalries I’ve ever witnessed in sports. The histories of the teams, the settings for their games, and the intensities of their fan bases all play a role in this. But the most important piece to these great rivalries is simple: It’s the quality that the teams produce, year after year.

You can say you’re a Red Sox fan and you hate the Yankees. But the reality is, a Boston championship is indescribably sweeter if it involves a hard-fought win over New York (see 2004). You can say that God loves the Tar Heels so much He made the sky Carolina blue, and that the Blue Devils truly belong in hell. But you know, deep down, that no UNC title is worth winning without some dramatic wins against Duke (see 2009).

These two rivalries are as revered as they are because of the high standards that all four clubs aspire to year after year, and the astounding levels of success that all four have achieved. You don’t need to be the champion every year to still be the team to beat. The Tar Heels, Blue Devils, Yankees and Red Sox have achieved so much success over the years that the best measuring stick for their progress has been the games they play against their heated rivals. It’s not just bragging rights they want in Chapel Hill, Durham, the Bronx and Kenmore Square; it’s an idea of just how good they are.

That’s why last night’s UNC-Duke game was such a letdown. Sure, this year’s Duke Blue Devils are a top-10 team, and they can hit three-pointers from anywhere on the court. But they’re not a complete team, and they don’t look like a real contender for an NCAA title. Duke may hold on and claim the ACC title, but that has more to do with a weak ACC conference this year than with the Blue Devils’ prowess. North Carolina, just 10 months removed from its fifth national title, lost four starters to the NBA and doesn’t have enough experience to compete at its usual level this year. This year’s Tar Heels are scrambling just to keep their record above .500.

And so, as the veteran Blue Devils fended off the young Tar Heels last night in Chapel Hill, I was reminded of how dreary those early-90s matchups were between the Yanks and the Sox. Sure, Boston still had Roger Clemens and Wade Boggs, while New York had a veteran Don Mattingly and a young Bernie Williams. But the teams didn’t have much sizzle to them, and therefore the head-to-heads didn’t carry the weight that they so often had and would in the years to come. (Even the one game with sizzle – Clemens pitching on a Saturday afternoon in the Bronx – lost its luster when I got my friend lost on the way there, and we ended up in Bogota, N.J. Bogota, by the way, just happens to be the hometown of former UNC sixth-man Pat Sullivan.)

North Carolina, at 2-7 in the ACC this year, is truly down on the canvas for once. While the rest of the conference gloats at the fall of the mighty, America’s best college rivalry suffers. The standards have been lowered, and who really likes it when your top rival is a punching bag?

Before we get too worried, though, let’s take a look forward. This year’s number-one high school recruit, 6-foot-8 forward Harrison Barnes from Iowa, recently chose UNC over Duke, joining two other nationally-touted recruits already on their way to Chapel Hill. And so the rivalry breathes on, and the balance of power shifts again.

As for baseball, the Yankees and Red Sox have carefully improved their teams again this off-season, spending their money on pitching and defense to add to their already-impressive batting lineups. There will be no letdown in that rivalry in 2010, and both teams will be favorites to make the playoffs once more.

I will root for the Yankees whenever they play the Red Sox. And while I won’t actually root for the Red Sox in their games against other teams, I won’t be too upset if August rolls around and the standings show New York and Boston tied for first place. It may cause some butterflies in the stomach, but you know the saying: Nothing that’s worth having comes easy.

Bunk Bed Nation

So now they have a bunk bed. Which raises the question: Will they – and we – survive?

Katie is on the top bunk, and Chelsea’s on the bottom. There are about a million stuffed animals on both levels, reading lights attached to the sides, and a mailbox fastened out of a Kleenex box attached to Katie’s upper bunk. (We have yet to notify the mailman that he needs to make deliveries inside the house now.) There are more pillows than either needs on each bunk, and water bottles perched on each girl’s rail.

It’s only been two nights … but so far, so good. There have been no fears of heights so far, no fallen ladders, and – especially – no middle-of-the-night fights.

When you’re growing up and sharing the same house and same bedroom, you’re bound to have more than a few skirmishes. Sometimes, it’s one smacking the other over who gets a toy. At other times, it’s a battle over the remote control. Still other times, it’s one not letting the other use her art supplies. Yesterday, the two were smearing mud on each other to show their disagreement over the mud pie-making process. Today, they were fighting over who got to point out the hidden pictures in the book we were reading.

They occupy the same living space for 17 out of every 24 hours during the weekdays, then for nearly every hour of their weekends. They don’t always share the same agenda, the same mood, or the same tastes in music. They get stir crazy sometimes during these winter days, and we watch them run around the house like untrained puppies. And yet, somehow, most of the time, they find a way to get along.

I was thinking about the girls’ relationship after reading several stories this weekend about the trials within America’s political process. There is a complete breakdown in cooperation between Democrats and Republicans, and there are citizens throughout this country who could not disagree more on so many critical issues facing the nation. Be it the economy, health care, the environment, immigration, gun control, abortion or national security, the lines seem to be drawn in permanent marker these days. While the president searches for ways to erase these lines, he finds obstructions everywhere he looks.

It used to be that the biggest rivalries in America were North Carolina-Duke and Yankees-Red Sox. Politics was always a fierce game, but inevitably there was a backroom compromise being made to bring folks together in Washington. The sharpest divisions were found within sports, and they faded from view once the games were over.

But in January of 2010, political compromise seems as distant as a world without the Internet. Today’s constant news updates, political blogs and tweets allow the rivalries to rage all day long, and while that may be more democratic in a way, it also leads to a lot more shouting.

I don’t know when it will calm down, but I’m certainly hoping it does. I’d love to see some civility, hear some dialogue, and feel some hope again. I’d like to know that people are listening, and not just hollering. I’d like to know that our media outlets are encouraging discussion, not division.

This all may seem as unlikely as a Yankees fan going out to dinner with a Red Sox fan. But actually, I’ve gone out to dinner with dozens of Boston fans. And I’ve had a great time, every time. We’ve even talked baseball, and by listening to their stories I’ve developed a deep appreciation for Boston’s history. I can even say I’ve come to admire a few Red Sox players. That actually feels good, and not at all traitorous.

It really is a nice bunk bed. The girls both look so comfortable in their little spaces. At night, the only sound we hear is the hiss of their humidifier. In the morning, they usually wake up together, pound down the stairs with their elephant feet, and – first test of the day – compromise on what kids’ show they’ll watch together.

I bring them some juice or a smoothie, and they sit together on the couch. They look up, say hi, then get back to their show. It seems that yesterday’s arguments are all forgotten. It’s a new day, and a time to work together.