Teddy, Truman, Cubs & Indians

            All right, enough about this year’s presidential election. It’s getting too stressful, and we’ve all surely made up our minds by now. It’s time to focus on two other election years, and on two previous presidents.

            Let’s talk about Teddy and Truman. Let’s discuss 1908 and 1948.

            Here’s why: On Tuesday night in Cleveland, this year’s World Series will begin, and the two teams playing will be the two who have gone the longest since winning their last titles. The Cleveland Indians have not won a championship since ‘48, when the first Baby Boomers were in diapers and World War II had just ended. And the Chicago Cubs have not claimed a title since ’08, when the first Model T was coming off the assembly line and one of our Mount Rushmore presidents was deciding not to run for re-election.

            The Indians and Cubs have endured some of the most depressing strings of losing seasons in professional sports history in the many decades since they last held a title trophy aloft. Their fans have continued showing up, though, holding out hope every April and cheering them on through excruciating September and October collapses.

            But here they are, and it’s clear that one of them will end their losing streak over the next 10 days. And as they engage in this year’s Fall Classic, the Cubs and Indians will bring back memories of the men who occupied the Oval Office when these teams last stood atop the baseball world.

            Theodore Roosevelt and Harry Truman both started as vice presidents, and both stepped in after the elected president died in office less than a year into a four-year term. Roosevelt’s focus on taming corrupt robber barons and using executive powers to enhance programs such as conservation made him an American hero, leading to his re-election in 1904. In ’08, Teddy decided against running again, and promoted his friend and cabinet member William Howard Taft, who was elected a month after the Cubs won their second consecutive World Series. 
             As for Truman, he took office in a tumultuous time, and found a way to help steer the U.S. through the end of World War II and into the United Nations. After almost four years, it seemed that the American people were going to vote against Truman for re-election and favor Republican Thomas Dewey. In fact, the Chicago Daily Tribune even printed a headline reading “Dewey Defeats Truman.” But this time, the news media and pollsters really did get it wrong, and Truman was re-elected to another four-year term. A month later, the Indians claimed their second title.

            History has painted Teddy and Truman as two of the 20^th century’s strongest American presidents, and they are widely respected for their determination and frank talk. As I review some of their most famous quotes in the fabulous collection found on goodreads.com, I see words that inspire on multiple levels. First of all, as with any great line, they can inspire an individual in need of hope. Secondly, they provide much-needed perspective for a nation searching for its next leader. And finally, they give long-suffering baseball teams – and fans – words to live by. Let’s give a listen.

Teddy

-          “Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life. I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.” 

-          “It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.” 

-          “Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.” 

-          “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” 

Truman

-          “It is amazing what you can accomplish if you do not care who gets the credit.” 

-          “The only thing new in the world is the history you do not know.”

-           “We must have strong minds, ready to accept facts as they are.” 

-          “Believe and you’re halfway there.”

The World Series games will be played this week, and one group of fans will cry tears of joy. The election will be held on Nov. 8, and we the people will select a new leader. After that, life will go on for us all. Whether the signs on our lawns or the jerseys on our backs reflect the winner, we will have our own victories to pursue. Circumstances will arise in which we’ll need to decide whether we want to step “in the arena,” and whether we are ready to “believe” – in ourselves, in a cause, or in that which we can anticipate but can’t yet see.

            I guess what Teddy and Truman were really trying to tell us is that if you can sense a reason to hope, and you can feel the courage of your convictions, then you need to go for it. “The only man who never makes mistakes,” Teddy once said, “is the man who never does anything.” These former leaders would tell us to make sure we take the initiative, and don’t let the words and actions of others guide our own self-direction.

           Go Cubs go, for sure. Go Indians, absolutely. I’m with her, of course. But more importantly, go Warren. Go all of us. We can get through this together. As another American president once said, yes we can.

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.

Sculpted Memories (One Sixty-Two: Day 137)

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-Seven: Travis Hafner, Cleveland Indians

Maya and I were sneaking around the shrubs and sculptures, trying to get a quick glance at the guests in their dark suits and vibrant dresses. They sat in white folding chairs, surrounded by beautiful works of art. They awaited the bride, the groom, and the wedding ceremony itself.

Maya and I had discovered this impending outdoor wedding at a magical place called the Grounds For Sculpture in Hamilton, N.J. As Maya’s family and my family walked together through this 35-acre public sculpture park just outside Princeton, we viewed many of the 240 or so contemporary sculpture pieces here. We saw them in open fields, atop hills, beside a pond and a lake, and inside buildings. We chatted, posed for photos, touched the sculptures we were permitted to touch, and climbed the one we were allowed to climb.

But spectacular sculptures aside, the thing that caught our attention the most was this wedding not far from Isaac Witkin’s stunning “Garden State” sculpture. When we noticed the hustle and bustle, 5-year-old Maya wanted to view it all. We saw handsome groomsmen standing tall in their tuxedos, we saw guests dressed in orange and green traditional African dresses, and we saw ushers wearing headsets so they could organize this ceremony with the precision of a rock concert. We didn’t have time to stay and wait for the ceremony to start, but we did have time to sit and talk about weddings for a while.

So as Maya and her 3-year-old sister, Quinn, sat on the grass with their parents and with my wife and girls, I shared some details of my own wedding. I told Maya how I had to stand for 30 minutes inside a church while waiting for my wife-to-be to arrive in her limousine. I told Maya how I later learned that Amy had been posing for wedding pictures on her parents’ lawn, even taking a few photos with her dog, while I stood and sweated in the sanctuary. Maya liked the dog part. Amy smiled at the memories, too, although she wasn’t going along on the guilt trip.

It’s been 12 years since the dog in those wedding photos died. And in a few days, Amy and I will celebrate the 15th anniversary of our wedding. By next fall, Maya and Quinn’s parents will have been married for 10 years. In the vibrant joy of the moment, it’s hard to envision it all being a memory someday. And yet it happens.

Three years ago, Travis Hafner batted cleanup for a Cleveland Indians team that came within one game of the World Series. Today, that Indians club is mired in last place, and it has traded away most of its veterans (Hafner, due to injuries and a large salary, is not a tradable commodity these days). Cleveland has acquired some talented prospects for those veterans, but it’s going to be awhile before the Indians are that close to a pennant again.

So Hafner and the Indians’ fans are left with memories, which seem a little more distant every year. But when time moves on and those memories start to fade a bit, you need to tip-toe past the shrubs, and catch a glimpse of the bride in white, walking along a sculpture-filled path on her way to saying “I do.” This will bring it all back, Maya. You’ll see it again, and you’ll remember the magic. You’ll be glad you waited a half-hour for your life’s partner to finish taking those pictures. A work of art is worth the time.

The Force is With Us (One Sixty-Two: Day 112)

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 Twelve: Shin-Soo Choo, Cleveland Indians

When you’re spending a few days at the lake house of some dear friends, you wonder how you can possibly repay them for the generosity of their invite. These friends are opening their doors to you and your children, while also offering you unlimited access to swimming, fishing, sailing and kayaking. You bring along some gifts and some food, and you plan to do as much cooking and cleaning as they’ll allow. But still, you wonder if there’s any way you can properly repay this kindness.

So when you walk in the door and a 5-year-old is trying to figure out the details of The Empire Strikes Back, you know you might be able to be of some help. And before you know it, you’re trying to explain to this boy how the agendas of Jabba the Hutt, Darth Vader and Boba Fett all fit together on Lando Calrissian’s Cloud City. After several dozen more questions, you have explained the process of freezing Han Solo, putting C-3PO back together and replacing Luke Skywalker’s right hand.

I’ve had some serious questions to answer here, as young 5-year-old Ben is not one to let anything pass if it perplexes him. But I was up for his questions, as I’d been raised on the original Star Wars trilogy, and I can talk about the characters in these three movies with anyone. So we discussed Luke and Leia, Han and Chewie, 3PO and R2D2, Yoda and Obi- Wan. I did my best Yoda voice, and we all tried our best Chewbacca growls. By the end of the three days, we all felt a little bit of the force in this beautiful house.

Ben is inquisitive and introspective far beyond his years, so it did not surprise me that he was talking about Boba Fett more than any child I’ve ever met. In the original trilogy, Boba Fett has very limited screen time, although his role as the bounty hunter who brings Han Solo’s frozen body to Jabba the Hutt is critical. And anyone who’s taken a close look at the character knows that the angular green, grey and maroon armor that covers Boba Fett makes him about the coolest looking character in the Star Wars galaxy. He is, arguably, the most overlooked character in the films.

While I offered to answer any questions he had about baseball, Ben wasn’t up for that this week. If he was looking for any kind of Boba Fett-to-baseball connection, I might have told him about Shin-Soo Choo. Kind of sounds like a Star Wars name, in a way. But Choo is no bounty hunter – he’s an outfielder for the Cleveland Indians. And while the average baseball fan may know very little about Choo, the Cleveland faithful are well aware of his hidden value. Choo hits home runs, he drives in runs, he steals bases, and he takes walks. Unfortunately, he plays for a team that has been dismal in recent years, and he doesn’t get nearly enough time in the spotlight.

But he will; the great players always get their moments. If the Indians choose to include Choo in their current rebuilding process, he’ll find himself playing during October sometime in the next half-decade. And when he does, there will be no more Boba Fett metaphors to make about the man. His all-around game will be known by the masses.

As for Ben, he’s still asking questions. He wants to know the back stories behind Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda. That means there are three other movies to watch, and more conversations to have. We have cleaned and cooked and – most importantly – shared great moments with friends during our time here. But I don’t think Ben will remember our swims in the lake quite as much as he’ll recall our talks about Boba Fett. After all, first things first.

Moving Day (One Sixty-Two: Day 100)

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: Jake Westbrook, St. Louis Cardinals

For Major League Baseball, July 31st leaves some clubhouses looking like college dormitories in late August: suitcases strewn about, boxes stacked atop boxes, and garment bags flung over shoulders. This final day of July brings with it baseball’s trading deadline, the last day in which players can be shipped from one team to another without having to pass through waivers.

Almost everyone who is traded on this day is part of a deal that unfolds as follows: A pennant contender acquires an established veteran from a struggling team in exchange for younger prospects who will try and help the sub-.500 team return to prominence in the years ahead. In an ideal world, this kind of trade works out well for both teams, such as the deal two years ago that sent CC Sabathia from the Cleveland Indians to the Milwaukee Brewers. While Sabathia led the Brewers to the playoffs before bolting to the Yankees via free agency in the winter, Cleveland received a young slugger named Matt LaPorta who is now showing signs of excellence as the Indians’ starting first baseman. Unfortunately, it seems all too common these days that the playoff contender gets even better while the losing team ends up even worse than it was before. In 2003, when the Pittsburgh Pirates traded third baseman Aramis Ramirez to the Chicago Cubs, the slugging Ramirez led Chicago deep into the ’03 playoffs and remains the team’s starter seven years later, while the Pirates received prospects who had no impact on the big-league team. Baseball’s economics today tend to favor teams with more cash to spend, so the smaller-market teams often end up accepting less than the value of the player they’re trading in order to unload salary and save money.

However it all works out for these teams down the line, it remains true that today is Moving Day for dozens of young men. Starting pitcher Jake Westbrook, for instance, learned today that he must change his working address from Cleveland to St. Louis. It happens quickly, and ballplayers are expected to adjust on the fly. Of course, in a profession where the minimum salary is $400,000, there are some cushions here to the whole moving thing. Still, I try to think of myself in their shoes, and it’s a bit unnerving. I imagine being told, in late February, that I’ve been traded to another school in exchange for a first-year teacher and some SMART Boards. How quickly could I pack, say goodbye, and find my way to the new school? Which classes would I be asked to teach, and what would my schedule be? How would I bond with my colleagues, administrators and students? Would I be equally effective at this new place of work?

It’s an exciting day in baseball, but not necessarily an easy one for the ballplayers who are changing jobs. Those dorms can be overwhelming to a newcomer, and it’s hard sometimes to navigate your way through all the newness.

Tough Love (One Sixty-Two: Day 90)

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: Maicer Izturis, Los Angeles Angels

A few things happen when you, a New York Yankees pitcher, give up a two-run home run to a weak-hitting shortstop in your own ballpark. First of all, you get to watch the 5-foot-8 singles-hitter jog around the bases – something he rarely gets to do. Then you see him greeted eagerly by his teammates in the visitors’ dugout. As he slips into the dugout, you see that one of the fans in the right-field seats has given up his or her souvenir by throwing the ball back onto the field. Finally, you hear a cascade of boos raining down upon you from all corners of the park.

Even if you’re an All-Star, this is the way it goes.

Phil Hughes has won 11 games so far this year as a starter for the New York Yankees, and his relief work last season was an invaluable part of New York’s championship run. However, Hughes has given up five or more runs in four of his last six starts. Yankees fans notice this, and they let you know. So as Maicer Izturis, who has 27 career home runs in seven big-league seasons, rounded third after his homer last night in Yankee Stadium, Hughes heard the Bronx cheer loud and clear.

It’s not as if Yankees fans suddenly despise Phil Hughes. They’d ask for his autograph in a second if they met him outside the ballpark, and they’d offer him all kinds of advice on how to get back on track. But in the moment, on that mound in a place where championships are expected, Hughes has no choice but to endure the boos. Yankee fans see it as their responsibility to let players know where they stand.

I can recall a game in the old Yankee Stadium during the early 1990s, when a surging Cleveland Indians club demolished what was at the time a struggling Yankees ballclub. At one point, an Indians hitter lined a shot off the leg of Yankees starting pitcher Mike Witt, who had been hearing the boos for quite awhile in this game. As the team chose to remove Witt from the game with an injury, the stadium crowd suddenly roared its approval to Witt’s departure from the game. As if the line drive hadn’t hurt enough, the sarcasm of this applause surely stung twice as hard.

Again, no personal offense was intended. It’s just a part of the atmosphere in the South Bronx. I was in the stadium when Mike Witt hobbled off that mound nearly 20 years ago, and I was in the stadium last night when Phil Hughes took his long walk to the showers in the sixth inning. Hughes may have nine inches and 70 pounds on Maicer Izturis, but he was the one knocked to the canvas last night. And until he can pull himself up and land some clean jabs again, Hughes will not hear much affection from the home fans. It’s just the way they do things here, on the field of tough love and trophy-hunting.

New Stars (One Sixty-Two: Day 85)

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-Five: Evan Meek, Pittsburgh Pirates

For me, one of the coolest things about baseball’s All-Star Game is seeing a virtually unknown player announced during the pregame player introductions. At least once a year, a player comes out of nowhere to produce a great first half and earn a spot on either the National League or American League team. As a result, that young man earns the right to line up, tip his cap, and stand alongside superstars.

When I was younger, I collected the entire set of each year’s Topps baseball cards, as well as the free Yankees cards I got at Burger King. Still, I didn’t know every player – and even if I’d heard of the player’s name and seen his baseball card photo, I might not have watched him play on the field before. So in 1981, for instance, when Cleveland Indians catcher Bo Diaz suited up for the All-Star Game, he was a newcomer to me as well as to most of America. Same for Jim Presley, the Seattle Mariners third baseman who earned a spot in 1986. And Mike Sharperson, the Los Angeles Dodgers second baseman who was named in 1992. And Lance Carter, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays relief pitcher, who was an All-Star in 2003.

This year, the out-of-nowhere award goes to Pirates reliever Evan Meek. I had first heard of Meek a few weeks ago, when the fantasy-baseball sites started crowing about his great work as a middle reliever. But I’ve never seen him pitch. This is Meek’s second full year in the majors, and thus far in 2010 he has a 1.11 earned-run average in 40 games pitched, to go with nearly a strikeout per inning. After years in the minor leagues, the guy has dazzled this season for a losing team, and it did not go unnoticed.

So when he stepped forward during the All-Star introductions to tip his cap, Meek was this year’s unknown. At 6 feet tall and 225 pounds, he looked like a man who had built up strong legs in order to power himself off the pitching rubber. Unfortunately, no one got to see Meek pitch on Tuesday, as he was not used in the game. But if he keeps it up, perhaps Meek will be back for another try next July.

I’ll be keeping my eyes out for a chance to spot Meek on the mound, maybe during some baseball highlights or perhaps even in a televised Pirates game. Until then, I’ll add Evan Meek to the list of ballplayers who got that unexpected chance to step into baseball’s midsummer spotlight. He tipped his cap, smiled for the fans, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the greatest baseball players in the world. It’s not a bad way to spend a summer’s night. Not bad at all.

Points off for Spelling (One Sixty-Two: Day 70)

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: Jhonny Peralta, Cleveland Indians

I found joy in writing stories as a kid, so I paid attention when my elementary-school teachers taught me spelling. I found inspiration from a few high school English teachers, so I paid attention when they honed my writing skills. I found joy in telling news stories during college, so I paid attention when my journalism professors opened up The Associated Press Stylebook. And I found a love for teaching as a young adult, so I ask my own students to pay attention when I teach them grammar and sentence structure.

So it is natural that whenever I see the name of Cleveland’s starting third baseman, I grimace, shake my head, and reach for the red pen.

Transpose: That’s the proofreading mark The AP Stylebook tells me to use here. Switch those letters around. Get it right.

His name is Jhonny Peralta, and there is no misprint here. I’ve seen different stories on how Mr. Peralta was given this name – in one news item, a reporter wrote that Peralta’s name was spelled incorrectly on his birth certificate; in another story, it was reported that the name was completely intentional, for pronunciation reasons. This second story explained that the “Jh” in Spanish ensures that the “J” is pronounced like an English “J” and not like a “Y,” as many Spanish names beginning with J are pronounced.

So ironically, this peculiar name may be as different as it is all in the name of sound mechanics. It may be that Peralta’s parents were as in touch with their inner red pens as I am. And even if they weren’t, their son’s name is and always will be unique.

But still, I’ll always cringe whenever I see the name. For the past month or so, Peralta has been on a fantasy baseball team of mine. Every day, it’s there. Always spelled the same: Jhonny. You can’t change the spelling of the players on your screen. You can only choose to play them, trade them, or drop them.

If I ever do drop ol’ Jhonny, it will be because I want a different player, not because his name is driving me to mark up my monitor screen with red pen. Of course, when you do drop someone, you’re allowed to replace him with another player.

And I can tell you this, in the name of my own sanity: I will not be selecting Andruw Jones as a replacement. One name like that per year. My limit.

Remember Paris (One Sixty-Two: Day 15)

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 Fifteen: Kerry Wood, Cleveland Indians

I’m not sure why I remember the article; maybe it just represented the world in which I felt comfort, just as I was heading out of my comfort zone. I sat next to my wife, Amy, on an airplane en route to Paris. Before taking out the French-English dictionary so that je peux me souvenir le francais, I flipped through my copy of The New York Times. There in the paper was a photo of a 20-year-old Chicago Cubs pitcher, who had shocked the baseball world the day before with a record-tying 20 strikeouts in one game.

His name was Kerry Wood, and he was fast becoming the next great thing among baseball’s pitchers. The next Roger Clemens, they said. In 166 innings during that 1998 rookie season, Wood would strike out 233 batters and help lead his team to the playoffs for the first time in nearly a decade. By June, half the fans at Wrigley Field were showing up with blue No. 34 jerseys featuring Wood’s last name at the top.

A few hours after our plane departed, Amy and I would find ourselves immersed in French culture and attractions, walking alongside the River Seine and picnicking beneath the Eiffel Tower. Only occasionally that week would we be carried back into American culture, such as when we saw subway vendors selling Leonardo DiCaprio posters, or when we spotted a shocking headline in Le Monde reading: “Sinatra est Mort.”

The Paris vacation took place 12 years ago this week, and while we haven’t returned to France yet, Amy and I still have some photos from that trip on the walls of our house. A lot has happened in those dozen years – we’ve moved twice, switched careers, earned master’s degrees, had two children, lost three grandparents, and witnessed history-changing events.

As for Kerry Wood, he’s now 32 years old, and plenty has happened to his career since ’98. He returned today from his 13th trip to the disabled list, finally ready to throw his first pitch of the season. It’s been a difficult career for Wood, as his brilliant pitching has constantly been beset by injuries. After a 13-win season in his rookie year, Wood has won just 67 games ever since.

But he is still standing. And he’s only 32 years old. As Wood suits up for the Cleveland Indians now as their closer, he seeks to save games rather than win them. He wants three strikeouts in the ninth, rather than 20 over the course of a game. He hopes that his arm, and the rest of his body, will hold up this time.

Amy and I have to watch our neighbors’ cat this coming week. The young couple is headed to Paris for a week. They’ve got their camera, as well as their dictionary. And who knows? Maybe on their flight over the pond, they’ll flip through a newspaper and find a story about the comeback closer in Cleveland. C’est possible, non?

A Wag of the Tail

We bought her in September of 1997, and carried her up the stairs to our tiny apartment on Staten Island. During her first week at the house, I can recall trying to potty-train her while hosting a house full of friends and family for Game 1 of the Yankees-Indians Division Series. During those early days of house-breaking, she’d get so excited when company arrived that she’d pee on their sneakers and leather shoes while greeting them at the door.

We named her Pumpkin – not a bad moniker for a golden retriever with plenty of orange-colored fur. We hoped she’d enjoy us, and perhaps even teach us a thing or two about parenting in advance of the real thing. We didn’t expect her to become a subject of devotion for four generations worth of family members. But that’s just what she did. She became a therapy dog of sorts for my grandparents, going for long walks with them in their final years of activity and allowing them to pet her for hours after the walks. She was an invaluable companion to all of our parents, staying with them when we went away and greedily munching on the treats they fed her. When Amy and I had kids of our own, Pumpkin even went away for “vacations” of her own with our parents, so she could be treated like the only kid in the house for a few days, and our folks could feel her warm body at their feet while sitting on the couch at night.

And, of course, she was an ever-present companion to Amy and to me. Whether it was a jaunt to the park, a gallop through the backyard snow, or just a lazy day around the house, she always had a way of making you feel as though she needed you and adored you for the care you gave her. Even when my own kids tried to ride her like a horse, she hung in there, trusting that we’d keep her safe. As she grew older, she lounged more, but always wagged that tail when we greeted her, and never failed to let us know when it was time for her meals. Even when we ignored her for too long in the midst of our hectic days, she never complained, and leaned her back toward us when we finally sat down to pet her. She never, ever gave up on us.

Last week, they found a mass on her spleen, the size of a softball. We talked it over, and decided that we would have the surgery done. She got through the operation well on Tuesday, but then there were some heart troubles on Wednesday. These seemed to subside, yet the following day her body began to fail her. Amy got to the hospital in time, and sat with her in her final moments last night. She told her that my grandparents were up there waiting for her, ready for another brisk walk – maybe this time through the clouds.

I had never had a pet before, and had no real idea what to expect from Pumpkin. I now know that an animal can ground you and give you a truer understanding of unconditional love – of what it takes to never waver in your dedication to family, even when they walk right past you or step on your tail. She taught me that it takes patience to love another fully, and that by simply being there for those you love, you can make their world so much more complete.

Caring for Pumpkin this week cost as much money as some of those pricey tickets for Sunday’s final ballgame at Yankee Stadium. I won’t be in the South Bronx on Sunday –I’ll be at home instead, watching the game on TV. It’s a week for goodbyes, I suppose.

Money is money – it comes and goes. Ballparks – even the great ones – reach an end, too.

Dogs die as well.

But love lives on forever. Pumpkin could have told you that, with one wag of the tail.