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-Two: Andrew Bailey, Oakland Athletics
It’s time to face the facts: My younger daughter is a Jersey Girl.
I have tried to ignore this for as long as possible, but now it’s become impossible to deny. To clarify things here, I don’t mean to imply that my 5-year-old is the next coming of Snooki, nor do I mean to associate her with the lyrics in Tom Waits’ beautiful song “Jersey Girl.” These are more adult images of what a Jersey girl is, and I’m talking about a kid who is preparing for kindergarten.
So what do I mean when I call Chelsea a Jersey girl? Well, let me give you a few images for starters and see if that helps. We start with a father telling his girls that they’re going out for a walk in the park. My 8-year-old daughter pops on her socks and sneakers and is ready to go. Chelsea, on the other hand, whines about how she can only wear flip-flops because the sneakers rub up against the scab on her ankle, and this hurts so much, you don’t understand, Daddy, and it will make me cry, yada yada yada.
We move on to the park itself (with Chelsea wearing flip-flops, of course). As we start along the path, Katie (who was born in the rigorously active state of Massachusetts) begins a brisk pace and notices the pretty fountains in the pond alongside our path. Chelsea, on the other hand, looks down and is disgusted by what she sees on the path.
“Look at all these goose poopies!” she exclaims. “There are hundreds of goose poopies! I’m not walking on all of this.”
“Yes you are,” her father responds, and she trudges along behind, never looking up at the pond for fear of tarnishing her precious flip-flops by touching a piece of the aforementioned goose poopies.
Our third image involves the end of our walk at the previously noted park. Katie feels a surge of energy coming, and asks if she can jog the rest of the way back to the car. I tell her sure, she can definitely do that. Chelsea sees her big sister and jogs slowly behind, but as you might recall she’s wearing her flip-flops. So, predictably, she trips and falls – the slowest fall I’ve ever seen, mind you. But soon enough, just as she’s gotten back to her feet, she turns toddlery and pleads, “Daddy – uppy.” I refuse, and the whining intensifies.
So what does Chelsea crave in life, besides flip-flops and goose-poop-less parks? Well, in order to explain this further I’m going to have to stereotype a little. And before I do so, I want to reaffirm my belief that labels are never universal, nor are they always accurate. But … if your idea of a great weekend involves some mall-shopping, a trip to the beach, getting your nails done and watching a movie, you just might fit the label of a Jersey Girl. On the other hand, if your idea of a great weekend involves a little kayaking, some hiking, a trip to Trader Joe’s and a museum tossed in the mix, you’re probably more of a Massachusetts Kid. We seem to have one of each in this house, which makes things a bit more interesting.
Chelsea has a lot more growing up to do before we can confirm just what kind of kid she is. The only thing I know for sure is that I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. But as she matures, I do see some early signs that she’s going to be testing my resolve and looking for ways to get just the things she wants as often as she can.
Andrew Bailey was born in New Jersey, then went to Wagner College in Staten Island, N.Y. He surprised most of baseball last year by winning the American League Rookie of the Year Award as the Oakland Athletics’ closer. He’s been superb again this season, and today he returned from the disabled list and threw another scoreless inning in relief. I’ve read an interview with Bailey, and he seems to be a very humble and polite Jersey boy. He offers plenty of proof that those who are born in the Garden State can most certainly break free of those Jersey stereotypes that seem to be flying around these days.
When I begin another school year next week, I’ll find myself teaching dozens more young men and women who defy those Jersey Kid labels in many wonderful ways. But even for those New Jerseyans who have smashed the stereotypes, there are still times when you really do find comfort in wearing a pair of flip-flops, walking through the mall for your manicure before a nice weekend at the beach, and cruising over to the multiplex for a 9:30 movie. It’s not exactly something that folks here would call a bad day.
So Chelsea moves on, embracing her environment in all the ways her 5-year-old mind can comprehend. I may wish at times for a little more rugged outdoorsy behavior, but in the end I can either take it or leave it. So bring on the flip-flops, kid, and let’s take a drive down the Parkway. I’m not letting go of my Jersey Girl, not now and not ever.
Showing posts with label Massachusetts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Massachusetts. Show all posts
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Friends and Enemies
When I lived in Massachusetts, I used to go out for jogs wearing my Yankees cap backwards. That way, by the time the Red Sox fans noticed what I was wearing, I’d have passed them by already. We lived on the North Shore of Boston from 1999-2004, during the heart of the modern-day Yankees-Red Sox rivalry. My jogs through Salem and Marblehead may have shielded me from the Boston baseball fans, but other social interactions brought me face to face with the Fenway faithful.
Red Sox fans are not the type to hide their passions. By the turn of the century, Red Sox fans my age had spent their lives rooting desperately for men like Carl Yastrzemski, Dwight Evans, Mike Greenwell, Wade Boggs, Roger Clemens, Mo Vaughn and Nomar Garciaparra. They had watched these men perform majestically, only to fall just short at the finish line or in the playoffs. And when a flamethrower named Pedro Martinez arrived in Boston with a glimmer in his eye and a championship in his sights, these fans began filling Fenway Park every day and night, no matter the month or the weather. They began, in some small way, to believe.
They were rooting for and believing in my least favorite team in baseball, and I watched their passion with no small measure of dread. I, like so many Yankees fans, had reveled in the fact that New York had won 26 titles since acquiring Babe Ruth from the Red Sox in 1920. I had come to see Boston’s annual autumn fade as a seasonal rite of passage, and as validation that I was on the right side of the greatest rivalry in sports.
But then I got to know large numbers of Red Sox fans. I worked alongside them in public schools, I worshiped beside them in the pews of my church, and I shopped alongside them in supermarkets and shopping malls. And as I met these people and talked with them, I found myself making genuine friendships with people who wore that Old English “B” on their heads. I found myself going out to eat with them, inviting them over my house, and even going on weekend vacations with them. And while we engaged in some trash-talking when it came to baseball, the rest of our time together was spent talking about other things – the kids we taught in school, or the kids we raised at home, or the world events around us.
It is late September in 2008, and the landscape of the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry has changed dramatically since I moved back to the New York area in July of ’04. Three months after we moved, the Red Sox pulled off the greatest comeback in baseball history to defeat the Yankees for the league pennant, then went on to win their first title in 86 years. Three years later, Boston won the World Series again. This year, they’re on their way to yet another postseason. The Yankees and their vast history of success are taking a year off from postseason play in ’08, and they haven’t claimed a title in eight years.
I still keep in touch with several of my Red Sox-rooting friends. When we talk, I wish them the best and tell them their team is great. At 37, I have come to a place in life where my emotions are not guided by the successes and failures of baseball teams. I have reached a point where I can watch the Red Sox win a championship, and instead of feeling bitterness I can think with affection of the friends I know who are filled with joy at that moment.
I would still prefer that the Yankees be the ones winning, and I’ll still root for the other 28 teams over Boston any day. I still like to pick certain Red Sox players and envision them as evil incarnate (my current choice: Kevin Youkilis). But that’s just for fun. The Sox are a baseball team, and I don’t even know the players personally. The friends I have, however, are true and genuine. I know that. And I think there’s something pretty cool about them feeling some thrills when their favorite team wins.
So on we go, into another October. I’ll read about the Yankees’ plans for off-season moves. And, if the cheers from New England reach my ears, I’ll fire off another congratulatory e-mail to some delirious friends in red and blue.
Red Sox fans are not the type to hide their passions. By the turn of the century, Red Sox fans my age had spent their lives rooting desperately for men like Carl Yastrzemski, Dwight Evans, Mike Greenwell, Wade Boggs, Roger Clemens, Mo Vaughn and Nomar Garciaparra. They had watched these men perform majestically, only to fall just short at the finish line or in the playoffs. And when a flamethrower named Pedro Martinez arrived in Boston with a glimmer in his eye and a championship in his sights, these fans began filling Fenway Park every day and night, no matter the month or the weather. They began, in some small way, to believe.
They were rooting for and believing in my least favorite team in baseball, and I watched their passion with no small measure of dread. I, like so many Yankees fans, had reveled in the fact that New York had won 26 titles since acquiring Babe Ruth from the Red Sox in 1920. I had come to see Boston’s annual autumn fade as a seasonal rite of passage, and as validation that I was on the right side of the greatest rivalry in sports.
But then I got to know large numbers of Red Sox fans. I worked alongside them in public schools, I worshiped beside them in the pews of my church, and I shopped alongside them in supermarkets and shopping malls. And as I met these people and talked with them, I found myself making genuine friendships with people who wore that Old English “B” on their heads. I found myself going out to eat with them, inviting them over my house, and even going on weekend vacations with them. And while we engaged in some trash-talking when it came to baseball, the rest of our time together was spent talking about other things – the kids we taught in school, or the kids we raised at home, or the world events around us.
It is late September in 2008, and the landscape of the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry has changed dramatically since I moved back to the New York area in July of ’04. Three months after we moved, the Red Sox pulled off the greatest comeback in baseball history to defeat the Yankees for the league pennant, then went on to win their first title in 86 years. Three years later, Boston won the World Series again. This year, they’re on their way to yet another postseason. The Yankees and their vast history of success are taking a year off from postseason play in ’08, and they haven’t claimed a title in eight years.
I still keep in touch with several of my Red Sox-rooting friends. When we talk, I wish them the best and tell them their team is great. At 37, I have come to a place in life where my emotions are not guided by the successes and failures of baseball teams. I have reached a point where I can watch the Red Sox win a championship, and instead of feeling bitterness I can think with affection of the friends I know who are filled with joy at that moment.
I would still prefer that the Yankees be the ones winning, and I’ll still root for the other 28 teams over Boston any day. I still like to pick certain Red Sox players and envision them as evil incarnate (my current choice: Kevin Youkilis). But that’s just for fun. The Sox are a baseball team, and I don’t even know the players personally. The friends I have, however, are true and genuine. I know that. And I think there’s something pretty cool about them feeling some thrills when their favorite team wins.
So on we go, into another October. I’ll read about the Yankees’ plans for off-season moves. And, if the cheers from New England reach my ears, I’ll fire off another congratulatory e-mail to some delirious friends in red and blue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
