It was 10 o’clock on a Sunday night, and we were watching Matthew Broderick and Frank Whaley chase a Komodo dragon through a shopping mall. There was a time when I actually paid money to see this film in a theater, and found myself mildly entertained. But I was a teen-ager at the time. Yet here we were, my wife and I, flipping through the channels and stopping to watch some of “The Freshman.”
This is what happens when the baseball season ends.
I know, who am I to complain? The team I root for won the World Series; there are Yankees championship commemorative magazines wherever you look. Joe Girardi and his boys are on top of the world, and they get to stay there all winter long.
And yet, that’s the problem – the all winter long part.
For no matter how well your team does, whether it’s last place or the last men standing, the fact remains that when that final out is made in the deciding game of the Fall Classic, all true baseball fans feel a very real sadness. It’s all over. Another season in the books. No game tomorrow.
There are leaves to be raked, and winter coats to unpack, and holiday catalogs to peruse. The heat is on in the house most evenings now, and I have a hard time getting home in time for a jog in the daylight.
Life is a series of seasons, both in sports and in weather. As the baseball concludes, so does any last remnant of summer. Katie, Chelsea and I are a lot more likely to be inside reading books than outside playing ball these days. My mom and I will talk about the holiday movie season rather than the baseball postseason. My brother and I will try and make plans to meet for dinner in Manhattan, rather than in that giant ballpark in the Bronx.
And, yes, Amy and I will watch a few minutes of a long-forgotten Matthew Broderick comedy in lieu of a few innings of a ballgame. Granted, the MLB Network does air old games all the time. But watch too many of those and you begin to feel like you’re living entirely in the past.
Every few days, it hits me almost like a bolt from the blue that the Yankees are champions. There’s no bitter regret over a crushing playoff loss. Only the image of players, fans, and coaches dancing in victory. Fabulous.
Yet finished. The clock ticks, and we move on. We find new rhythms and new routines for our days. Here’s one I like: Chelsea has finally decided on a favorite TV show. In an amazing way, it’s become my favorite, also. On weekends, we like to take it in together, talking through the stories.
It’s called “Wonder Pets!” It’s kind of like watching Mariano Rivera, except with domestic animals singing. The show stars a turtle, guinea pig and duckling who are closet superheroes called to save the day during each episode. Their job is to help an animal in trouble. And this they do, with incredible efficiency, optimism and success. Like the Yankees closer, their saves are quite predictable. Like Rivera, they smile a lot. Unlike Rivera, they sing.
But oh, if only Mariano had a mike on the mound, he’d surely croon the Wonder Pets’ favorite words: “What’s gonna work? Teamwork! What’s gonna work? Teamwork!”
Yes, we have some new routines, new seasons, new days in the Hynes household. We will handle that just fine. And when the weather gets a bit colder than we’d like, we’ll remember this date: April 5.
Opening Day. Fourteen games scheduled, including Yankees at Red Sox. It will get warm soon enough.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
A Snowstorm in Lower Manhattan
I tell the girls we won’t get close enough to see the players’ faces, but that they’ll hear the roars, see the streams of white paper falling from office windows, and feel a kind of excitement you don’t experience every day. I know this from the last time I tried to see a ticker-tape parade, in 1996. That year, the only Yankee I could glimpse from half a block away was Kenny Rogers, and that was only because he had climbed on top of his float. But the sound of hundreds of thousands of voices echoing through that canyon of gray buildings? The streams of paper showering you from above? That’s why you come to this thing.
Amy and I figure we’ll enjoy the trip more by driving into Staten Island and taking one of the mighty orange ferry boats to the city. It’s a great idea, if only there were parking spots to be had on Staten Island. After finding a spot about a mile away from the ferry terminal, we’re all finally on our way, passing by Lady Liberty and Ellis Island in the mighty harbor.
Walking up to the parade route, I see a sign hanging from the Fraunces Tavern Museum on Broad and Pearl streets. It reads: “See the Magna Carta.” I do a double-take. Say what? The Magna Carta is here, on Pearl Street? If that’s true, I’m starting to feel guilty for walking by, for kind of wanting to see CC Sabathia more than the document that changed the world. I wasn’t really ready for that choice.
We move on, and turn left onto Beaver Street. From here, we can make out the floats as they roll by, about a hundred yards away. There goes Derek Jeter, wearing some shades and flashing his smile. There’s Andy Pettitte, videocamera in hand. Oh, and that’s definitely CC – all 6 feet 7 inches of him. “There’s CC,” a father says to his son, and holds him up. What an impressive man Sabathia is – truly a document all his own.
We wave to Mariano Rivera, as he fittingly closes out the parade. The girls come down off of our shoulders, we take some more photos, and walk through the printer paper, the ticker tape, the toilet paper and the phone book pages. It looks like a snowstorm has hit, and this part of the city has the communal feel of a snowstorm as well. We stand in line for some soft pretzels, which aren’t hot, but oh well. A sanitation worker with broom in hand waits patiently for us to move so he can get started with the hours of work he’s got this afternoon.
There are so many people wearing brand-new Yankees gear, leaving little reason to wonder how the team can afford so many high-priced players. One fan has taken marker to her jersey, writing the words “Have My Baby” underneath the “Teixeira” on her back. Sorry, miss, but Tex is spoken for. Another fan wears a Mike Mussina jersey, calling to mind the former New York ace who joined the Yankees after their last world championship in 2000 and retired after last season.
Back at the ferry terminal, they have decided not to add any additional boats today, despite the fact that thousands of navy-blue-clad people are standing elbow-to-elbow in the terminal, waiting to travel back to Staten Island. We’re feeling the crush of bodies around us. Chelsea is crying. I lead the way as we excuse ourselves and move out of this crowd. A man curses at me, and I ignore him. Minutes later, dozens of police officers arrive as there have apparently been injuries among the thousands pushing forward in that crowd. We’re out of here. So much for the communal feeling.
Outside, a young family like ours is standing along the East River walkway. They’ve left the ferry terminal as well, and they’re taking photos. We chat for a few minutes, and it’s getting back to the kind of day it’s supposed to be, one in which people let their guards down a bit and share a greeting or two. Over at the South Street Seaport, a man is leading a child in a “Let’s Go Yankees” chant. A man is running up to scare a pigeon from behind with his noisemaker. Amy buys the girls some ice cream cones, and that, for Chelsea, is the real highlight – chocolate all over her face, the sweet taste of Haagen-Dazs in her mouth.
A fleet of ferries has arrived to clear out the terminal – anyone for planning ahead next time? – and the girls are ready to head home. Broadway is making its way back from paper to asphalt, and the Yankees are all at City Hall now. Workers are hammering a pylon into the ground south of the Seaport, and a helicopter takes off from the nearby heliport. A guy in a Yankees jacket walks into Fraunces Tavern. (I can hear his chant now: “Magna Carta! dun-dun-dundundun. Magna Carta!”)
A pair of tourists drive by on rented bicycles from Central Park. Amy and I smile to each other. We want to stop and tell them that this is not the way it is here every day. Electricity doesn’t run at this high a voltage all the time in New York. Only when powered by paper, passion and pinstripes.
Amy and I figure we’ll enjoy the trip more by driving into Staten Island and taking one of the mighty orange ferry boats to the city. It’s a great idea, if only there were parking spots to be had on Staten Island. After finding a spot about a mile away from the ferry terminal, we’re all finally on our way, passing by Lady Liberty and Ellis Island in the mighty harbor.
Walking up to the parade route, I see a sign hanging from the Fraunces Tavern Museum on Broad and Pearl streets. It reads: “See the Magna Carta.” I do a double-take. Say what? The Magna Carta is here, on Pearl Street? If that’s true, I’m starting to feel guilty for walking by, for kind of wanting to see CC Sabathia more than the document that changed the world. I wasn’t really ready for that choice.
We move on, and turn left onto Beaver Street. From here, we can make out the floats as they roll by, about a hundred yards away. There goes Derek Jeter, wearing some shades and flashing his smile. There’s Andy Pettitte, videocamera in hand. Oh, and that’s definitely CC – all 6 feet 7 inches of him. “There’s CC,” a father says to his son, and holds him up. What an impressive man Sabathia is – truly a document all his own.
We wave to Mariano Rivera, as he fittingly closes out the parade. The girls come down off of our shoulders, we take some more photos, and walk through the printer paper, the ticker tape, the toilet paper and the phone book pages. It looks like a snowstorm has hit, and this part of the city has the communal feel of a snowstorm as well. We stand in line for some soft pretzels, which aren’t hot, but oh well. A sanitation worker with broom in hand waits patiently for us to move so he can get started with the hours of work he’s got this afternoon.
There are so many people wearing brand-new Yankees gear, leaving little reason to wonder how the team can afford so many high-priced players. One fan has taken marker to her jersey, writing the words “Have My Baby” underneath the “Teixeira” on her back. Sorry, miss, but Tex is spoken for. Another fan wears a Mike Mussina jersey, calling to mind the former New York ace who joined the Yankees after their last world championship in 2000 and retired after last season.
Back at the ferry terminal, they have decided not to add any additional boats today, despite the fact that thousands of navy-blue-clad people are standing elbow-to-elbow in the terminal, waiting to travel back to Staten Island. We’re feeling the crush of bodies around us. Chelsea is crying. I lead the way as we excuse ourselves and move out of this crowd. A man curses at me, and I ignore him. Minutes later, dozens of police officers arrive as there have apparently been injuries among the thousands pushing forward in that crowd. We’re out of here. So much for the communal feeling.
Outside, a young family like ours is standing along the East River walkway. They’ve left the ferry terminal as well, and they’re taking photos. We chat for a few minutes, and it’s getting back to the kind of day it’s supposed to be, one in which people let their guards down a bit and share a greeting or two. Over at the South Street Seaport, a man is leading a child in a “Let’s Go Yankees” chant. A man is running up to scare a pigeon from behind with his noisemaker. Amy buys the girls some ice cream cones, and that, for Chelsea, is the real highlight – chocolate all over her face, the sweet taste of Haagen-Dazs in her mouth.
A fleet of ferries has arrived to clear out the terminal – anyone for planning ahead next time? – and the girls are ready to head home. Broadway is making its way back from paper to asphalt, and the Yankees are all at City Hall now. Workers are hammering a pylon into the ground south of the Seaport, and a helicopter takes off from the nearby heliport. A guy in a Yankees jacket walks into Fraunces Tavern. (I can hear his chant now: “Magna Carta! dun-dun-dundundun. Magna Carta!”)
A pair of tourists drive by on rented bicycles from Central Park. Amy and I smile to each other. We want to stop and tell them that this is not the way it is here every day. Electricity doesn’t run at this high a voltage all the time in New York. Only when powered by paper, passion and pinstripes.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
November 4, 2009
We started the night in a tavern, a couple of miles from our house. Amy and I were munching on nachos as Andy Pettitte picked his way through the Phillies lineup in innings one and two. My mom, who was staying with us last night, had offered to put the girls to sleep so we could get out for a few hours together. I had come from work, and wasn’t dressed for a tavern or a ballgame. But Amy didn’t seem to mind; nor did Andy.
The last time the Yankees clinched a World Series in Game 6 – 13 years ago – I was in a bar back on Staten Island, on the job as a newspaper reporter. I was interviewing locals for a reaction story on a tight Saturday deadline – so tight that I would have to dictate the story from a pay phone on Forest Avenue. I didn’t have any time to feel nervous over whether Jimmy Key could outduel Greg Maddux, nor did I have time to roar over Joe Girardi’s game-changing triple. Last night, however, there was plenty of time to take it in, as we munched on our nachos, then on wraps and fries. Of course, there was also plenty of time to get nervous.
The TVs in the mostly-empty restaurant area, where we were sitting, were a few seconds delayed compared to the TVs in the bar, which was packed with men and women wearing navy-blue spring training jerseys. The delay provided an interesting experience, as we heard the roar to celebrate Hideki Matsui’s second-inning home run before we actually saw it with our own eyes. It looked mighty good, even on delay.
The roars grew even louder when Matsui came up again, this time drilling a two-run single off of Phillies starter Pedro Martinez in the third. Back home, Katie and her grandma were getting dizzy with delight. Katie, who at 7 has never seen the Yankees win it all, picked up the words to the Yankee fans’ chant for longtime nemesis Martinez. She stepped in front of the TV and shouted: “Now who’s your daddy, baby?”
The time delay gave us yet another clue that Matsui would come up big in the fifth, and before long we were watching his long double drive home two more. This was feeling too good to be true. It was also feeling like we should stay here, since this spot had brought such good luck. But Amy wanted to get home. And there was that one annoying, 12-year-old Phillies fan across the room. So we hopped in our cars.
Wrong move. Ryan Howard homered off of Pettitte while we were nearing the house. My fault; I had left that lucky, time warp of a spot. Sure, the Cajun shrimp wrap could have been better, but the tavern had given the Yanks a great lead. Should I turn back?
I didn’t turn back. I got home to see Joba Chamberlain end the Phillies’ rally. My mom was on the phone with my brother, Eric. He was in his home, in Brooklyn, with our friend Neil. They sounded optimistic; we talked for a while, and promised to speak again later.
I was not going to clean the house, or do the dishes this night, as I so often do to calm the nerves in late innings of Yankees playoff games. No, I was going to hang in there, live or die, with this one. I picked a lucky spot, in the corner of the living room, and stood there. Damaso Marte! Down goes Utley; pump the fist. Down goes Howard; pump it again. Who knew the guy had it in him? I called my dad, who hadn’t come up to our place with my mom this week, and was therefore watching the game alone. He said he was still up, past his bedtime, and had enjoyed Johnny Damon the most of any player in this series. I felt the same.
It was time now for Mariano Rivera. He began his nightly dissection of a lineup; even so, the outs couldn’t come fast enough. The TV cameras showed Yankees fans pounding on that blue padding covering the walls of the field, like 6-year-olds trying to wake their parents up on Christmas morning. Let’s go! We want our presents!
Santa Closer didn’t let them down. As Rivera induced Shane Victorino into a harmless groundout to complete the championship, I hugged my mom, hugged my wife, and called my brother and Neil. We talked about where we’d been back in 2000, when the Yankees last won it all. We wondered about who would win the MVP, Matsui or Rivera. Eric and I marveled at the way in which Mike Bloomberg kept angling himself into the photos up on the podium, and longed for some spontaneity in the postgame awards presentation. We laughed about a lot.
After a few minutes, I said goodbye to Eric and to Neil. My mom watched the postgame interviews with us for a while, then went to bed herself. Amy and I headed to bed as well, and she drifted off to sleep.
It’s just a game, I know. And yet, how many days in the last few months have I talked with both parents, my brother and Neil on the same day, while also spending a few hours sitting with my wife? How many times had we all taken a break from the rat race to slow down and make time for one another? Was Matsui’s monster game just a sporting accomplishment, or was it part of a larger call to community that had brought families, friends and colleagues together, if even for one night?
The girls would want to hear all about it in the morning; it was time for me to get some sleep as well. The Yanks had done it again, and it had been a good night. A little like Christmas.
The last time the Yankees clinched a World Series in Game 6 – 13 years ago – I was in a bar back on Staten Island, on the job as a newspaper reporter. I was interviewing locals for a reaction story on a tight Saturday deadline – so tight that I would have to dictate the story from a pay phone on Forest Avenue. I didn’t have any time to feel nervous over whether Jimmy Key could outduel Greg Maddux, nor did I have time to roar over Joe Girardi’s game-changing triple. Last night, however, there was plenty of time to take it in, as we munched on our nachos, then on wraps and fries. Of course, there was also plenty of time to get nervous.
The TVs in the mostly-empty restaurant area, where we were sitting, were a few seconds delayed compared to the TVs in the bar, which was packed with men and women wearing navy-blue spring training jerseys. The delay provided an interesting experience, as we heard the roar to celebrate Hideki Matsui’s second-inning home run before we actually saw it with our own eyes. It looked mighty good, even on delay.
The roars grew even louder when Matsui came up again, this time drilling a two-run single off of Phillies starter Pedro Martinez in the third. Back home, Katie and her grandma were getting dizzy with delight. Katie, who at 7 has never seen the Yankees win it all, picked up the words to the Yankee fans’ chant for longtime nemesis Martinez. She stepped in front of the TV and shouted: “Now who’s your daddy, baby?”
The time delay gave us yet another clue that Matsui would come up big in the fifth, and before long we were watching his long double drive home two more. This was feeling too good to be true. It was also feeling like we should stay here, since this spot had brought such good luck. But Amy wanted to get home. And there was that one annoying, 12-year-old Phillies fan across the room. So we hopped in our cars.
Wrong move. Ryan Howard homered off of Pettitte while we were nearing the house. My fault; I had left that lucky, time warp of a spot. Sure, the Cajun shrimp wrap could have been better, but the tavern had given the Yanks a great lead. Should I turn back?
I didn’t turn back. I got home to see Joba Chamberlain end the Phillies’ rally. My mom was on the phone with my brother, Eric. He was in his home, in Brooklyn, with our friend Neil. They sounded optimistic; we talked for a while, and promised to speak again later.
I was not going to clean the house, or do the dishes this night, as I so often do to calm the nerves in late innings of Yankees playoff games. No, I was going to hang in there, live or die, with this one. I picked a lucky spot, in the corner of the living room, and stood there. Damaso Marte! Down goes Utley; pump the fist. Down goes Howard; pump it again. Who knew the guy had it in him? I called my dad, who hadn’t come up to our place with my mom this week, and was therefore watching the game alone. He said he was still up, past his bedtime, and had enjoyed Johnny Damon the most of any player in this series. I felt the same.
It was time now for Mariano Rivera. He began his nightly dissection of a lineup; even so, the outs couldn’t come fast enough. The TV cameras showed Yankees fans pounding on that blue padding covering the walls of the field, like 6-year-olds trying to wake their parents up on Christmas morning. Let’s go! We want our presents!
Santa Closer didn’t let them down. As Rivera induced Shane Victorino into a harmless groundout to complete the championship, I hugged my mom, hugged my wife, and called my brother and Neil. We talked about where we’d been back in 2000, when the Yankees last won it all. We wondered about who would win the MVP, Matsui or Rivera. Eric and I marveled at the way in which Mike Bloomberg kept angling himself into the photos up on the podium, and longed for some spontaneity in the postgame awards presentation. We laughed about a lot.
After a few minutes, I said goodbye to Eric and to Neil. My mom watched the postgame interviews with us for a while, then went to bed herself. Amy and I headed to bed as well, and she drifted off to sleep.
It’s just a game, I know. And yet, how many days in the last few months have I talked with both parents, my brother and Neil on the same day, while also spending a few hours sitting with my wife? How many times had we all taken a break from the rat race to slow down and make time for one another? Was Matsui’s monster game just a sporting accomplishment, or was it part of a larger call to community that had brought families, friends and colleagues together, if even for one night?
The girls would want to hear all about it in the morning; it was time for me to get some sleep as well. The Yanks had done it again, and it had been a good night. A little like Christmas.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Act IV, Scene IV, Game IV: Where Fortinbras Meets Johnny Damon
He didn’t hesitate for one second. Just glanced over his shoulder, saw the opportunity, and seized it.
Jerry Seinfeld has said that we root for sports teams so that we can be “make-believe happy” when they win, and “make-believe sad” when they lose. This argument sees sports as a fantasy world, one where the events on the field, court or ice don’t have a direct impact on the real lives we’re living.
It’s true; of course it’s true. And yet … there are moments in all the arenas of entertainment – a ballgame, a movie, a book – when that “make-believe” world does move us, inspire us, direct us in some way. We see a deeper meaning in the actions of a Chase Utley or a Sean Penn or a Jay Gatsby, and we take something away that might find its own place in our minds, our hearts, our souls.
It’s the top of the ninth inning, two outs, tie game, World Series Game 4. Johnny Damon, the 35-year-old left fielder for New York, has singled his way to first base after a nine-pitch at-bat against Brad Lidge of Philadelphia. With Mark Teixeira at the plate and batting left-handed, the Phillies shift their infield to the right in order to better defend against the slugger. Damon notices this. As Lidge kicks and fires a pitch, Damon takes off for second.
The throw is late, and Damon knows he’s got second stolen. What he also knows is that because of the shift, third baseman Pedro Feliz has taken the catcher’s throw at second. The third thing Damon knows is that no one – not Lidge, not the left fielder, no one – is standing on third base.
And so, with Feliz holding the ball a foot or so away from him, Damon pops up from his slide, gives that little glance over the shoulder, and takes off again. Feliz reaches out with his right hand, but it’s too late. Johnny Damon has stolen two bases in one play.
Now Lidge has to be more careful with his breaking pitches, as one in the dirt could bounce off the catcher and score Damon. Lidge hits Teixeira, then offers Alex Rodriguez a high fastball. By the time Rodriguez’s double is retrieved in the left-field corner, Damon has crossed home plate and the Yankees are on their way to a victory over the Phillies.
Will New York win the World Series? Don’t know. Will Johnny Damon be a Yankee next year? Can’t say. But really, in the end, those yes/no answers are not nearly as interesting as this bigger question: How does an individual find himself so ready and able to execute in the heat of the moment? How is he able to think quickly and take advantage of an opportunity most wouldn’t have even noticed, all of it coming at one of the most pressure-packed moments in his working career?
Baseball is just a game. But for those of us who have found ourselves feeling those knots in the stomach before major life moments – a major presentation at work, a job interview, a first date, a critical moment with family – it’s nothing short of inspirational to see a speedy left-fielder take a window of opportunity and turn it into a game-changer. He was prepared, he thought on his feet, and he executed.
Shakespeare knew all about this kind of thing, this gathering up of inspiration from those we’ve never met. Here’s Hamlet, still trying to find the courage to kill the uncle who has murdered his own father. As he walks through the countryside, Hamlet comes across young Fortinbras, a Norwegian prince who is leading his army through Denmark to fight for a tiny plot of land in Poland. Hamlet realizes that this prince is willing to fight to the death “even for an eggshell,” while he himself is struggling to act for a much clearer reason.
“How stand I then,” Hamlet says to himself, taking stock. If Fortinbras can go for it all in Poland, then why not Hamlet, too? “I have cause, and will, and strength, and means / To do't,” Hamlet says.
Indeed, sweet prince, we catch your drift. We’ve had moments like that, too. We had one on Sunday night. If Johnny Damon can make it happen in Philadelphia, then maybe we’ll be ready in the clutch as well. When the moment is right, and third base is open, and the hot lights are shining, we’ll give that little glance behind us. We won’t look back long enough to second-guess, or overthink – just long enough to know it’s time to seize the day.
Jerry Seinfeld has said that we root for sports teams so that we can be “make-believe happy” when they win, and “make-believe sad” when they lose. This argument sees sports as a fantasy world, one where the events on the field, court or ice don’t have a direct impact on the real lives we’re living.
It’s true; of course it’s true. And yet … there are moments in all the arenas of entertainment – a ballgame, a movie, a book – when that “make-believe” world does move us, inspire us, direct us in some way. We see a deeper meaning in the actions of a Chase Utley or a Sean Penn or a Jay Gatsby, and we take something away that might find its own place in our minds, our hearts, our souls.
It’s the top of the ninth inning, two outs, tie game, World Series Game 4. Johnny Damon, the 35-year-old left fielder for New York, has singled his way to first base after a nine-pitch at-bat against Brad Lidge of Philadelphia. With Mark Teixeira at the plate and batting left-handed, the Phillies shift their infield to the right in order to better defend against the slugger. Damon notices this. As Lidge kicks and fires a pitch, Damon takes off for second.
The throw is late, and Damon knows he’s got second stolen. What he also knows is that because of the shift, third baseman Pedro Feliz has taken the catcher’s throw at second. The third thing Damon knows is that no one – not Lidge, not the left fielder, no one – is standing on third base.
And so, with Feliz holding the ball a foot or so away from him, Damon pops up from his slide, gives that little glance over the shoulder, and takes off again. Feliz reaches out with his right hand, but it’s too late. Johnny Damon has stolen two bases in one play.
Now Lidge has to be more careful with his breaking pitches, as one in the dirt could bounce off the catcher and score Damon. Lidge hits Teixeira, then offers Alex Rodriguez a high fastball. By the time Rodriguez’s double is retrieved in the left-field corner, Damon has crossed home plate and the Yankees are on their way to a victory over the Phillies.
Will New York win the World Series? Don’t know. Will Johnny Damon be a Yankee next year? Can’t say. But really, in the end, those yes/no answers are not nearly as interesting as this bigger question: How does an individual find himself so ready and able to execute in the heat of the moment? How is he able to think quickly and take advantage of an opportunity most wouldn’t have even noticed, all of it coming at one of the most pressure-packed moments in his working career?
Baseball is just a game. But for those of us who have found ourselves feeling those knots in the stomach before major life moments – a major presentation at work, a job interview, a first date, a critical moment with family – it’s nothing short of inspirational to see a speedy left-fielder take a window of opportunity and turn it into a game-changer. He was prepared, he thought on his feet, and he executed.
Shakespeare knew all about this kind of thing, this gathering up of inspiration from those we’ve never met. Here’s Hamlet, still trying to find the courage to kill the uncle who has murdered his own father. As he walks through the countryside, Hamlet comes across young Fortinbras, a Norwegian prince who is leading his army through Denmark to fight for a tiny plot of land in Poland. Hamlet realizes that this prince is willing to fight to the death “even for an eggshell,” while he himself is struggling to act for a much clearer reason.
“How stand I then,” Hamlet says to himself, taking stock. If Fortinbras can go for it all in Poland, then why not Hamlet, too? “I have cause, and will, and strength, and means / To do't,” Hamlet says.
Indeed, sweet prince, we catch your drift. We’ve had moments like that, too. We had one on Sunday night. If Johnny Damon can make it happen in Philadelphia, then maybe we’ll be ready in the clutch as well. When the moment is right, and third base is open, and the hot lights are shining, we’ll give that little glance behind us. We won’t look back long enough to second-guess, or overthink – just long enough to know it’s time to seize the day.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Autumn's Circle of Drama
At this time a year ago, I found myself astonished at the cool demeanor that Barack Obama displayed under intense pressure. From John McCain to Sarah Palin to debate moderators to news reporters, nearly everyone tried to break through Obama’s cool and bait him into snapping under the spotlight. He didn’t do it.
I remember writing last year that his demeanor reminded me of New York Yankees pitcher Mariano Rivera, the king of closers. Both men work with a humble, confident elegance, and neither man acknowledges the pressure that leaves nervous onlookers biting off the last of their fingernails.
In October 2009, Mr. Obama is now more than nine months into his first term as president – a job he won thanks in large part to that cool confidence. In October of 2009, Mr. Rivera is also still at work this year, thanks to the success that his New York Yankees have had in this season’s playoffs. New York begins its quest for a 27th World Series title tomorrow night against the defending-champion Philadelphia Phillies.
Rivera personifies grace under pressure among baseball’s active pitchers. And while his job is nowhere near as taxing as Mr. Obama’s, there are very few people on this earth who can stand on a pitching mound in front of 50,000 people and execute flawlessly. Even former President George W. Bush, before throwing out the first pitch for Game 3 of the 2001 World Series – arguably the most visually triumphant moment of his presidency – got some advice from Derek Jeter of the Yankees before walking out to the mound. (Jeter advised the president to throw his first pitch from the rubber; Bush did so, flawlessly.)
That mound can be a lonely place. And when a couple of men get on base, time begins to speed up, and the rhythm that every pitcher craves is disrupted by runners taking leads off the bases, crowd noises intensifying, and the inner demons of second-guessing your pitch selections. Before you know it, there’s a liner headed into the gap, and someone’s warming up in the bullpen.
And yet, there are men who just don’t seem to care about the pressure. In fact, they seem to invite it. You need a big win? Just bring it on, they say. In years past, these big-game pitchers came with names like Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax, Whitey Ford and Jack Morris. In recent years, postseason dominance has belonged to men such as Curt Schilling, John Smoltz, Josh Beckett and Cole Hamels.
Which brings us to this year. Among the numerous reasons to watch this year’s series – two historic teams who’ve only met in the Series once before, two powerful home run-hitting teams, two rabid fan bases – perhaps the most interesting aspect is the sheer number of pitchers on either team with ice in their veins.
The Phillies sport an ace pitcher by the name of Cliff Lee – a left-hander who has pitched as well as anyone in the sport over the past two years. Lee has been nearly unhittable in the postseason, and he’ll start three games if needed. The Yankees counter with their own ace, C.C. Sabathia, who has been just as dominant as Lee this year. Sabathia, unlike many pitchers, seems even more relaxed on the days in which he pitches. No sweat, he seems to say.
When it comes to veterans, the Phillies have one of baseball’s best players over the past 15 years – a wily veteran named Pedro Martinez. He spent most of the season gardening, waiting for a contending team to offer him the money he felt his reputation deserved. When the Phillies ponied up, Pedro answered the call with the kind of pitching that has already made him a Hall of Famer. The Yankees have their own legend, Andy Pettitte, who broke Smoltz’s record for most career postseason wins when he led the Yankees to their 40th pennant on Sunday night. Pettitte’s aw-shucks personality is completely at odds with his intensity and brilliant execution under the spotlight.
Philadelphia has a brilliant young talent in Hamels, last year’s most successful postseason pitcher and World Series MVP. The lefty has been inconsistent this year, playoffs included, but his resume promises he won’t be a pushover. In the bullpen, the Phillies offer closer Brad Lidge, who has had his share of well-documented playoff meltdowns, yet has been perfect in save opportunities since joining the Phillies before the ’08 season. And the Yankees, well, yes, they still have Rivera. He will be 40 later this year, but he’s shown no signs of pitching any differently than he did at age 26, when he won his first World Series with New York.
The pitching mound is an 18-foot diameter circle. The slim, white pitching rubber stands 10 inches higher than the rest of the field. The pitcher faces a batter who is standing 60 feet, 6 inches away and holding a large chunk of wood in his hands. It can be a lonely and intimidating place.
But at its best, that mound is a place of empowerment. It is a place where an individual finds more confidence than he ever knew he had. It is a place where a man like Los Angeles Angels pitcher John Lackey can shout at his manager, “This is mine!” when that manager comes out to the mound to remove him, as Mike Scioscia did on Thursday night against the Yankees. It is perhaps the most beautiful sight in baseball – an individual not only willing to carry his team on his back, but demanding it.
Give me the pressure. I can handle it. I want to handle it. I believe in myself. Yes I can. Yes we can.
Twenty years ago, I last pitched in an organized baseball game. It was my high school’s last regular-season game, and if we won we’d be in a one-game playoff for the last remaining spot in the postseason tournament. I was up against a manager whose teams I’d been facing since I was 11 years old, and I’d never beaten him.
We were leading, I recall, and I got in some trouble in the fourth inning. I got out of the jam, and as I jogged off the mound, our manager – now the superintendent of schools in a town near mine – walked over to me. I turned to him and barked: “Don’t you dare take me out! You’re not taking me out of this game!” He looked at me, turned away, and smiled. “I’m not taking him out,” he muttered. We won the game.
There were plenty of moments on the mound when I didn’t hold up so well under pressure. But on that day, for that one afternoon, I was everything I’d ever wanted to be as a pitcher. As Pedro and Andy and Cole and Mariano and all the others get ready for the ’09 World Series, I’ll be looking for the nerves of steel. The man who can make that ball dance under the hot lights. The man who handles drama like Obama.
I remember writing last year that his demeanor reminded me of New York Yankees pitcher Mariano Rivera, the king of closers. Both men work with a humble, confident elegance, and neither man acknowledges the pressure that leaves nervous onlookers biting off the last of their fingernails.
In October 2009, Mr. Obama is now more than nine months into his first term as president – a job he won thanks in large part to that cool confidence. In October of 2009, Mr. Rivera is also still at work this year, thanks to the success that his New York Yankees have had in this season’s playoffs. New York begins its quest for a 27th World Series title tomorrow night against the defending-champion Philadelphia Phillies.
Rivera personifies grace under pressure among baseball’s active pitchers. And while his job is nowhere near as taxing as Mr. Obama’s, there are very few people on this earth who can stand on a pitching mound in front of 50,000 people and execute flawlessly. Even former President George W. Bush, before throwing out the first pitch for Game 3 of the 2001 World Series – arguably the most visually triumphant moment of his presidency – got some advice from Derek Jeter of the Yankees before walking out to the mound. (Jeter advised the president to throw his first pitch from the rubber; Bush did so, flawlessly.)
That mound can be a lonely place. And when a couple of men get on base, time begins to speed up, and the rhythm that every pitcher craves is disrupted by runners taking leads off the bases, crowd noises intensifying, and the inner demons of second-guessing your pitch selections. Before you know it, there’s a liner headed into the gap, and someone’s warming up in the bullpen.
And yet, there are men who just don’t seem to care about the pressure. In fact, they seem to invite it. You need a big win? Just bring it on, they say. In years past, these big-game pitchers came with names like Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax, Whitey Ford and Jack Morris. In recent years, postseason dominance has belonged to men such as Curt Schilling, John Smoltz, Josh Beckett and Cole Hamels.
Which brings us to this year. Among the numerous reasons to watch this year’s series – two historic teams who’ve only met in the Series once before, two powerful home run-hitting teams, two rabid fan bases – perhaps the most interesting aspect is the sheer number of pitchers on either team with ice in their veins.
The Phillies sport an ace pitcher by the name of Cliff Lee – a left-hander who has pitched as well as anyone in the sport over the past two years. Lee has been nearly unhittable in the postseason, and he’ll start three games if needed. The Yankees counter with their own ace, C.C. Sabathia, who has been just as dominant as Lee this year. Sabathia, unlike many pitchers, seems even more relaxed on the days in which he pitches. No sweat, he seems to say.
When it comes to veterans, the Phillies have one of baseball’s best players over the past 15 years – a wily veteran named Pedro Martinez. He spent most of the season gardening, waiting for a contending team to offer him the money he felt his reputation deserved. When the Phillies ponied up, Pedro answered the call with the kind of pitching that has already made him a Hall of Famer. The Yankees have their own legend, Andy Pettitte, who broke Smoltz’s record for most career postseason wins when he led the Yankees to their 40th pennant on Sunday night. Pettitte’s aw-shucks personality is completely at odds with his intensity and brilliant execution under the spotlight.
Philadelphia has a brilliant young talent in Hamels, last year’s most successful postseason pitcher and World Series MVP. The lefty has been inconsistent this year, playoffs included, but his resume promises he won’t be a pushover. In the bullpen, the Phillies offer closer Brad Lidge, who has had his share of well-documented playoff meltdowns, yet has been perfect in save opportunities since joining the Phillies before the ’08 season. And the Yankees, well, yes, they still have Rivera. He will be 40 later this year, but he’s shown no signs of pitching any differently than he did at age 26, when he won his first World Series with New York.
The pitching mound is an 18-foot diameter circle. The slim, white pitching rubber stands 10 inches higher than the rest of the field. The pitcher faces a batter who is standing 60 feet, 6 inches away and holding a large chunk of wood in his hands. It can be a lonely and intimidating place.
But at its best, that mound is a place of empowerment. It is a place where an individual finds more confidence than he ever knew he had. It is a place where a man like Los Angeles Angels pitcher John Lackey can shout at his manager, “This is mine!” when that manager comes out to the mound to remove him, as Mike Scioscia did on Thursday night against the Yankees. It is perhaps the most beautiful sight in baseball – an individual not only willing to carry his team on his back, but demanding it.
Give me the pressure. I can handle it. I want to handle it. I believe in myself. Yes I can. Yes we can.
Twenty years ago, I last pitched in an organized baseball game. It was my high school’s last regular-season game, and if we won we’d be in a one-game playoff for the last remaining spot in the postseason tournament. I was up against a manager whose teams I’d been facing since I was 11 years old, and I’d never beaten him.
We were leading, I recall, and I got in some trouble in the fourth inning. I got out of the jam, and as I jogged off the mound, our manager – now the superintendent of schools in a town near mine – walked over to me. I turned to him and barked: “Don’t you dare take me out! You’re not taking me out of this game!” He looked at me, turned away, and smiled. “I’m not taking him out,” he muttered. We won the game.
There were plenty of moments on the mound when I didn’t hold up so well under pressure. But on that day, for that one afternoon, I was everything I’d ever wanted to be as a pitcher. As Pedro and Andy and Cole and Mariano and all the others get ready for the ’09 World Series, I’ll be looking for the nerves of steel. The man who can make that ball dance under the hot lights. The man who handles drama like Obama.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
A Need to Read All About It
Whenever I watch a sporting event closely, as I always do during the baseball playoffs, I think about the story I would be writing if I were still working as a sportswriter. Tonight, for example, as I’m watching John Lackey blank the Yankees in Game 5 of the American League Championship Series, I think about the options: There’s the “momentum” story, on how quickly the pendulum can shift from one team to another; there’s the Lackey story, on the way in which he’s dominated in a must-win game (and will he be available in relief should there be a Game 7?); and there’s the “offense” story, on whether the Yankees really have enough hitting to (a) close out this series and (b) have a prayer against the mighty Phillies.
Of course, I don’t have a deadline to meet tonight; instead, I have classes to teach in the morning. I’m ready for those, and looking forward to them. But when I finish working tomorrow, I’ll look forward to reading what others did write about the game. In particular, I’ll be looking for the latest from my friend Steve Politi, with whom I went to college and who now serves as the lead sports columnist for the Star-Ledger of Newark.
Steve is one of the best sportswriters in America, and he’ll be writing brilliant stories for a long, long time. That is, unless newspapers cease to exist.
There has been so much written in recent months about the decline in readership among daily newspapers, thanks to the combination of Internet, television and radio news outlets. Newspapers have folded, slashed salaries, eliminated positions, and required their staff members to take furloughed vacations. It has been dismal before in the newspaper world, but never this bad.
And that, my friends, is more than a shame; it’s a national crisis. There are many reasons why America’s democracy has thrived for 233 years, not the least of which is the ability of daily newspapers to document the actions of government officials, business people, political leaders, law enforcement officers, entertainers and, yes, even sports teams. Newspapers provide an indispensible depth of coverage and professionalism, and they tell the day-to-day story of America better than any other form of communication we’ve ever created.
When we pick up a newspaper, we’re presented with a wide variety of stories and opinions, and many of the things we learn on those broadsheet pages are new to us. Many of the opinions expressed on those pages are different from our own, yet are there for us to read and consider. As Nicholas Kristof wrote in a March New York Times column, reading the news on-line allows us to self-select the news we read. That is not necessarily a good thing. “When we go online, each of us is our own editor, our own gatekeeper,” Kristof wrote. “We select the kind of news and opinions that we care most about … there’s pretty good evidence that we generally don’t truly want good information — but rather information that confirms our prejudices.” How can we truly learn when we’re looking for things we already know?
Some might argue that with so many people reading on-line, we’ll always be able to hold people accountable and keep democracy in place. But the news on-line, like the news on TV, is always dominated by images. And that means “balloon boy” stories will find more readers and viewers than stories about, say, elections or war atrocities. Sensationalism typically numbs us to the things that truly impact our lives.
And it’s not just the news section that delivers the goods when it comes to daily papers. When tomorrow’s Times and Star-Ledger appear on my driveway, they’ll provide information about area activities that I would never have known about otherwise. They’ll also tell me about new businesses that have opened in the area. And, yes, they’ll give me plenty of information about tonight’s Yankees game.
Things have changed in the ballgame since I started writing this post. The Yankees stormed back to take the lead against the Angels’ bullpen, then lost that lead – and the game – when their own pitching stumbled. Out of my original column ideas, the “momentum” story is the only one with legs. Steve is likely switching gears as we speak, finding a newer angle that will fit with the events of the past hour.
It’s not easy work. Never has been. But I know Steve will pull it off. Great newspapermen and women like him have been making newsprint sing for centuries. And I, for one, am still ready to read all about it.
Of course, I don’t have a deadline to meet tonight; instead, I have classes to teach in the morning. I’m ready for those, and looking forward to them. But when I finish working tomorrow, I’ll look forward to reading what others did write about the game. In particular, I’ll be looking for the latest from my friend Steve Politi, with whom I went to college and who now serves as the lead sports columnist for the Star-Ledger of Newark.
Steve is one of the best sportswriters in America, and he’ll be writing brilliant stories for a long, long time. That is, unless newspapers cease to exist.
There has been so much written in recent months about the decline in readership among daily newspapers, thanks to the combination of Internet, television and radio news outlets. Newspapers have folded, slashed salaries, eliminated positions, and required their staff members to take furloughed vacations. It has been dismal before in the newspaper world, but never this bad.
And that, my friends, is more than a shame; it’s a national crisis. There are many reasons why America’s democracy has thrived for 233 years, not the least of which is the ability of daily newspapers to document the actions of government officials, business people, political leaders, law enforcement officers, entertainers and, yes, even sports teams. Newspapers provide an indispensible depth of coverage and professionalism, and they tell the day-to-day story of America better than any other form of communication we’ve ever created.
When we pick up a newspaper, we’re presented with a wide variety of stories and opinions, and many of the things we learn on those broadsheet pages are new to us. Many of the opinions expressed on those pages are different from our own, yet are there for us to read and consider. As Nicholas Kristof wrote in a March New York Times column, reading the news on-line allows us to self-select the news we read. That is not necessarily a good thing. “When we go online, each of us is our own editor, our own gatekeeper,” Kristof wrote. “We select the kind of news and opinions that we care most about … there’s pretty good evidence that we generally don’t truly want good information — but rather information that confirms our prejudices.” How can we truly learn when we’re looking for things we already know?
Some might argue that with so many people reading on-line, we’ll always be able to hold people accountable and keep democracy in place. But the news on-line, like the news on TV, is always dominated by images. And that means “balloon boy” stories will find more readers and viewers than stories about, say, elections or war atrocities. Sensationalism typically numbs us to the things that truly impact our lives.
And it’s not just the news section that delivers the goods when it comes to daily papers. When tomorrow’s Times and Star-Ledger appear on my driveway, they’ll provide information about area activities that I would never have known about otherwise. They’ll also tell me about new businesses that have opened in the area. And, yes, they’ll give me plenty of information about tonight’s Yankees game.
Things have changed in the ballgame since I started writing this post. The Yankees stormed back to take the lead against the Angels’ bullpen, then lost that lead – and the game – when their own pitching stumbled. Out of my original column ideas, the “momentum” story is the only one with legs. Steve is likely switching gears as we speak, finding a newer angle that will fit with the events of the past hour.
It’s not easy work. Never has been. But I know Steve will pull it off. Great newspapermen and women like him have been making newsprint sing for centuries. And I, for one, am still ready to read all about it.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sweet Dreams, Daddy
In my last blog entry, I wrote about losing my children to Neil Diamond. I wrote of the hope we all hold out, that our kids will embrace our own passions and hobbies, giving us the chance to spend quality time with our kids while also still enjoying the things we love.
For me, things got worse before they got better in that department. But, at least for a fleeting moment, they did get better.
First, the worse. I have asked, cajoled, pleaded and demanded that she please hold off on this music until at least Veterans Day. In the past two years, I have amended that to after Halloween. I cannot, will not, go any further than that. When it hits November 1, I only drive with her when I must. There’s no room for me anyway, as the entire passenger seat is filled with holiday CDs. I tell the girls that this is not normal, and that they should feel free to ask the woman to take these CDs out at any time. They’re sitting in the back, after all, so they’re held hostage to their mother’s two-month-long Christmas-music binge.
So it’s the first Sunday in October, the sky is blue, it’s 70 degrees, and the four of us are driving home from church. I am about to put on some pop music, or NPR, and maybe even find a song that I can tell the girls about. But before I can do so, this woman (I could refer to her as “Amy” or “my wife,” but I’m embarrassed to) says to the girls, “Should we put it on, guys?” They respond immediately: “Yes!”
She slips in a CD, and I hear the jingling bells. No, please. Then I hear Tom Petty. Oh, this can’t be. It is. He launches into a song called “Christmas All Over Again,” which is fun to hear on December 15. Once. Mind you, it is October 4th at this moment, and I am hearing this song. Katie, our older girl, immediately responds: “Yes, turn that up!”
I’m not going to bother with her. She’s lost already. I turn back to Chelsea, who at age 4 is still plenty malleable. “Chelsea,” I say, “it’s not too late. There’s still time – I can save you from this madness.”
Chelsea looks at me as if I’ve just offered to take away her favorite blanket. “I want this,” she says. “I love Christmas music.”
That woman next to me is now howling, pounding the steering wheel. “You haven’t worked hard enough, honey,” she says. “You’ve got to pound it into them. Pound it in.”
Insanity. First of all, I’m not pounding anything into my children. They should come to love whatever they want – as long as it’s not this. Which brings me to my second point – it is just wrong to be playing these songs on October 4th. I can’t sit in this car. As much as I hate to say it, I’ll take Elmo, Barney and Raffi yet again over hearing a Tom Petty holiday song two weeks removed from summertime. I’ll even take the Wiggles over this.
So, with parenting angst at its height, we come to this evening. This night is special to me because my mom and her Neil Diamond records are back in her own home, and my wife and her ho-ho-ho’s are out for the night. So it’s just me and the girls. We’re reading books and drawing, while Daddy catches the Cardinals-Dodgers playoff game in between pages of our Franklin book.
At one point, Chelsea looks at the TV and notices the gorgeous cardinal logo on the visiting team’s jerseys. Katie looks up as well and starts asking how the Dodgers got their team name. As I explain that they were named for “trolley dodgers” in old Brooklyn, the girls are talking about the trolleys they’ve seen, and we’re doing some vocab work, figuring out what the verb “to dodge” means. A few minutes in, they get it.
Katie wants me to tell her some other team names, and how they got started. I tell her about the 1960s Houston Colt .45s, and how they figured out that naming themselves after a gun was a bit over-the-top, and hence the Astros. She’s interested. She wants more. I talk about the Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869, and how they became the Reds.
Out pops a baseball history book, and Katie wants to see photos of Babe Ruth. Then she’s asking about Lou Gehrig. I show her Joe DiMaggio, and tell her that her own great-grandfather pitched against him once (true story). She’s amazed at this, and responds, “So that means we’re famous!” I tell her about Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra, and Reggie Jackson.
We head up to bed, and she carries this five-pound baseball book up with her. As I’m putting Chelsea to sleep, she asks who Pete Rose is. Then she brings me a photo of Joe Carter, after his World Series-winning home run of 1993, and asks why he’s lying on the field surrounded by teammates. “Is he hurt?” she asks. “No,” I say, “he’s just overcome with joy.”
Katie asks me to tell them one more baseball story before bed. I go into the 1978 one-game playoff between the Yankees and Red Sox, and we’re talking about Bucky Dent’s big home run, and Lou Piniella’s game-saving play in the sun, and she just wants more. The girl can’t get enough. “Give me details,” she says.
This is too good. Beyond good. This is heaven on earth. I want to keep going, telling them more. But it’s after nine and they have to go to sleep. I sing Chelsea a song, and she’s out cold. I kiss Katie on the forehead, and wish her sweet dreams.
She doesn’t have to wish me the same; I got my dream already tonight. Tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll be back to Neil and Tom and Bing Crosby in that car. But tonight, they were in Daddy’s zone, and they liked it. Nobody’s taking that away.
For me, things got worse before they got better in that department. But, at least for a fleeting moment, they did get better.
First, the worse. I have asked, cajoled, pleaded and demanded that she please hold off on this music until at least Veterans Day. In the past two years, I have amended that to after Halloween. I cannot, will not, go any further than that. When it hits November 1, I only drive with her when I must. There’s no room for me anyway, as the entire passenger seat is filled with holiday CDs. I tell the girls that this is not normal, and that they should feel free to ask the woman to take these CDs out at any time. They’re sitting in the back, after all, so they’re held hostage to their mother’s two-month-long Christmas-music binge.
So it’s the first Sunday in October, the sky is blue, it’s 70 degrees, and the four of us are driving home from church. I am about to put on some pop music, or NPR, and maybe even find a song that I can tell the girls about. But before I can do so, this woman (I could refer to her as “Amy” or “my wife,” but I’m embarrassed to) says to the girls, “Should we put it on, guys?” They respond immediately: “Yes!”
She slips in a CD, and I hear the jingling bells. No, please. Then I hear Tom Petty. Oh, this can’t be. It is. He launches into a song called “Christmas All Over Again,” which is fun to hear on December 15. Once. Mind you, it is October 4th at this moment, and I am hearing this song. Katie, our older girl, immediately responds: “Yes, turn that up!”
I’m not going to bother with her. She’s lost already. I turn back to Chelsea, who at age 4 is still plenty malleable. “Chelsea,” I say, “it’s not too late. There’s still time – I can save you from this madness.”
Chelsea looks at me as if I’ve just offered to take away her favorite blanket. “I want this,” she says. “I love Christmas music.”
That woman next to me is now howling, pounding the steering wheel. “You haven’t worked hard enough, honey,” she says. “You’ve got to pound it into them. Pound it in.”
Insanity. First of all, I’m not pounding anything into my children. They should come to love whatever they want – as long as it’s not this. Which brings me to my second point – it is just wrong to be playing these songs on October 4th. I can’t sit in this car. As much as I hate to say it, I’ll take Elmo, Barney and Raffi yet again over hearing a Tom Petty holiday song two weeks removed from summertime. I’ll even take the Wiggles over this.
So, with parenting angst at its height, we come to this evening. This night is special to me because my mom and her Neil Diamond records are back in her own home, and my wife and her ho-ho-ho’s are out for the night. So it’s just me and the girls. We’re reading books and drawing, while Daddy catches the Cardinals-Dodgers playoff game in between pages of our Franklin book.
At one point, Chelsea looks at the TV and notices the gorgeous cardinal logo on the visiting team’s jerseys. Katie looks up as well and starts asking how the Dodgers got their team name. As I explain that they were named for “trolley dodgers” in old Brooklyn, the girls are talking about the trolleys they’ve seen, and we’re doing some vocab work, figuring out what the verb “to dodge” means. A few minutes in, they get it.
Katie wants me to tell her some other team names, and how they got started. I tell her about the 1960s Houston Colt .45s, and how they figured out that naming themselves after a gun was a bit over-the-top, and hence the Astros. She’s interested. She wants more. I talk about the Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869, and how they became the Reds.
Out pops a baseball history book, and Katie wants to see photos of Babe Ruth. Then she’s asking about Lou Gehrig. I show her Joe DiMaggio, and tell her that her own great-grandfather pitched against him once (true story). She’s amazed at this, and responds, “So that means we’re famous!” I tell her about Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra, and Reggie Jackson.
We head up to bed, and she carries this five-pound baseball book up with her. As I’m putting Chelsea to sleep, she asks who Pete Rose is. Then she brings me a photo of Joe Carter, after his World Series-winning home run of 1993, and asks why he’s lying on the field surrounded by teammates. “Is he hurt?” she asks. “No,” I say, “he’s just overcome with joy.”
Katie asks me to tell them one more baseball story before bed. I go into the 1978 one-game playoff between the Yankees and Red Sox, and we’re talking about Bucky Dent’s big home run, and Lou Piniella’s game-saving play in the sun, and she just wants more. The girl can’t get enough. “Give me details,” she says.
This is too good. Beyond good. This is heaven on earth. I want to keep going, telling them more. But it’s after nine and they have to go to sleep. I sing Chelsea a song, and she’s out cold. I kiss Katie on the forehead, and wish her sweet dreams.
She doesn’t have to wish me the same; I got my dream already tonight. Tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll be back to Neil and Tom and Bing Crosby in that car. But tonight, they were in Daddy’s zone, and they liked it. Nobody’s taking that away.
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