okay, one more post.as they say - or at least as I often seem to say - Boston is the reason. in junior high I was playing sports but had essentially wandered away from watching them; I had bands, it was all good. then hockey came back into my life in a huge way, and I could write a novel about that, and probably will at some point. but that's not what this post is about.
there was hockey, and there were the Red Sox. then there was this kid Dustin Pedroia, five-foot-six on a good day and beating the shit out of major league pitching by sheer force of will. I stumbled across him one rainy night in Fenway Park, fell in love very suddenly, and the ten-year-old kid in me woke up and was like "HEY. remember baseball?"
fuck yeah, do I remember baseball. my dad had all these books about the greatest players of the century, top 100, big black and white pictures of Tris Speaker, Walter Johnson, Ernie Banks, up through Cal Ripken and the guys who were big when I was a kid (fuckin' Barry Bonds, I still spit at the mention of his name, almost more because he fucked the Pirates over and broke my dad's heart than because of any of his many steroid abuses). I lived with those books. I did multiple reports on Jackie Robinson, read all the books I could on that dude. I mean, I had it bad.
Pedroia, he brought it all back. kid can't go an inning without getting his uniform dirty, diving, sliding, covering every single inch of the ground he can. kid tells people he's gonna be the best thing their team's ever seen, and then he goes out there and he is. I watched the Red Sox lose to Tampa Bay in the ALDS that year - 2008 - for him.
I watched them lose to Anaheim in the ALDS the next year for him, and because I was living in Boston in a tiny-ass dorm room, sitting on the floor pretending to write a paper but really just holding my breath for Jonathan Papelbon not to blow it. (and man oh man did Papelbon blow it - gets two outs on the Angels and blows a two-run lead as all of New England gapes in horror, REALLY BRO? I went out on the street to run about an hour later and there was still Fenway traffic as far as the eye could see, people sitting there shell-shocked.)
and then I spent the offseason getting way over my head with baseball. the Sox first, because let me explain to you, if there is anything in your soul that loves the game of baseball, it comes out with terrifying force when you live a tenth of a mile from Fenway Park. you become desperately invested in Jon Lester's every move. you instinctively yell "YOOUUUUUUUK" when the situation calls for it. you suddenly need to understand Theo Epstein's approach to building a championship team.
I stole my dad's copy of Moneyball and read it cover to cover as fast as I could. then I read it again. I quoted it at people. I called my mom up to explain how great it was that the Oakland A's had been able to draft Nick Swisher as late in the first round of the 2002 draft as they did. I came to regard RBIs and wins on a pitcher's record as laughably outdated relics of another time. I developed a huge fucking crush on Billy Beane. I still possibly aspire to be the general manager of a hockey team. we'll see about that one. I have a crush on Marco Scutaro's on-base percentage, so you can draw your own conclusions.
I've basically spent this summer so far forming opinions on baseball and baseball players, and it's great. I was coming in with very few specific prejudices (fuck the Yankees, fuck the Rays, Southern California teams are generally bullshit) and almost no players I was really attached to. last time I was big into baseball, the Pirates' 2-5 hitters were Jack Wilson, Aramis Ramirez, Jason Kendall and Brian Giles. I love Freddy Sanchez to the point of tears now, but his time in Pittsburgh was kinda during what my friend Em would call "my black hole years."
so I've kinda just jumped in and started loving everyone this year, everyone who hasn't pissed me off right away by a) wearing a Yankees jersey and not being named Nick Swisher, b) being a bitchass, or c) being fat. (but Evan Meek and Kevin Youkilis are the good kind of fat, see.) I'm fucking fascinated by Tim Lincecum, his weird-ass delivery and how his scrawny little body doesn't blow up with the force of it. I actually gawk in awe at Barry Zito's curveball, when it works. I watch Neil Walker dig in at the plate and I hold my breath and pray, because I believe in him like he's a fucking miracle. I groan and fall off the couch when Garrett Jones chases pitches in the dirt. I want desperately, for reasons that would take a real essay to explain, for Bobby Crosby to succeed, even though he does it about once a month.
I'm back in love with baseball. I decided to do it, back in October as Papelbon was melting down, but I kind of lost control of the magnitude. I didn't mean to adopt West Coast teams. and I didn't mean to end up rooting for the Braves to go to the World Series for the sake of Tim Hudson (and that McCann kid, he's the good kind of fat too). but that's how I know I'm really into it - it's carrying me now, this baseball thing. I feel like it could carry me out to San Francisco and up to Toronto and down to Texas if I'd let it.
but there's nothing - never will be - like Fenway on game day.
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