This little bit came out last night during a 24-hour write in. I didn't write for 24 hours, I joined up with the group around 5 pm after spending the day with my FIRST Lego Robotics team. My fifth graders (last year's 4th graders) built, programmed and competed head-to-head. Our two rookie teams did exceptionally well, one team finishing in 6th place overall and receiving an invitation to the state tournament in the spring and our other team finishing in 11th place and receiving an alternate spot to the state tournament (if someone can make it to the state tournament... we're in). Our top ten team also won the teamwork award.
I joined up with about 30+ folks from Boston around 5 pm where we wrote, got silly, wrote some more, got sillier, ate a lot of junk food and traveled from the Back Bay to Cambridge to Watertown via public transportation attracting lots of stares for lots of reasons. Like the robotics stuff earlier, it was all in great fun. If nothing else, I was able to sort through some of the writing prompts I have left with some of the folks I tend to get together to write with so I could sort and think through what the kids were thinking and how to make those stories happen.
So this small entry was really a case of longing that I hope catches some of the dramatic lens kids see life through at times.
*******
Bobby supposed he should be embarrassed. Given his age and his status, to have to admit never going to a Red Sox game for real, to have only seen a game on TV or the occasional game on the radio in the car just didn’t cut it in this new town or this new school.
All the kids in his class had parents who either had season tickets or worked in jobs where they were getting “wicked excellent” seats from bosses, co-workers, clients and other types of folks. He was stuck with a dad who had a regular job and a mom that was a stay at home mom and no tickets to a game at Fenway Park.
Every day he’d watch the games, studying the dents on the left wall known as the Green Monster. Bobby knew the park layout as well as the layout of their house. He longed to sit in the oaken seats that everyone claimed were too narrow for a regular sized person. He could almost smell the hotdogs as the vendors carried them up and down the stairs yelling, “Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs here.” When he closed his eyes, he imagined being awash in the green that seemed to be everywhere in the park.
He even knew every angle of the Citgo sign from most locations in the park between camera shots and searching the internet for photos from different locations inside the park.
It was one thing to have never been to Fenway when you lived in Delaware. In Delaware you had your choice of National League games in Philadelphia or Washington DC. You could go to Camden Yards to watch the Orioles maybe when the Red Sox came to town. If you were one of the lucky ones, maybe you got to go to Fenway when visiting family or on vacation in Boston.
But now Bobby lived just down the Mass Pike from the iconic landmark and he suspected he would never be able to convince his parents to spend the money to take him to a game.
Sometimes he would open the window in his bedroom and try to listen to the sounds over the noise of the cars zipping down the Pike. If he really strained his ears, perhaps he could hear the cheers of the crowd over the noise. Unfortunately, he could never really be sure that he was hearing the crowd noises, he could only imagine. With a sigh, he’d close the window and turn his attention back to the TV to continue watching the game.
It was almost a curse to be the only person in the house to not only love baseball the way he did, but to also be the only one to love the Red Sox even more than loving baseball. Sure his parents would take him to Little League and sometimes even cheered in the right spots.
This lead him to the thought, even if he could get his dad to go to a game, that his dad would end up cheering for the wrong team. What if he accidentally cheered for A-Rod or Johnny Damon? If they were in the bleachers, they’d be beaten to a pulp by crazy bleacher creatures.
With a sigh Bobby realized it was probably better this way. On TV the games were safe and when his new friends talked about the EMC club or State Street Pavilion, he could smile, nod and listen to their stories.
Someday he would make it to Fenway and sit atop the historic Green Monster. Perhaps, if he looked hard enough, he could see the ghost of Duffy’s cliff below them as he watched for home run balls heading his way. It would be glorious when it finally happened.
But for now, for now he had NESN show him the pictures.
It didn’t seem fair that this was his destiny and yet, there it was.
Perhaps he had been a Yankees fan in a previous life and the Universe was now punishing him for that tragic character flaw.
There, on camera, was his friend Elijah holding up a sign. Damn! He had no idea his friend would be there tonight and come tomorrow, it was all he’d hear about. He’d have to pretend to be excited and happy for him. Let him know that it was so exciting seeing him on TV with his “wish my mother a happy birthday” sign.
In the end, there was no way around it. He was stuck at home, his friends were not. He would have to live with his secret shame and hope beyond hope that his friends would never catch on.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Story Seventeen: Life Lessons
Here's today's story: Life Lessons. The advice Bill Lee gives the main character is actual advice he gave to my son at a book signing a number of years ago. Words my son took to heart and I suspect will live his life by. Today's prompt was: foul ball in a beer cup (why do kids think that one is easy or fun?) and I was asked by a kid earlier today: who is the one baseball player that influenced you the most.
I don't have just one player, but I will say a major one during my formative years was Bill Lee. I loved how smart and free he is and that he really just lives his life the way he does. So, yeah... I guess I had to write about the Spaceman because, well, he's the Spaceman and he gave my son advice.
*******
If you asked Tater about his mom, he’d tell you she was never that wild and crazy mom that could make an award winning halloween costumes out of a paper lunch bag, handkerchief and glittery pipe cleaners that she just happened to have on hand.
She was never the PTA kind of mom either. The one who was organizing speakers and events at school, writing newsletters and putting together impressive bulletin boards of recent classroom activities.
She was just Justin, Evelyn and Tater’s mom.
The kids knew her because she often had on a Red Sox or Bruins jersey (with the name and number of Jason Varitek or Tim Thomas) and was always the first parent at Little League to be able to step in and hit grounders or pop ups at practice, show a kid how to throw a ball or cheer the loudest for the team. She was the person who found a lucky charm for the team if they were losing or understood not messing up the mojo if they were winning. When other parents would make fun of the misfits that made up their team, she’d be the one to go toe-to-toe and make them apologize.
“We lose with pride,” she told one particularly obnoxious hulk of a baseball father, “and if you’re team can’t do that, then I feel sorry for you because your kids are going to be working for mine some day since the nerds are finally claiming the world for themselves.”
The guy didn’t know what to do with the short, feisty woman that wouldn’t back down. So the team cheered as loud as they could when he just looked at his shoes and left the field to “wait in the truck.”
In short, she was the cool sports mom who made it easy to just be the mediocre sports kid who loved to play ball but knew this was as good as it got.
So the day Tater was going through a box of old photos he found, he was surprised to see a faded color photograph of someone that could have looked like Evelyn and then realized, it was a young version of his mom. In the picture, a vaguely familiar man had his arm around her shoulders and the two of them were grinning ear to ear.
He looked at the photo and brought it out to the porch, where she sat on the wooden swing, swaying gently in the breeze while she read a book.”
“Mom, is this you?”
She took the photo and looked. A slight smile crossed her face as she tenderly touched the glossy surface of the old photo.
“Oh my, I had totally forgotten about that day.”
“Who is that with you?”
“Bill ‘the Spaceman’ Lee.”
“No way, you know Bill Lee?”
“No, I met him one day when I was at the old Elliot Lounge back when I was in high school.”
“What were you doing there if you were in high school?”
“Something I’d ring your neck for if you ever tried it.”
Tater smiled. He knew his mom had a lot of fun as a kid and let them make their mistakes too but also was pretty strict about breaking laws and stuff.
“I was in there with a friend. The Elliot was pretty loose about things and we were young, pretty girls who looked old enough to pass for 18.”
“Eighteen?”
“When I was a kid, the age for being able to do stuff was 18, not 21. Which is why I expect you to wait to do things.”
“Right…” Tater replied.
“So, here I am with my friend at the Elliot and Bill Lee walks in. He had just pitched a day game and was coming in to have a couple with some of the other players on the team. We knew that some of the guys from the Sox went there and we were hoping to meet a couple.”
“Why?”
“Because we were young and stupid and full of day dreams of baseball players falling in love with us because we were so young and beautiful.”
“That’s kind of stupid.”
“No, it’s a lot of stupid.”
“How did you know baseball players would go in there?”
“Because at one point, in 1975, a reporter asked Sparky Anderson the REd’s chances against Bill Lee. He said, ‘No matter what happens, my pitcher is going to the Hall of Fame.’ When Bill Lee heard that he replied, ‘No matter what happens, I’m going to the Elliot Lounge.’ After that, Auntie Jill and I wanted to sneak into the Elliot to meet a real live baseball player.”
“How did you meet him?”
“So there were these really obnoxious guys from BU or Harvard that would leave me and Jill alone.”
“You were with Auntie Jill?”
“Yeah… I probably shouldn’t have told you that. At any rate, these two guys kept using cheesy pick up lines on us. Stuff like, ‘Are you a parking ticket because you have fine written all over you.’ Then there was the ‘Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?’”
“That’s pretty cheesy.”
“Yeah. So they tried to buy us a drink not realizing that we were drinking soda water so everyone would think we were drinking. That’s the funny part, we’d sneak into these places but we still couldn’t bring ourselves to break the law.”
“When did Bill Lee come in?”
“When obnoxious guy number one asked if heaven was missing an angel since I was sitting right there.”
“What did he do?”
“He looked at the guy and said, ‘If you want to make time with a lady as beautiful as this, you don’t go for stupid lines like that. You recognize she’s an obviously intelligent class of human being who would rather argue if Shroediger’s cat is dead or alive than hear something she obviously notes every time she looks in the mirror: she’s a gorgeous woman who is way too young to be here and should be treated with respect.”
“Did he really say that?”
“Yes he did.”
“What did you say?”
“I said thank you and while I was not willing to argue the hypothetical of if the cat in the box was alive or dead, I wouldn’t mind discussing why Frank Lloyd Wright’s stuff looked so cool but was either entirely uncomfortable or leaked.”
“What did he do?”
“He laughed. He shooed the obnoxious students away and Auntie Jill and I had a lovely evening with the Buffalo Head club.”
“The Buffalo Head club?”
“Basically the Red Sox pitching staff at the time that hung out at the Elliot. At some point, Auntie Jill took a picture and made sure to take it to some place in Boston to have it developed so Grampy wouldn’t see it.”
“Did you talk about Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“Not really, but he gave me some advice that I have lived my life by pretty much ever since.”
“What was that?”
“Keep reading and don’t stop. Read in different languages, take chances and always enjoy life. If you can’t enjoy life, it’s not worth living.”
“Do you enjoy life?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you do OK.”
“I think so too.”
“Did you really meet dad at a Red Sox game?”
“Yes I did.”
“Did he try to use a cheesy pick up line on you?”
“Nope. He gave me the foul ball he caught.”
“No way!”
“Yes way. He was in the row behind me and Auntie Jill when a ball went foul and landed in his beer cup. I got splashed and he kept apologizing and gave me the ball and asked if he could take me to dinner to make up for spilling beer on me.”
“I thought he was kidding when he told me that story.”
“It’s the truth.”
He looked at the photo in his mother’s hand.
“Does he know about Bill Lee?”
“Yes he does.”
“Does that mean we can frame this picture?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Tater sat on the swing with his mom.
“Where’s your book Tater?”
“Are you trying to make me read again?”
“If it was good enough for Bill Lee to tell me to read, it’s certainly good enough for you to do as well.”
“I’m kind of between books right now. Any recommendations?”
“I’m pretty sure I have a couple of books on Frank Lloyd Wright but they don’t talk about why his stuff is uncomfortable or leaks.”
“How about any books about Bill Lee?”
“I know just the book. It’s not about Bill Lee, but the main character reminds me a lot of Bill Lee and it’s not the type of book that most 12 year olds would read. But the guy who wrote it is one of my favorite authors and I wanted to write like him when I grew up.”
“That sounds good. What book?”
“‘The Curious Case of Siddhartha Finch’ by George Plimpton.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about a Buddhist monk who throws a fast ball that’s so fast that they have to get the catcher ready by dropping balls out of the Good Year blimp.”
Tater thought for a minute.
“Is it true?”
“What do you think?”
“Probably not.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Why did you want to write like George Plimpton?”
“Because when I was a little kid, I read his book ‘Paper Lion.’ Plimpton was a journalist and he spent some time in training camp with the Detroit Lions so he could he write a realistic book about them. I thought that had to be the coolest job in the world, to be able to play football with a professional team and then write about it.”
“Can I read that some day?”
“Absolutely, but keep in mind, it was written in the 60’s and the world is a whole lot different today than it was back then.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“I think so too.”
“Hey mom.”
She looked at her son.
“Thanks for telling me the truth about stuff. Some parents would be all blah about doing stupid stuff when they were in high school and stuff.”
“Tater, you know that if I tell you something, I mean it. So when I tell you that if I ever catch you trying to sneak into a bar to meet a baseball player, I will find a way to lock you in your room and embed a GPS tracking chip in your body to make sure you never do anything that stupid again.”
“I love you too mom.”
He gave her a hug and got off the swing. She suspected he was heading straight over to her bookshelf to find a book to read. Looking at the photo she thought how much her daughter Evelyn looked like she did at that age. She’d have to remember to have a talk with her after dinner tonight.
I don't have just one player, but I will say a major one during my formative years was Bill Lee. I loved how smart and free he is and that he really just lives his life the way he does. So, yeah... I guess I had to write about the Spaceman because, well, he's the Spaceman and he gave my son advice.
*******
If you asked Tater about his mom, he’d tell you she was never that wild and crazy mom that could make an award winning halloween costumes out of a paper lunch bag, handkerchief and glittery pipe cleaners that she just happened to have on hand.
She was never the PTA kind of mom either. The one who was organizing speakers and events at school, writing newsletters and putting together impressive bulletin boards of recent classroom activities.
She was just Justin, Evelyn and Tater’s mom.
The kids knew her because she often had on a Red Sox or Bruins jersey (with the name and number of Jason Varitek or Tim Thomas) and was always the first parent at Little League to be able to step in and hit grounders or pop ups at practice, show a kid how to throw a ball or cheer the loudest for the team. She was the person who found a lucky charm for the team if they were losing or understood not messing up the mojo if they were winning. When other parents would make fun of the misfits that made up their team, she’d be the one to go toe-to-toe and make them apologize.
“We lose with pride,” she told one particularly obnoxious hulk of a baseball father, “and if you’re team can’t do that, then I feel sorry for you because your kids are going to be working for mine some day since the nerds are finally claiming the world for themselves.”
The guy didn’t know what to do with the short, feisty woman that wouldn’t back down. So the team cheered as loud as they could when he just looked at his shoes and left the field to “wait in the truck.”
In short, she was the cool sports mom who made it easy to just be the mediocre sports kid who loved to play ball but knew this was as good as it got.
So the day Tater was going through a box of old photos he found, he was surprised to see a faded color photograph of someone that could have looked like Evelyn and then realized, it was a young version of his mom. In the picture, a vaguely familiar man had his arm around her shoulders and the two of them were grinning ear to ear.
He looked at the photo and brought it out to the porch, where she sat on the wooden swing, swaying gently in the breeze while she read a book.”
“Mom, is this you?”
She took the photo and looked. A slight smile crossed her face as she tenderly touched the glossy surface of the old photo.
“Oh my, I had totally forgotten about that day.”
“Who is that with you?”
“Bill ‘the Spaceman’ Lee.”
“No way, you know Bill Lee?”
“No, I met him one day when I was at the old Elliot Lounge back when I was in high school.”
“What were you doing there if you were in high school?”
“Something I’d ring your neck for if you ever tried it.”
Tater smiled. He knew his mom had a lot of fun as a kid and let them make their mistakes too but also was pretty strict about breaking laws and stuff.
“I was in there with a friend. The Elliot was pretty loose about things and we were young, pretty girls who looked old enough to pass for 18.”
“Eighteen?”
“When I was a kid, the age for being able to do stuff was 18, not 21. Which is why I expect you to wait to do things.”
“Right…” Tater replied.
“So, here I am with my friend at the Elliot and Bill Lee walks in. He had just pitched a day game and was coming in to have a couple with some of the other players on the team. We knew that some of the guys from the Sox went there and we were hoping to meet a couple.”
“Why?”
“Because we were young and stupid and full of day dreams of baseball players falling in love with us because we were so young and beautiful.”
“That’s kind of stupid.”
“No, it’s a lot of stupid.”
“How did you know baseball players would go in there?”
“Because at one point, in 1975, a reporter asked Sparky Anderson the REd’s chances against Bill Lee. He said, ‘No matter what happens, my pitcher is going to the Hall of Fame.’ When Bill Lee heard that he replied, ‘No matter what happens, I’m going to the Elliot Lounge.’ After that, Auntie Jill and I wanted to sneak into the Elliot to meet a real live baseball player.”
“How did you meet him?”
“So there were these really obnoxious guys from BU or Harvard that would leave me and Jill alone.”
“You were with Auntie Jill?”
“Yeah… I probably shouldn’t have told you that. At any rate, these two guys kept using cheesy pick up lines on us. Stuff like, ‘Are you a parking ticket because you have fine written all over you.’ Then there was the ‘Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?’”
“That’s pretty cheesy.”
“Yeah. So they tried to buy us a drink not realizing that we were drinking soda water so everyone would think we were drinking. That’s the funny part, we’d sneak into these places but we still couldn’t bring ourselves to break the law.”
“When did Bill Lee come in?”
“When obnoxious guy number one asked if heaven was missing an angel since I was sitting right there.”
“What did he do?”
“He looked at the guy and said, ‘If you want to make time with a lady as beautiful as this, you don’t go for stupid lines like that. You recognize she’s an obviously intelligent class of human being who would rather argue if Shroediger’s cat is dead or alive than hear something she obviously notes every time she looks in the mirror: she’s a gorgeous woman who is way too young to be here and should be treated with respect.”
“Did he really say that?”
“Yes he did.”
“What did you say?”
“I said thank you and while I was not willing to argue the hypothetical of if the cat in the box was alive or dead, I wouldn’t mind discussing why Frank Lloyd Wright’s stuff looked so cool but was either entirely uncomfortable or leaked.”
“What did he do?”
“He laughed. He shooed the obnoxious students away and Auntie Jill and I had a lovely evening with the Buffalo Head club.”
“The Buffalo Head club?”
“Basically the Red Sox pitching staff at the time that hung out at the Elliot. At some point, Auntie Jill took a picture and made sure to take it to some place in Boston to have it developed so Grampy wouldn’t see it.”
“Did you talk about Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“Not really, but he gave me some advice that I have lived my life by pretty much ever since.”
“What was that?”
“Keep reading and don’t stop. Read in different languages, take chances and always enjoy life. If you can’t enjoy life, it’s not worth living.”
“Do you enjoy life?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you do OK.”
“I think so too.”
“Did you really meet dad at a Red Sox game?”
“Yes I did.”
“Did he try to use a cheesy pick up line on you?”
“Nope. He gave me the foul ball he caught.”
“No way!”
“Yes way. He was in the row behind me and Auntie Jill when a ball went foul and landed in his beer cup. I got splashed and he kept apologizing and gave me the ball and asked if he could take me to dinner to make up for spilling beer on me.”
“I thought he was kidding when he told me that story.”
“It’s the truth.”
He looked at the photo in his mother’s hand.
“Does he know about Bill Lee?”
“Yes he does.”
“Does that mean we can frame this picture?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Tater sat on the swing with his mom.
“Where’s your book Tater?”
“Are you trying to make me read again?”
“If it was good enough for Bill Lee to tell me to read, it’s certainly good enough for you to do as well.”
“I’m kind of between books right now. Any recommendations?”
“I’m pretty sure I have a couple of books on Frank Lloyd Wright but they don’t talk about why his stuff is uncomfortable or leaks.”
“How about any books about Bill Lee?”
“I know just the book. It’s not about Bill Lee, but the main character reminds me a lot of Bill Lee and it’s not the type of book that most 12 year olds would read. But the guy who wrote it is one of my favorite authors and I wanted to write like him when I grew up.”
“That sounds good. What book?”
“‘The Curious Case of Siddhartha Finch’ by George Plimpton.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about a Buddhist monk who throws a fast ball that’s so fast that they have to get the catcher ready by dropping balls out of the Good Year blimp.”
Tater thought for a minute.
“Is it true?”
“What do you think?”
“Probably not.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Why did you want to write like George Plimpton?”
“Because when I was a little kid, I read his book ‘Paper Lion.’ Plimpton was a journalist and he spent some time in training camp with the Detroit Lions so he could he write a realistic book about them. I thought that had to be the coolest job in the world, to be able to play football with a professional team and then write about it.”
“Can I read that some day?”
“Absolutely, but keep in mind, it was written in the 60’s and the world is a whole lot different today than it was back then.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“I think so too.”
“Hey mom.”
She looked at her son.
“Thanks for telling me the truth about stuff. Some parents would be all blah about doing stupid stuff when they were in high school and stuff.”
“Tater, you know that if I tell you something, I mean it. So when I tell you that if I ever catch you trying to sneak into a bar to meet a baseball player, I will find a way to lock you in your room and embed a GPS tracking chip in your body to make sure you never do anything that stupid again.”
“I love you too mom.”
He gave her a hug and got off the swing. She suspected he was heading straight over to her bookshelf to find a book to read. Looking at the photo she thought how much her daughter Evelyn looked like she did at that age. She’d have to remember to have a talk with her after dinner tonight.
Stay Tuned!
One of the hazards of going back to school for degree work, sometimes you have to take a break for academic writing... but fear not! Today is the Boston 24 hour write in where a bunch of intrepid (I spelled insane correctly didn't I?) wrimos will travel around the Back Bay, Cambridge and Waterown from 6:30 this morning until 6:30 tomorrow morning doing insane amounts of writing.
I will miss the early stages of eating breakfast at the Pour House (I love places that know how to properly cook an over-medium egg) and the Boston Public Library leg of things, joining up with folks later this afternoon after I coach my FIRST Lego Robotics students at their first tournament this morning. I suspect that my students will come up with some interesting prompts for me this morning as we go for robotics gold.
So keep your eye on this space later and watch for tweets as I write and post stories for the time I join folks later today and write through the night.
I will miss the early stages of eating breakfast at the Pour House (I love places that know how to properly cook an over-medium egg) and the Boston Public Library leg of things, joining up with folks later this afternoon after I coach my FIRST Lego Robotics students at their first tournament this morning. I suspect that my students will come up with some interesting prompts for me this morning as we go for robotics gold.
So keep your eye on this space later and watch for tweets as I write and post stories for the time I join folks later today and write through the night.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Story Sixteen: Rivalries
As I mentioned about yesterday's horse prompt, the girl who gave it to me is obsessed with horses. Her alternate prompts were a dog getting loose on the field and biting a player and a woman with long nails breaking her nail with a foul ball and freaking out. I felt I had to write that one as well given my insistence she come up with a non-horse theme.
I admit this was a stumper... how do you get a dog on the field at Fenway to bite a player? If a player is going to be bitten, who would it be? That answer was easier, which players do I really dislike and A-Rod is always on the top of the list for me. I have always disliked mercenary players and checkbook baseball. Today, A-Rod still remains one of the players on the top of the list for me. As they say, that was a no-brainer.
This story is important as it really is a rough draft story. This is that lump of compressed coal that is going to need some serious polishing and cutting to reveal the diamond inside, which is part of this exercise this month. Characters names and things about them will change. While this is very much my New York state of mind (which is 180* different than Billy Joel's), I still need to examine, think and edit... edit... edit.
For someone like me, this exercise is even more important because this is the type of story that would go into a folder on my hard drive and sit there until I got around to it. If stories in my hard drive folders could collect dust, this would be under a pile very, very quickly with several others that have been there since 2 computers ago. Now that this is public, I really need to take the time to fix it when I sit down to edit in the coming months.
******
Anna Lee Byrne never went anywhere without her Jack Russell Terrier. Pookie was more than a dog, he was a companion and best friend. It was nice that most of the places she went to in Boston were so accommodating. The ones that weren’t, well she’d spend her husband’s money somewhere else.
She didn’t like Boston. Compared to New York, Boston was a hick town. In New York she cold go anywhere, make a few demands and look down her nose at the staff and remind them that her husband was star center fielder for the Yankees. If she was unhappy, he was unhappy. If he was unhappy, the Yankees struggled and no one in New York, except for maybe David Letterman (not that he really counted), wanted to see the Yankees struggle.
But when he played in Boston, he liked her to be on his arm. After all, who didn’t want a former model and current trophy wife to make Boston sports fans eat their hearts out. Not only was New York better than Boston, so were the wives and everything else that counts.
He also made sure that he bought seats in the box behind the visitor’s batting circle. She could sit front and center with the cameras on her and any celebrity guests that were eager to fill the seats with donations to his charitable foundation.
Today was a good day. It was a national broadcast, the weather was perfect and she knew she looked fabulous. Having found a manicurist in this forsaken back water of a city to give her a perfect manicure with the Yankees logo complete with diamond insets and her husband’s number. Yes, she would look fabulous for the cameras today. He had already made the arrangements for Pookie to be at the game with her and life was good, even if they were in Boston.
“Anna Lee.”
She turned to see the Donald coming to join her in the box.
“Donald. Where’s your lovely wife?” she asked as she stood up to greet him. He kissed her cheek and they sat back down.
“Oh she had some commitment and couldn’t make it. Ivanka has been busy, with her husband and the baby as well as the business, the poor girl works as hard as her father.”
“Not surprising, and she does it with grace and beauty.”
“You always know the right thing to say.”
“You married a lovely woman. How’s that handsome son of yours?” she smiled.
“Which one?”
“Barron.”
“Fabulous, growing like a weed. I wish I could have brought him today, he’s really a joy.”
“So long as that joy is second to beating these Red Sox.”
He laughed, which caused Pookie to give a gruff bark.
“Oh Pookie, I’m sorry. Did I frighten you.”
The dog gave a lower ruff and then settled back into Anna Lee’s bag.
It wasn’t long before the park filled up and the game got started. In true Boston fashion, it also wasn’t long before the fans began chanting obscenities and making general fools of themselves.
The celebrities that joined them in the box all chatted with her, treating as if she were royalty. In New York, she was because she was a Yankee wife.
The game was a pitcher’s duel between Jon Lester and Phil Hughes. Both men were on fire and everyone was at a loss this afternoon. Derek Jeter, A-Rod and her husband, New York’s power trio, were hitless as were Kevin Youkilis, Dustin Pedroia and Big Papi for the Boston side of the order.
Finally, in the bottom of the 8th inning, Boston seemed to get Hughes’ timing and were starting pepper hits all over the park. No where was more vulnerable than Jeter’s hot corner. Despite his best efforts, the line drives seemed to just get past him. A few bloopers over A-Rod’s head and suddenly the Sox were leading by two runs with runners threatening. A quick pitching change held the damage there, but it would be tough going into the inning behind with Papelbon sure to come in and close.
Looking at the order due up, it the power trio.
Jeter managed to beat out a play at first. A-Rod hit a dribbler that got him to first but Jeter was tagged out at second. With one down and one one, Anna Lee’s husband stepped into the batter’s box, she had to remember to breathe.
“Your husband better knock one out of here to give us some hope,” Donald said as he leaned over.
“Don’t worry, he’s good that way.”
“He certainly is, or he wouldn’t be in New York.”
She laughed, but one thing she know, Yankees fan took their baseball seriously.
Pookie yipped, so she reached down to put her precious dog on her lap.
“We need to cheer for daddy,” she said to the pampered dog in a baby talk voice. “Yes we do, don’t we.”
The dog gave a little bark in agreement.
As he stood in the batter’s box, she proudly clapped and cheered for him. The guests in the VIP box all rose, as did she, as they applauded. She placed Pookie on the thick ledge in front of her, Pookie’s leash lazily wrapped around her hand.
Under the intense gaze of the closer’s glare, a slow smile spread across her face as she knew there was no way her husband would be intimidated by that look. The pitcher went into his motion, rearing back and letting the ball loose. The batter drew back and uncoiled the powerful swing, meeting the ball at the plate, but a second late on the wrong part of the bat barrel.
The ball went up and back towards the box where they all stood cheering for the Yankees. Jason Varitek, the catcher for the Red Sox, flipped off his mask. Keeping his eyes glued to the ball, he backed up and up to stay under it. Just as he reached the ledge, he reached up and over, the ball within reach… and that’s when it all happened.
Bumping the wall scared the small dog. The terrier leapt out of the way and onto the field, the leash running through Anna Lee’s fingers as it escaped. In the meantime, the ball and the glove met at Anna Lee’s outstretched hand, breaking the carefully adorned nails One nail bent backwards, another snapped off entirely.
Anna cried out in pain as A-Rod started toward second, then stopped. Varitek, not missing a beat, threw to first. As A-Rod tried to get back to first just beating the runner back to the base.
Pookie spooked as he heard Anna Lee’s cries and darted across the infield looking for a place to hide or escape. Jeter, face down in the dirt from his failed slide back to first saw the dog first.
“Pookie,” he called out. Rising to his knees he tried to lunge at the dog as it darted towards the Red Sox dugout. The dog stopped and snarled.
“Pookie, come here now,” he used a firm voice but the dog leaped at him. As he caught the dog, it turned on him sinking his teeth into the fleshy outer part of his hand just below his pinky.
Adrian Gonzalez, noticing the dog reached down gently calling, “How did you get out here little one. Come on,” he held out the back of his hand. The dog suspiciously sniffed the offered hand before allowing him to reach down and scoop him up. Looking at A-Rod holding his hand, he nodded towards the approaching trainer, “You better let them take a look at that man. Do you know the dog’s owner?”
“That’s my wife’s dog,” said the voice behind him. “No idea how he got on the field, but l’ll take him. Alex, how’s the hand?”
He didn’t need words to express the anger flashing in his eyes.
The center fielder scooped the dog from the Sox first baseman.
“Guess that’s why dogs aren’t allowed in ball parks,” the center fielder said.
“That and the mess,” the first baseman responded.
He walked across the field with the dog in his hands calming him down as they walked. In the box, he saw the Donald calming her down as tears streaked down her face. Security personnel surrounding them to both protect them from the crowd.”
“I need to find Pookie…”
“Here’s Pookie.”
She looked up and saw the sad look on the terrier’s face.
“Pookie,” she said holding out her arms. The pain of her bent back fingernail forgotten in the moment. As she took the dog, she kissed her husband.
“You’ll get them tomorrow sweetie.”
“We’ll see, Pookie just took a chunk out of our short stop.”
“He never did like him,” she smiled.
“From now on you need to keep the dog away from the park,” Donald said, “he may not like A-Rod, but the rest of us do.”
Giving his wife another quick kiss on the cheek, he disappeared down the dugout with the rest of the team.
Looking up at Donald, Anna Lee smiled. “Thanks again. I don’t think I’ll be back in Boston any time soon.”
“Maybe not such a bad thing.”
“Maybe not,” but for now I better make sure I can beat it out of here before Pookie and I become public enemy number one.”
“He’ll be fine Anna Lee. He’ll be more embarrassed by the Sports Center video that will get replayed over and over again. Yes he will,” he said gently to the dog.
The dog cocked his head and yipped.
“Time to go home baby.”
The dog jumped into her bag and settled in. Looking up at Donald she smiled. Are you joining us tonight or heading right back?”
“I’m joining you, I have business in town tonight. Do you need a ride back to the hotel?”
Looking towards some of the stares at her from the dugout she said, “Probably not a bad idea.”
As they were escorted from the park to the waiting limo, she finally took a good at her hand.
“This may be a back water town, but I bet I can get the manicurist back up into the room to fix my nails before dinner Pookie.”
“Ruff,” Pookie barked in agreement.
“Exactly,” she said reaching in to scratch his ears.
I admit this was a stumper... how do you get a dog on the field at Fenway to bite a player? If a player is going to be bitten, who would it be? That answer was easier, which players do I really dislike and A-Rod is always on the top of the list for me. I have always disliked mercenary players and checkbook baseball. Today, A-Rod still remains one of the players on the top of the list for me. As they say, that was a no-brainer.
This story is important as it really is a rough draft story. This is that lump of compressed coal that is going to need some serious polishing and cutting to reveal the diamond inside, which is part of this exercise this month. Characters names and things about them will change. While this is very much my New York state of mind (which is 180* different than Billy Joel's), I still need to examine, think and edit... edit... edit.
For someone like me, this exercise is even more important because this is the type of story that would go into a folder on my hard drive and sit there until I got around to it. If stories in my hard drive folders could collect dust, this would be under a pile very, very quickly with several others that have been there since 2 computers ago. Now that this is public, I really need to take the time to fix it when I sit down to edit in the coming months.
******
Anna Lee Byrne never went anywhere without her Jack Russell Terrier. Pookie was more than a dog, he was a companion and best friend. It was nice that most of the places she went to in Boston were so accommodating. The ones that weren’t, well she’d spend her husband’s money somewhere else.
She didn’t like Boston. Compared to New York, Boston was a hick town. In New York she cold go anywhere, make a few demands and look down her nose at the staff and remind them that her husband was star center fielder for the Yankees. If she was unhappy, he was unhappy. If he was unhappy, the Yankees struggled and no one in New York, except for maybe David Letterman (not that he really counted), wanted to see the Yankees struggle.
But when he played in Boston, he liked her to be on his arm. After all, who didn’t want a former model and current trophy wife to make Boston sports fans eat their hearts out. Not only was New York better than Boston, so were the wives and everything else that counts.
He also made sure that he bought seats in the box behind the visitor’s batting circle. She could sit front and center with the cameras on her and any celebrity guests that were eager to fill the seats with donations to his charitable foundation.
Today was a good day. It was a national broadcast, the weather was perfect and she knew she looked fabulous. Having found a manicurist in this forsaken back water of a city to give her a perfect manicure with the Yankees logo complete with diamond insets and her husband’s number. Yes, she would look fabulous for the cameras today. He had already made the arrangements for Pookie to be at the game with her and life was good, even if they were in Boston.
“Anna Lee.”
She turned to see the Donald coming to join her in the box.
“Donald. Where’s your lovely wife?” she asked as she stood up to greet him. He kissed her cheek and they sat back down.
“Oh she had some commitment and couldn’t make it. Ivanka has been busy, with her husband and the baby as well as the business, the poor girl works as hard as her father.”
“Not surprising, and she does it with grace and beauty.”
“You always know the right thing to say.”
“You married a lovely woman. How’s that handsome son of yours?” she smiled.
“Which one?”
“Barron.”
“Fabulous, growing like a weed. I wish I could have brought him today, he’s really a joy.”
“So long as that joy is second to beating these Red Sox.”
He laughed, which caused Pookie to give a gruff bark.
“Oh Pookie, I’m sorry. Did I frighten you.”
The dog gave a lower ruff and then settled back into Anna Lee’s bag.
It wasn’t long before the park filled up and the game got started. In true Boston fashion, it also wasn’t long before the fans began chanting obscenities and making general fools of themselves.
The celebrities that joined them in the box all chatted with her, treating as if she were royalty. In New York, she was because she was a Yankee wife.
The game was a pitcher’s duel between Jon Lester and Phil Hughes. Both men were on fire and everyone was at a loss this afternoon. Derek Jeter, A-Rod and her husband, New York’s power trio, were hitless as were Kevin Youkilis, Dustin Pedroia and Big Papi for the Boston side of the order.
Finally, in the bottom of the 8th inning, Boston seemed to get Hughes’ timing and were starting pepper hits all over the park. No where was more vulnerable than Jeter’s hot corner. Despite his best efforts, the line drives seemed to just get past him. A few bloopers over A-Rod’s head and suddenly the Sox were leading by two runs with runners threatening. A quick pitching change held the damage there, but it would be tough going into the inning behind with Papelbon sure to come in and close.
Looking at the order due up, it the power trio.
Jeter managed to beat out a play at first. A-Rod hit a dribbler that got him to first but Jeter was tagged out at second. With one down and one one, Anna Lee’s husband stepped into the batter’s box, she had to remember to breathe.
“Your husband better knock one out of here to give us some hope,” Donald said as he leaned over.
“Don’t worry, he’s good that way.”
“He certainly is, or he wouldn’t be in New York.”
She laughed, but one thing she know, Yankees fan took their baseball seriously.
Pookie yipped, so she reached down to put her precious dog on her lap.
“We need to cheer for daddy,” she said to the pampered dog in a baby talk voice. “Yes we do, don’t we.”
The dog gave a little bark in agreement.
As he stood in the batter’s box, she proudly clapped and cheered for him. The guests in the VIP box all rose, as did she, as they applauded. She placed Pookie on the thick ledge in front of her, Pookie’s leash lazily wrapped around her hand.
Under the intense gaze of the closer’s glare, a slow smile spread across her face as she knew there was no way her husband would be intimidated by that look. The pitcher went into his motion, rearing back and letting the ball loose. The batter drew back and uncoiled the powerful swing, meeting the ball at the plate, but a second late on the wrong part of the bat barrel.
The ball went up and back towards the box where they all stood cheering for the Yankees. Jason Varitek, the catcher for the Red Sox, flipped off his mask. Keeping his eyes glued to the ball, he backed up and up to stay under it. Just as he reached the ledge, he reached up and over, the ball within reach… and that’s when it all happened.
Bumping the wall scared the small dog. The terrier leapt out of the way and onto the field, the leash running through Anna Lee’s fingers as it escaped. In the meantime, the ball and the glove met at Anna Lee’s outstretched hand, breaking the carefully adorned nails One nail bent backwards, another snapped off entirely.
Anna cried out in pain as A-Rod started toward second, then stopped. Varitek, not missing a beat, threw to first. As A-Rod tried to get back to first just beating the runner back to the base.
Pookie spooked as he heard Anna Lee’s cries and darted across the infield looking for a place to hide or escape. Jeter, face down in the dirt from his failed slide back to first saw the dog first.
“Pookie,” he called out. Rising to his knees he tried to lunge at the dog as it darted towards the Red Sox dugout. The dog stopped and snarled.
“Pookie, come here now,” he used a firm voice but the dog leaped at him. As he caught the dog, it turned on him sinking his teeth into the fleshy outer part of his hand just below his pinky.
Adrian Gonzalez, noticing the dog reached down gently calling, “How did you get out here little one. Come on,” he held out the back of his hand. The dog suspiciously sniffed the offered hand before allowing him to reach down and scoop him up. Looking at A-Rod holding his hand, he nodded towards the approaching trainer, “You better let them take a look at that man. Do you know the dog’s owner?”
“That’s my wife’s dog,” said the voice behind him. “No idea how he got on the field, but l’ll take him. Alex, how’s the hand?”
He didn’t need words to express the anger flashing in his eyes.
The center fielder scooped the dog from the Sox first baseman.
“Guess that’s why dogs aren’t allowed in ball parks,” the center fielder said.
“That and the mess,” the first baseman responded.
He walked across the field with the dog in his hands calming him down as they walked. In the box, he saw the Donald calming her down as tears streaked down her face. Security personnel surrounding them to both protect them from the crowd.”
“I need to find Pookie…”
“Here’s Pookie.”
She looked up and saw the sad look on the terrier’s face.
“Pookie,” she said holding out her arms. The pain of her bent back fingernail forgotten in the moment. As she took the dog, she kissed her husband.
“You’ll get them tomorrow sweetie.”
“We’ll see, Pookie just took a chunk out of our short stop.”
“He never did like him,” she smiled.
“From now on you need to keep the dog away from the park,” Donald said, “he may not like A-Rod, but the rest of us do.”
Giving his wife another quick kiss on the cheek, he disappeared down the dugout with the rest of the team.
Looking up at Donald, Anna Lee smiled. “Thanks again. I don’t think I’ll be back in Boston any time soon.”
“Maybe not such a bad thing.”
“Maybe not,” but for now I better make sure I can beat it out of here before Pookie and I become public enemy number one.”
“He’ll be fine Anna Lee. He’ll be more embarrassed by the Sports Center video that will get replayed over and over again. Yes he will,” he said gently to the dog.
The dog cocked his head and yipped.
“Time to go home baby.”
The dog jumped into her bag and settled in. Looking up at Donald she smiled. Are you joining us tonight or heading right back?”
“I’m joining you, I have business in town tonight. Do you need a ride back to the hotel?”
Looking towards some of the stares at her from the dugout she said, “Probably not a bad idea.”
As they were escorted from the park to the waiting limo, she finally took a good at her hand.
“This may be a back water town, but I bet I can get the manicurist back up into the room to fix my nails before dinner Pookie.”
“Ruff,” Pookie barked in agreement.
“Exactly,” she said reaching in to scratch his ears.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Story Fifteen: Horse Sense
One girl gave me a bunch of prompts with horses on the field running over players. She loves horses and we always tease her about how everything is about horses with her. In fact, I refused to accept her prompt until she came up with a non-horse one. She she gave me one about a dog getting loose on the field. So it goes.
But, as promises, since she came up with a non-horse prompt, here's my horse story for her.
*******
“What would it take for you to like baseball?” Paul asked his sister.
Charlotte thought for a moment, “horses on the field.”
“Wouldn’t that be polo?” Paul replied.
Charlotte stuck her tongue out at him.
“Seriously,” Paul challenged her.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte responded. “I guess I just like horses. Baseball doesn’t do a lot for me.”
“Why do you like horses so much?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“Why do you like baseball so much?”
Paul thought for a moment.
“What’s not to like?”
“Um, it’s slow paced, boring and doesn’t have any horses.”
“You never know if there’ll be a lot of home runs or a no hitter until it happens. A lot of times it’s starts off one way and then it changes just like that,” he snapped his finger. “Why do you like horses so much?”
“They’re so powerful. When I’m riding, I feel like nothing can stop me. I feel free.”
“When I play baseball and get a solid hit or make an amazing play, I feel the same way.”
They ate their snack for a bit, just thinking.
Paul remembered something.
“Did you know that the Boston police mounted unit used be at Fenway Park for crowd control. In fact, when the Sox clinched the AL East title in 1986, the mounted unit was on the warning track around the field to keep people from running onto the field?”
“I did not know that,” Charlotte replied.
“In fact, there was a photo of Roger Clemens in the paper of him jumping up on the back of the horse with one of the police and riding around the edge of the field. He wasn’t pitching that day, so he had t-shirt on with a bunch of K’s on it because he holds the record for the most strikeouts in a baseball game.”
“So you’re telling me there was a horse on the field.”
“Yes, yes there was.”
“Hmmm,” Charlotte though for a second, “that’s pretty cool.”
“In fact, a couple of years ago when the City of Boston decided to cut the budget of the mounted police, the owners of the Red Sox said they were willing to pay for them because they spent so much time doing crowd control and protection around the Red Sox.”
“I did not know that.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes I do.”
“So you’re telling me the Red Sox are horse friendly.”
Paul thought for a second. “I guess I am.”
“Cool.”
“The City of Boston said, ‘no’ and the mounted unit is mostly in New York now protecting the Yankees and Yankees Stadium.”
“That’s not so good.”
“But at least they’re still doing what they know.”
“That’s true,” Charlotte said, “it’s always good when horses get to do what they like to do. If the horses like being around people the way police horses do, then it’s good they’re still doing that.”
“Knowing that, would you give the Red Sox a chance? I mean, they tried to keep the police horses in Boston.”
“Maybe. I mean,” Charlotte shrugged, “it’s the whole baseball thing that I have to get past now but the Red Sox seem kind of cool.”
“But, now that you know the team is horse friendly and used to allow horses on the field, does that make it easier to like them.”
“Well that and they’re from Boston.”
“OK, so you now have three things to like about them…”
“Four if you count that some of the players are…” dropping her voice to an embarrassed whisper, “kind of cute.”
“I guess, I mean, that’s not my thing.”
“No duh!”
“I’m just saying, you now have some reasons to look at the Red Sox in a way that let you find things you can like about them.”
“I guess.”
“OK, so let’s watch an inning of the game. Think about how these guys are horse friendly and see if there’s something you like. I’ll even explain it to you.”
“If I do that, will you watch a horse show with me?”
“I already have to go to your shows.”
“And I have to go to your Little League games. But if I watch an inning of baseball with you and you explain it to me, then you have to watch a jumping match with me so I can explain it to you.”
Paul scrunched up his face the way he did when he thought.
“Make it two innings.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and made a face.
“I guess.”
“Deal.” He stuck out his hand, “shake on it.”
She took his extended hand and shook.
“Hey, has a horse ever run over a baseball player on the field?”
“I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be good.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Not it wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’d have a hurt player and that would sort of not be good.”
“But think about it. Here’s this baseball player standing in the field and suddenly,” she brought her hands together in a slapping collision, “here’s this horse on the field and it knocks him over. Tell me you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Well… I might. It depends.”
“Then every time you turn on the news or a sports show, what do you see for the next few days? A baseball player getting run over by a horse. You know someone’s going to put in sound effects or that they’ll make fun of it on Saturday Night Live or something. Then the player would be kind of famous for getting run over by a horse.”
“Why would you even think something like that?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“I don’t know. It just sort of jumped into my head.”
“You’re weird. Are you sure you’re my sister?”
“Are you sure you’re my brother?”
“Point taken.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Actually it would.”
“You know what wouldn’t be funny,” she said.
“What?”
“If a horse slipped on a baseball and got hurt.”
Paul thought for a minute.
“I can’t think of anything funny about that,” he agreed. “In fact, it would be really sad because the horse would probably have to be put down, wouldn’t it.”
“Probably,” Charlotte said. “Even if it was able to recover, it would never be able to compete or work the way it would before being hurt. That would make me really sad.”
Paul thought for a second.
“So think about that for a minute. A baseball player unexpectedly getting run over by a horse and getting hurt is funny, but a horse getting hurt by a baseball isn’t.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Charlotte nodded.
“It does to me too, but I don’t know why.”
“Probably because we expect people to recover from being hurt, but not horses when stuff like that happens.”
Paul looked at her.
“For a little sister, you’re pretty smart when you want to be.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
“For an older brother, you’re kind of a jerk.”
Paul smiled and laughed. “And don’t you forget it.”
They both laughed.
“So… the game’s on in an hour. Are you really going to watch the first couple of innings with me?”
“I said I would.”
“Cool.”
“And tomorrow, there’s an event on ESPN. Are you really going to watch with me?”
“If you watch baseball with me today.”
Charlotte nodded.
“Maybe,” she said, “if I understand baseball better, I won’t spend all of your Little League game reading and being bored.”
“And maybe I won’t spend your events pretending to sleep and going to the snack bar every two seconds.”
“I can live with that.”
“If you decide you like baseball, would you want me to teach you how to throw and hit?”
“I guess it would be a good thing if you taught me those things. I kind of need them for gym and stuff. So yeah, you can teach me how to throw and hit.”
“Cool. Maybe you could teach me how to ride sometime.”
“Are you serious!”
“None of that jumping or silly stuff. I just think it would be kind of cool to know how to ride a horse. Then if we ever go someplace with horses, I’d be able to keep up instead of having to ride the baby ponies in a circle sort of thing.”
Charlotte hugged her brother.
“So we should clean up before the game or mom’s going to be kind of mad,” Paul said as he broke from her embrace.
“I’ll clean up. It’s not that hard you know. Maybe I should teach you how to do the dishes.”
Paul rolled his eyes.
“I know how to do the dishes. I just don’t want to do the dishes.”
Charlotte shrugged, “Except for big things like Thanksgiving, it’s not that hard.”
“I know. I just don’t like doing dishes.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Are you sure we’re related? Maybe you were switched at birth or something.”
“I was just thinking that about you.”
“Let’s clean up together and then we’ll watch the game.”
“Just don’t expect any horses on the field today.”
Charlotte laughed. “I won’t.”
But, as promises, since she came up with a non-horse prompt, here's my horse story for her.
*******
“What would it take for you to like baseball?” Paul asked his sister.
Charlotte thought for a moment, “horses on the field.”
“Wouldn’t that be polo?” Paul replied.
Charlotte stuck her tongue out at him.
“Seriously,” Paul challenged her.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte responded. “I guess I just like horses. Baseball doesn’t do a lot for me.”
“Why do you like horses so much?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“Why do you like baseball so much?”
Paul thought for a moment.
“What’s not to like?”
“Um, it’s slow paced, boring and doesn’t have any horses.”
“You never know if there’ll be a lot of home runs or a no hitter until it happens. A lot of times it’s starts off one way and then it changes just like that,” he snapped his finger. “Why do you like horses so much?”
“They’re so powerful. When I’m riding, I feel like nothing can stop me. I feel free.”
“When I play baseball and get a solid hit or make an amazing play, I feel the same way.”
They ate their snack for a bit, just thinking.
Paul remembered something.
“Did you know that the Boston police mounted unit used be at Fenway Park for crowd control. In fact, when the Sox clinched the AL East title in 1986, the mounted unit was on the warning track around the field to keep people from running onto the field?”
“I did not know that,” Charlotte replied.
“In fact, there was a photo of Roger Clemens in the paper of him jumping up on the back of the horse with one of the police and riding around the edge of the field. He wasn’t pitching that day, so he had t-shirt on with a bunch of K’s on it because he holds the record for the most strikeouts in a baseball game.”
“So you’re telling me there was a horse on the field.”
“Yes, yes there was.”
“Hmmm,” Charlotte though for a second, “that’s pretty cool.”
“In fact, a couple of years ago when the City of Boston decided to cut the budget of the mounted police, the owners of the Red Sox said they were willing to pay for them because they spent so much time doing crowd control and protection around the Red Sox.”
“I did not know that.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes I do.”
“So you’re telling me the Red Sox are horse friendly.”
Paul thought for a second. “I guess I am.”
“Cool.”
“The City of Boston said, ‘no’ and the mounted unit is mostly in New York now protecting the Yankees and Yankees Stadium.”
“That’s not so good.”
“But at least they’re still doing what they know.”
“That’s true,” Charlotte said, “it’s always good when horses get to do what they like to do. If the horses like being around people the way police horses do, then it’s good they’re still doing that.”
“Knowing that, would you give the Red Sox a chance? I mean, they tried to keep the police horses in Boston.”
“Maybe. I mean,” Charlotte shrugged, “it’s the whole baseball thing that I have to get past now but the Red Sox seem kind of cool.”
“But, now that you know the team is horse friendly and used to allow horses on the field, does that make it easier to like them.”
“Well that and they’re from Boston.”
“OK, so you now have three things to like about them…”
“Four if you count that some of the players are…” dropping her voice to an embarrassed whisper, “kind of cute.”
“I guess, I mean, that’s not my thing.”
“No duh!”
“I’m just saying, you now have some reasons to look at the Red Sox in a way that let you find things you can like about them.”
“I guess.”
“OK, so let’s watch an inning of the game. Think about how these guys are horse friendly and see if there’s something you like. I’ll even explain it to you.”
“If I do that, will you watch a horse show with me?”
“I already have to go to your shows.”
“And I have to go to your Little League games. But if I watch an inning of baseball with you and you explain it to me, then you have to watch a jumping match with me so I can explain it to you.”
Paul scrunched up his face the way he did when he thought.
“Make it two innings.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and made a face.
“I guess.”
“Deal.” He stuck out his hand, “shake on it.”
She took his extended hand and shook.
“Hey, has a horse ever run over a baseball player on the field?”
“I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be good.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Not it wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’d have a hurt player and that would sort of not be good.”
“But think about it. Here’s this baseball player standing in the field and suddenly,” she brought her hands together in a slapping collision, “here’s this horse on the field and it knocks him over. Tell me you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Well… I might. It depends.”
“Then every time you turn on the news or a sports show, what do you see for the next few days? A baseball player getting run over by a horse. You know someone’s going to put in sound effects or that they’ll make fun of it on Saturday Night Live or something. Then the player would be kind of famous for getting run over by a horse.”
“Why would you even think something like that?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“I don’t know. It just sort of jumped into my head.”
“You’re weird. Are you sure you’re my sister?”
“Are you sure you’re my brother?”
“Point taken.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Actually it would.”
“You know what wouldn’t be funny,” she said.
“What?”
“If a horse slipped on a baseball and got hurt.”
Paul thought for a minute.
“I can’t think of anything funny about that,” he agreed. “In fact, it would be really sad because the horse would probably have to be put down, wouldn’t it.”
“Probably,” Charlotte said. “Even if it was able to recover, it would never be able to compete or work the way it would before being hurt. That would make me really sad.”
Paul thought for a second.
“So think about that for a minute. A baseball player unexpectedly getting run over by a horse and getting hurt is funny, but a horse getting hurt by a baseball isn’t.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Charlotte nodded.
“It does to me too, but I don’t know why.”
“Probably because we expect people to recover from being hurt, but not horses when stuff like that happens.”
Paul looked at her.
“For a little sister, you’re pretty smart when you want to be.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
“For an older brother, you’re kind of a jerk.”
Paul smiled and laughed. “And don’t you forget it.”
They both laughed.
“So… the game’s on in an hour. Are you really going to watch the first couple of innings with me?”
“I said I would.”
“Cool.”
“And tomorrow, there’s an event on ESPN. Are you really going to watch with me?”
“If you watch baseball with me today.”
Charlotte nodded.
“Maybe,” she said, “if I understand baseball better, I won’t spend all of your Little League game reading and being bored.”
“And maybe I won’t spend your events pretending to sleep and going to the snack bar every two seconds.”
“I can live with that.”
“If you decide you like baseball, would you want me to teach you how to throw and hit?”
“I guess it would be a good thing if you taught me those things. I kind of need them for gym and stuff. So yeah, you can teach me how to throw and hit.”
“Cool. Maybe you could teach me how to ride sometime.”
“Are you serious!”
“None of that jumping or silly stuff. I just think it would be kind of cool to know how to ride a horse. Then if we ever go someplace with horses, I’d be able to keep up instead of having to ride the baby ponies in a circle sort of thing.”
Charlotte hugged her brother.
“So we should clean up before the game or mom’s going to be kind of mad,” Paul said as he broke from her embrace.
“I’ll clean up. It’s not that hard you know. Maybe I should teach you how to do the dishes.”
Paul rolled his eyes.
“I know how to do the dishes. I just don’t want to do the dishes.”
Charlotte shrugged, “Except for big things like Thanksgiving, it’s not that hard.”
“I know. I just don’t like doing dishes.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Are you sure we’re related? Maybe you were switched at birth or something.”
“I was just thinking that about you.”
“Let’s clean up together and then we’ll watch the game.”
“Just don’t expect any horses on the field today.”
Charlotte laughed. “I won’t.”
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Story Fourteen: Photographs and Memories
I'm not sure where this one came from, all my boys are in college. Sometimes a story just decides to come out of the blue.
****
“Mom, I need a baby picture for the yearbook….”
The shout was punctuated by the slam of the front door, the opening of the fridge door, closing of the fridge door and then the reopening of the fridge door.
“Do we have anything to eat?”
With a sigh, Devon’s mother tried to ignore her son. He’d be in her office soon enough, why rush things?
“Ma,” he called again. The fridge door hadn’t closed yet, so she was pretty sure he was drinking milk from the carton while looking for something to eat as well. “Did you hear me? I need a baby picture for the yearbook.”
“I heard you,” she yelled back. “I’m working, we can look later.”
“Whatever. Did you go food shopping yet?”
“There’s fruit on the counter, otherwise the kitchen is closed until I’m done working. Go do your homework.”
“Whatever,” he yelled again.
The fridge door closed and shortly after that, his heavy steps moved up the stairs and slam of his bedroom door. She heard the thud of his back pack hitting the floor and pounding of his music as he turned on his speakers.
Her eyes fell on her favorite photo from when the boys were little. It was taken at Devon’s 10th birthday party, which they had at Fenway Park. It had been an unusually warm April day and they lucked out in that Pedro was on the mound. In the photo, all the boys had a big red “K” painted on their shirtless chests. Two of them had on big, red foam fingers and all of them had ear to ear grins on their faces.
They were so sweet back then.
Michael was in college, Devon was graduating this year and Timmy was finishing his sophomore year.
Staring at her computer screen with a sigh, she realized her concentration was gone. Perhaps she needed a break from the grant she was writing for now. It was often Devon acknowledged her presence these days, so maybe it was a good opportunity to see what he needed.
She looked at the photo again. What was it he said he needed? A baby picture. Perhaps one of the photos from that day would do the trick. She stopped in the living room and pulled out the green box labeled “Summer 2003-2004.” Digging through, she quickly found the pictures.
There was the one of him with the Japanese tourists girls posing around him, the girls flashing peace signs while he grinned. Then there was the one of the bleacher creature who had just painted his chest. He was holding Devon up like Simba, the Lion King, for the crowd’s adoration and approval… both of which he received. Of course there was the one with his brothers, but she suspected that particular one would be lower on his list than the other two.
Slipping quietly upstairs, she knocked on his door. She heard the music soften a bit before he bellowed, “Come in.”
“Hey, how about one of these?” she handed him the photos.
Pausing he looked at the pile of photos and smiled.
“I remember this. It was my birthday and Pedro was pitching. The guys were painting K’s on their chests for every strikeout Pedro recorded. I asked if I could get painted too and you shrugged and said, ‘Why not, you’re taking a bath when you get home.’ I couldn’t believe how cool a mom you were.”
“Were?”
“Are.”
“Nice save.”
He looked through them, tenderly touching the one of him and his brothers.
“We were so little.”
“You grow up, it happens.”
He shrugged, “I guess. It’s funny I still remember all the details of that day. Everything from being excited we took the T into the game to the game itself. I remember I was so excited to sit in the bleachers because we never got to sit in the bleachers. And sitting right over the bullpen like that,” he whistled.
She smiled.
“How cool was it that Pedro was pitching. I remember I got Tek to sign my ball cap because it was my birthday. He was warming Pedro up in the pen before the game. Then dad bought me the foam finger,” he pointed to the wall where it still hung over his bed.
“You know what I remember about that day? I remember that you three didn’t fight at all that day.”
“There was nothing to fight about. It was like everything was perfect that day. The weather, the seats, the game… everything.”
He looked at the photo with the Japanese tourists.
“Why do they pose with strangers like that?”
She shrugged.
“Do you still have the photo of Mikey with the Japanese tourists at the duckling statues?”
“Next to this one in my office,” she pointed at the photo of the three of them.
“I was so little.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you’re over six feet now or playing ball would be difficult right now.”
“Yesterday I was talking to some of my friends. They were talking about how their parents have always told them what to do. You guys weren’t like that.”
“What’s the point of sending you to school to learn how to think on your own if we didn’t let you do just that.”
“I’ve been thinking about colleges.”
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
“I think I want to stay close to home. If I can keep my math grades up, I might be able to get into Commonwealth College at UMass Amherst. I know it’s the honors program out there, but I’m pretty sure I could handle it.”
“Does that mean you finally picked a major?”
“I’m leaning towards education.”
“Really,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I just spent my community service time in Mr. Swaim’s room over at the elementary school. He made it seem so cool. The kids responded well and I really liked how he was able to be friendly and strict at the same time.”
“I could see you as a teacher. Sounds like a good idea. Any other schools you were thinking of?”
“BC and Framingham are a little too close, but Bridgewater looks good too.”
“We can take a drive down to check it out if you want. I notice, with the exception of ruling out BC, you’re only mentioning state schools. Is there a reason for that?”
He looked back at the photos.
“I think I like this one,” he said looking at the one of the three of them. “If they don’t let me use that one or want to crop out Mikey and Timmy, then I’ll go with this one,” he said indicating the Lion King photo.
“I’ll make copies in the morning. You didn’t answer my question.”
He looked up over his bed. There was a poster of Jason Varitek his brothers gave him that birthday next to the foam finger. There were also laminated front pages from the Boston papers from 2004 and 2007 of the Red Sox series wins.
“Hey mom, could you make an extra of this one,” he said indicating the photo of the three of them. “I’d kind of like to have it.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“I don’t want leave home yet. Is that a bad thing? I mean, I don’t want to stay home or anything like that, but I don’t want to go too far away either.”
“I can understand that feeling.”
“Are you OK with that?”
“Are you OK with the photos I picked?”
He smiled. “I want a copy of it, what do you think?”
“We can still look for other photos.”
“No, these are good.”
“Should we think about other schools?”
“No, UMass and Bridgewater are good.”
She took the photos from him.
“You know, I love this photo. I love the joy, I love the lightness, I love the innocence. The problem is it’s a snapshot in time. As much as I love this moment in time, you can’t stay there forever. If you do, you miss the other equally as wonderful moments.”
“Thanks for not telling me what schools I need to go to in order to be set for life.”
“If I didn’t like your choices, I won’t pay the tuition.”
They both laughed.
“You like my choices?”
“I’m think I can cover those schools. You know Bridgewater is a division 3 school.”
“That’s OK, I’m not going to play ball after high school.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m no Mark Bellhorn.”
It was her turn to laugh.
“How did I have such a smart kid?”
“I knew you’d get it. You let Mikey walk away when he ready and on his terms. You’ll let Timmy do the same. I’m good with where I am. It’s been a lot of fun but it’s becoming work. Once it becomes work, what’s the point?”
“It’s your call, either way you know Dad and I will support you on your decisions about both baseball and schools.”
“I know you will.”
“Hey, do me a favor will you.”
“Sure.”
“Keep the music down, I have a proposal to write and your dad will be hope soon.”
“I can do that.”
She left his room, closing the door softly behind her. She wondered if it would be harder when it was Timmy’s turn to leave and all that would be left were the photos and echoes. Wiping a tear from her eye she went back downstairs to her office as his music started up again, this time a bit lower. He was a good kid, always had been. Now he was growing into a good man. Just like his brother before him and his brother behind him. They’d always be her little boys, but now it was time to push another bird from the nest.
****
“Mom, I need a baby picture for the yearbook….”
The shout was punctuated by the slam of the front door, the opening of the fridge door, closing of the fridge door and then the reopening of the fridge door.
“Do we have anything to eat?”
With a sigh, Devon’s mother tried to ignore her son. He’d be in her office soon enough, why rush things?
“Ma,” he called again. The fridge door hadn’t closed yet, so she was pretty sure he was drinking milk from the carton while looking for something to eat as well. “Did you hear me? I need a baby picture for the yearbook.”
“I heard you,” she yelled back. “I’m working, we can look later.”
“Whatever. Did you go food shopping yet?”
“There’s fruit on the counter, otherwise the kitchen is closed until I’m done working. Go do your homework.”
“Whatever,” he yelled again.
The fridge door closed and shortly after that, his heavy steps moved up the stairs and slam of his bedroom door. She heard the thud of his back pack hitting the floor and pounding of his music as he turned on his speakers.
Her eyes fell on her favorite photo from when the boys were little. It was taken at Devon’s 10th birthday party, which they had at Fenway Park. It had been an unusually warm April day and they lucked out in that Pedro was on the mound. In the photo, all the boys had a big red “K” painted on their shirtless chests. Two of them had on big, red foam fingers and all of them had ear to ear grins on their faces.
They were so sweet back then.
Michael was in college, Devon was graduating this year and Timmy was finishing his sophomore year.
Staring at her computer screen with a sigh, she realized her concentration was gone. Perhaps she needed a break from the grant she was writing for now. It was often Devon acknowledged her presence these days, so maybe it was a good opportunity to see what he needed.
She looked at the photo again. What was it he said he needed? A baby picture. Perhaps one of the photos from that day would do the trick. She stopped in the living room and pulled out the green box labeled “Summer 2003-2004.” Digging through, she quickly found the pictures.
There was the one of him with the Japanese tourists girls posing around him, the girls flashing peace signs while he grinned. Then there was the one of the bleacher creature who had just painted his chest. He was holding Devon up like Simba, the Lion King, for the crowd’s adoration and approval… both of which he received. Of course there was the one with his brothers, but she suspected that particular one would be lower on his list than the other two.
Slipping quietly upstairs, she knocked on his door. She heard the music soften a bit before he bellowed, “Come in.”
“Hey, how about one of these?” she handed him the photos.
Pausing he looked at the pile of photos and smiled.
“I remember this. It was my birthday and Pedro was pitching. The guys were painting K’s on their chests for every strikeout Pedro recorded. I asked if I could get painted too and you shrugged and said, ‘Why not, you’re taking a bath when you get home.’ I couldn’t believe how cool a mom you were.”
“Were?”
“Are.”
“Nice save.”
He looked through them, tenderly touching the one of him and his brothers.
“We were so little.”
“You grow up, it happens.”
He shrugged, “I guess. It’s funny I still remember all the details of that day. Everything from being excited we took the T into the game to the game itself. I remember I was so excited to sit in the bleachers because we never got to sit in the bleachers. And sitting right over the bullpen like that,” he whistled.
She smiled.
“How cool was it that Pedro was pitching. I remember I got Tek to sign my ball cap because it was my birthday. He was warming Pedro up in the pen before the game. Then dad bought me the foam finger,” he pointed to the wall where it still hung over his bed.
“You know what I remember about that day? I remember that you three didn’t fight at all that day.”
“There was nothing to fight about. It was like everything was perfect that day. The weather, the seats, the game… everything.”
He looked at the photo with the Japanese tourists.
“Why do they pose with strangers like that?”
She shrugged.
“Do you still have the photo of Mikey with the Japanese tourists at the duckling statues?”
“Next to this one in my office,” she pointed at the photo of the three of them.
“I was so little.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you’re over six feet now or playing ball would be difficult right now.”
“Yesterday I was talking to some of my friends. They were talking about how their parents have always told them what to do. You guys weren’t like that.”
“What’s the point of sending you to school to learn how to think on your own if we didn’t let you do just that.”
“I’ve been thinking about colleges.”
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
“I think I want to stay close to home. If I can keep my math grades up, I might be able to get into Commonwealth College at UMass Amherst. I know it’s the honors program out there, but I’m pretty sure I could handle it.”
“Does that mean you finally picked a major?”
“I’m leaning towards education.”
“Really,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I just spent my community service time in Mr. Swaim’s room over at the elementary school. He made it seem so cool. The kids responded well and I really liked how he was able to be friendly and strict at the same time.”
“I could see you as a teacher. Sounds like a good idea. Any other schools you were thinking of?”
“BC and Framingham are a little too close, but Bridgewater looks good too.”
“We can take a drive down to check it out if you want. I notice, with the exception of ruling out BC, you’re only mentioning state schools. Is there a reason for that?”
He looked back at the photos.
“I think I like this one,” he said looking at the one of the three of them. “If they don’t let me use that one or want to crop out Mikey and Timmy, then I’ll go with this one,” he said indicating the Lion King photo.
“I’ll make copies in the morning. You didn’t answer my question.”
He looked up over his bed. There was a poster of Jason Varitek his brothers gave him that birthday next to the foam finger. There were also laminated front pages from the Boston papers from 2004 and 2007 of the Red Sox series wins.
“Hey mom, could you make an extra of this one,” he said indicating the photo of the three of them. “I’d kind of like to have it.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“I don’t want leave home yet. Is that a bad thing? I mean, I don’t want to stay home or anything like that, but I don’t want to go too far away either.”
“I can understand that feeling.”
“Are you OK with that?”
“Are you OK with the photos I picked?”
He smiled. “I want a copy of it, what do you think?”
“We can still look for other photos.”
“No, these are good.”
“Should we think about other schools?”
“No, UMass and Bridgewater are good.”
She took the photos from him.
“You know, I love this photo. I love the joy, I love the lightness, I love the innocence. The problem is it’s a snapshot in time. As much as I love this moment in time, you can’t stay there forever. If you do, you miss the other equally as wonderful moments.”
“Thanks for not telling me what schools I need to go to in order to be set for life.”
“If I didn’t like your choices, I won’t pay the tuition.”
They both laughed.
“You like my choices?”
“I’m think I can cover those schools. You know Bridgewater is a division 3 school.”
“That’s OK, I’m not going to play ball after high school.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m no Mark Bellhorn.”
It was her turn to laugh.
“How did I have such a smart kid?”
“I knew you’d get it. You let Mikey walk away when he ready and on his terms. You’ll let Timmy do the same. I’m good with where I am. It’s been a lot of fun but it’s becoming work. Once it becomes work, what’s the point?”
“It’s your call, either way you know Dad and I will support you on your decisions about both baseball and schools.”
“I know you will.”
“Hey, do me a favor will you.”
“Sure.”
“Keep the music down, I have a proposal to write and your dad will be hope soon.”
“I can do that.”
She left his room, closing the door softly behind her. She wondered if it would be harder when it was Timmy’s turn to leave and all that would be left were the photos and echoes. Wiping a tear from her eye she went back downstairs to her office as his music started up again, this time a bit lower. He was a good kid, always had been. Now he was growing into a good man. Just like his brother before him and his brother behind him. They’d always be her little boys, but now it was time to push another bird from the nest.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Story Thirteen: Rejection
I remember Fred Lynn leaving the Sox. I wasn't happy but I understood that he wanted to be closer to family and I understood that. Sure the extra money didn't hurt, but I understand the family piece as a factor too. Same with Nick Esasky - who's black and white 8x10 still sits over my desk. But I still remember Johnny Damon breaking my son's heart. If you want to see the pain kids feel when players leave a team for money, you should have been sitting in my living room the night Damon came back to Boston with the Yankees for the first time.
My little Pi took his WWJDD shirt, his pride and joy for years, and some white acrylic paint he bought as he was just starting to paint as well as draw. When Damon walked out onto the field, he calmly took his brush and changed the "a" in Damon to an "e," changing the word to Demon. He then, just as calmly flipped over the shirt and painted on devil horns and a pointed devil tail curling up by his ear. He wore the shirt just as proudly from that day forward to show how his anger had replaced his previous joy.
Even though that shirt is too small for him, he still has it tucked away in the box of "t-shirts that mean too much to me to throw out" box in the back of his closet.
Last night, I watched Papelbon's press conference and I recalled Pi all those years ago. Who knows why he signed with Philly and I'm sure the money didn't hurt, but in the days of jumping ship for the larger paycheck, I have to wonder, do these guys really know what they're doing to the kids that idolize and support them?
*****
The ripping noise, punctuated by angry sobs, echoed through the house.
“You stupid, stupid man!”
Rip.
“How could you do this to us?”
Rip.
“I can’t believe I ever thought you were good.”
Rip.
When the ripping stopped, Benjie’s mom knocked gently on the partially open door. On the floor were posters and newspaper articles he had hung on the walls over the years. Some were torn to shreds, some laying whole, but twisted, on the floor where they fell after they came off the wall.
Benjie looked so small sitting on his bed, curled into himself crying. His dark hair stuck out every which way, knees pulled all the way up covering his face and his arms wrapped around his legs. The racking sobs shook his whole body as he cried.
She sat down next to him and draped her arms over his shoulders. Even though, at 10 he was too old for such things. He shifted his body and curled into his mother for comfort as if he were just a little kid. He cried until he could bare breathe. He gasped a bit for air as she rubbed his back and murmured the comforting words she used to when he was younger.
“I just don’t understand,” he finally gasped. “Doesn’t he understand what he means to Boston? What he means to kids like me?”
“I’m sure he does,” she said. Looking down she noticed Papelbon’s smiling face looking up at her. The laminated front page of the Boston Herald from the 2007 World Series win was lying flat on the floor. “It’s just that some players need to think beyond Boston.”
“He did it for money,” the bitter words spilled out of his mouth. “You saw him at the press conference. He didn’t care.”
Silent tears began to roll down his face again.
She rocked him a bit more, smiling down at him.
“Benjie, the life of a baseball player is precarious at best.”
“Precarious?”
“Cautiously uncertain. Can you tell me what part of speech that might be?”
“Adjective,” he replied without thought, “it modifies or describes the noun.”
She smiled. “You’ll be fine,” she calmly said.
“I don’t understand.”
“This coming from a boy who, last summer, yelled at the TV that he needed a new pitch? Is this the same boy who got nervous that Papelbon might be losing his edge and expected blown saves? Is this the same boy who didn’t ask for a new Papelbon shirt for the start of school this year?”
“That’s not the point. I may have been mad, but I always believed in him. I just feel like he didn’t believe in people like me. You always taught me that sometimes you can feel angry and frustrated with people you love but that you need to work it out. He didn’t try, he just packed his bags and left.”
“Maybe six years in Boston was enough for him. Maybe his needs and his family needed to change where they were.”
“Mom he didn’t even sound like he cared. He said there were no regrets, but was he only thinking of himself?”
“I don’t know honey. I know this is hard on you and kids like you but he had to do what was right for him.”
“And it was too many millions to say ‘no’ to,” he spat out bitterly.
“Hey, that’s a lot of money to say ‘no’ to my friend. I’m not so sure I’d stay in Boston if someone offered me that much money to leave.”
“That’s not the point. The point is for the last six years so many of supported and loved him. We bought his shirts and cards. We bought bobble heads and other souvenirs. I fought for his autograph and always, always cheered for him. He was my hero and he left for what? A couple of million dollars more than what the Red Sox would have offered? He didn’t even give them a chance to make a counter offer. That’s what pisses me off.”
“Can you find another word?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Angers. Frustrates. Um… ticks me off.”
“That’s good,” she smiled.
They sat for a moment more.
“Do you know the name of the player in the photo over my desk?”
“Nick Esasky, the baseball ghod.”
“That’s right. What uniform is he wearing?”
“A Red Sox uniform.”
“How long did he play for the Sox?”
“The ‘89 season. He was the throw in from Pete Rose who wanted to get rid of him.”
“Boston loved Nick. My friends and I sat in the stands chanting the Nickelodeon ‘Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nice’ theme when he would come to the plate. In fact, your uncle Hunter even printed off a giant banner on a dot matrix printer that we held up from our seats whenever we got to games. Do you know why he left?”
“Because he wanted to move back to Atlanta near his family.”
“Exactly.”
“But he didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he wanted his kids to be near their grandparents and cousins. That’s a reason to leave a place that loves you. Being traded is a reason to leave a place that loves you. Money is not a reason to leave a place that loves you.”
“Do you know, first hand, that’s the reason he left?”
“You saw him. There was no emotion in his voice. It was as if he rehearsed it with someone a bunch of times. He stuck to the script.”
“So it seems to you. You don’t know him personally, you don’t know what was in his mind when he did this. Perhaps he wanted to be somewhere where he wasn’t constantly questioned or criticized. Maybe he was just tired of feeling like he couldn’t do anything right anymore after everything he did here.”
Benjie shrugged, but he began to sit up and move away from his mom.
“Perhaps it was just time for him to move on. I know you’ve loved him since the day he stepped foot on the mound. There was something about him that you just gravitated towards, but does that mean you don’t want to pitch anymore?”
Sitting up and looking at his mom in disbelief, Benjie was shocked.
“Of course not!”
“Then what’s next?”
Benjie looked around the room.
“Clean up this mess?”
“That sounded a bit tentative.”
“Tentative?”
“Uncertain, unconfirmed.”
“Adjective,” he replied.
She smiled.
“You’ll be fine,” she said as she rose from the bed. The side of her shirt had a dark spot from where his tears had been absorbed. Looking down at the spot she smiled. “I guess I better change my shirt.”
He smiled.
“That’s what I like to see.”
She turned to leave, carefully stepping over the carnage ripped from the walls.
“Mom?”
She turned at the door and looked at Benjie and raised an eyebrow.
“Thanks.”
“Any time pal. Hey, see what you can save. You never know what might want to save.”
He smiled.
“I guess.”
“By the way, I’m making your favorite dinner tonight. Steak, smashed potatoes, peas and corn.”
“Do I have to set and clear the table tonight?”
“Hey, he only signed with Philly. It’s not like he died unexpectedly in a plane crash or something like Thurman Munson.”
“Can’t blame a kid for trying.”
“No and you still have to do your homework tonight.”
“Seriously? I can’t have a day off to mourn?”
“Save your mourning for when you need it my friend.”
As she stepped out of the room, she heard a quiet, “Mom?”
Going back in she saw Benjie standing there surveying the damage he had done.
“Did you need something?”
He ran across the room and hugged her.
“Thanks. I knew you’d understand.”
Giving him a hug back, she couldn’t help but smile broadly.
“I’ve been there a few too many times myself. Of course I understand.”
He let go and turned his attention on his room. She watched for a moment before going downstairs. She walked into her office and sat down at her desk.
Looking up at the photo of Nick Esasky, she gently reached up and touched it.
“Oh Nick, this just isn’t easy is it?”
The smiling player said nothing from behind the glass. Looking around the room to make sure she was alone, she opened up the secret compartment on her desk. There on the cork board were her old baseball cards. She looked at her Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens cards and wiped a tear that slipped from her eye. She thought for a moment before closing things up.
Looking at her computer, she started typing.
“Gentle reader,” she began typing, “if I had a chance to sit down with certain players, I would look at them and ask the same question: ‘When you chose to leave a team because of money, did you ever once think of the kids that idolized you?’ Maybe I would also ask, ‘Did you ever think they would get over it?’ If they thought they would, I would show them my collection of cards and say, ‘No, no they didn’t.’ So Jonathan Papelbon, you broke my son’s heart today. I don’t know your full reasons for doing so, but you did. For that I will have a hard time forgiving you. I wish you well in Philadelphia but please don’t expect me to welcome you back to Boston with open arms until you truly acknowledge the hearts you broke today. Until you do, like Johnny Damon, you’re dead to me. Now I have to make dinner for a young boy who just learned that the game he loves is a business and it’s players are business men at heart.
Life will go on, my son will recover but just understand you broke something in him today that will never be repaired. Good luck, heaven bless and may you figure out how to throw a third pitch because, trust me, you’ll need it in the NL. If you think Philly is easy, just ask Tito how kind the fans can be.”
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she hit the “post” button and headed into the kitchen. If she knew here son, and she did, he’d want to help cook and tonight she needed some happy mother-son time to help heal the old wounds she felt and start healing his new one.
My little Pi took his WWJDD shirt, his pride and joy for years, and some white acrylic paint he bought as he was just starting to paint as well as draw. When Damon walked out onto the field, he calmly took his brush and changed the "a" in Damon to an "e," changing the word to Demon. He then, just as calmly flipped over the shirt and painted on devil horns and a pointed devil tail curling up by his ear. He wore the shirt just as proudly from that day forward to show how his anger had replaced his previous joy.
Even though that shirt is too small for him, he still has it tucked away in the box of "t-shirts that mean too much to me to throw out" box in the back of his closet.
Last night, I watched Papelbon's press conference and I recalled Pi all those years ago. Who knows why he signed with Philly and I'm sure the money didn't hurt, but in the days of jumping ship for the larger paycheck, I have to wonder, do these guys really know what they're doing to the kids that idolize and support them?
*****
The ripping noise, punctuated by angry sobs, echoed through the house.
“You stupid, stupid man!”
Rip.
“How could you do this to us?”
Rip.
“I can’t believe I ever thought you were good.”
Rip.
When the ripping stopped, Benjie’s mom knocked gently on the partially open door. On the floor were posters and newspaper articles he had hung on the walls over the years. Some were torn to shreds, some laying whole, but twisted, on the floor where they fell after they came off the wall.
Benjie looked so small sitting on his bed, curled into himself crying. His dark hair stuck out every which way, knees pulled all the way up covering his face and his arms wrapped around his legs. The racking sobs shook his whole body as he cried.
She sat down next to him and draped her arms over his shoulders. Even though, at 10 he was too old for such things. He shifted his body and curled into his mother for comfort as if he were just a little kid. He cried until he could bare breathe. He gasped a bit for air as she rubbed his back and murmured the comforting words she used to when he was younger.
“I just don’t understand,” he finally gasped. “Doesn’t he understand what he means to Boston? What he means to kids like me?”
“I’m sure he does,” she said. Looking down she noticed Papelbon’s smiling face looking up at her. The laminated front page of the Boston Herald from the 2007 World Series win was lying flat on the floor. “It’s just that some players need to think beyond Boston.”
“He did it for money,” the bitter words spilled out of his mouth. “You saw him at the press conference. He didn’t care.”
Silent tears began to roll down his face again.
She rocked him a bit more, smiling down at him.
“Benjie, the life of a baseball player is precarious at best.”
“Precarious?”
“Cautiously uncertain. Can you tell me what part of speech that might be?”
“Adjective,” he replied without thought, “it modifies or describes the noun.”
She smiled. “You’ll be fine,” she calmly said.
“I don’t understand.”
“This coming from a boy who, last summer, yelled at the TV that he needed a new pitch? Is this the same boy who got nervous that Papelbon might be losing his edge and expected blown saves? Is this the same boy who didn’t ask for a new Papelbon shirt for the start of school this year?”
“That’s not the point. I may have been mad, but I always believed in him. I just feel like he didn’t believe in people like me. You always taught me that sometimes you can feel angry and frustrated with people you love but that you need to work it out. He didn’t try, he just packed his bags and left.”
“Maybe six years in Boston was enough for him. Maybe his needs and his family needed to change where they were.”
“Mom he didn’t even sound like he cared. He said there were no regrets, but was he only thinking of himself?”
“I don’t know honey. I know this is hard on you and kids like you but he had to do what was right for him.”
“And it was too many millions to say ‘no’ to,” he spat out bitterly.
“Hey, that’s a lot of money to say ‘no’ to my friend. I’m not so sure I’d stay in Boston if someone offered me that much money to leave.”
“That’s not the point. The point is for the last six years so many of supported and loved him. We bought his shirts and cards. We bought bobble heads and other souvenirs. I fought for his autograph and always, always cheered for him. He was my hero and he left for what? A couple of million dollars more than what the Red Sox would have offered? He didn’t even give them a chance to make a counter offer. That’s what pisses me off.”
“Can you find another word?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Angers. Frustrates. Um… ticks me off.”
“That’s good,” she smiled.
They sat for a moment more.
“Do you know the name of the player in the photo over my desk?”
“Nick Esasky, the baseball ghod.”
“That’s right. What uniform is he wearing?”
“A Red Sox uniform.”
“How long did he play for the Sox?”
“The ‘89 season. He was the throw in from Pete Rose who wanted to get rid of him.”
“Boston loved Nick. My friends and I sat in the stands chanting the Nickelodeon ‘Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick Nice’ theme when he would come to the plate. In fact, your uncle Hunter even printed off a giant banner on a dot matrix printer that we held up from our seats whenever we got to games. Do you know why he left?”
“Because he wanted to move back to Atlanta near his family.”
“Exactly.”
“But he didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he wanted his kids to be near their grandparents and cousins. That’s a reason to leave a place that loves you. Being traded is a reason to leave a place that loves you. Money is not a reason to leave a place that loves you.”
“Do you know, first hand, that’s the reason he left?”
“You saw him. There was no emotion in his voice. It was as if he rehearsed it with someone a bunch of times. He stuck to the script.”
“So it seems to you. You don’t know him personally, you don’t know what was in his mind when he did this. Perhaps he wanted to be somewhere where he wasn’t constantly questioned or criticized. Maybe he was just tired of feeling like he couldn’t do anything right anymore after everything he did here.”
Benjie shrugged, but he began to sit up and move away from his mom.
“Perhaps it was just time for him to move on. I know you’ve loved him since the day he stepped foot on the mound. There was something about him that you just gravitated towards, but does that mean you don’t want to pitch anymore?”
Sitting up and looking at his mom in disbelief, Benjie was shocked.
“Of course not!”
“Then what’s next?”
Benjie looked around the room.
“Clean up this mess?”
“That sounded a bit tentative.”
“Tentative?”
“Uncertain, unconfirmed.”
“Adjective,” he replied.
She smiled.
“You’ll be fine,” she said as she rose from the bed. The side of her shirt had a dark spot from where his tears had been absorbed. Looking down at the spot she smiled. “I guess I better change my shirt.”
He smiled.
“That’s what I like to see.”
She turned to leave, carefully stepping over the carnage ripped from the walls.
“Mom?”
She turned at the door and looked at Benjie and raised an eyebrow.
“Thanks.”
“Any time pal. Hey, see what you can save. You never know what might want to save.”
He smiled.
“I guess.”
“By the way, I’m making your favorite dinner tonight. Steak, smashed potatoes, peas and corn.”
“Do I have to set and clear the table tonight?”
“Hey, he only signed with Philly. It’s not like he died unexpectedly in a plane crash or something like Thurman Munson.”
“Can’t blame a kid for trying.”
“No and you still have to do your homework tonight.”
“Seriously? I can’t have a day off to mourn?”
“Save your mourning for when you need it my friend.”
As she stepped out of the room, she heard a quiet, “Mom?”
Going back in she saw Benjie standing there surveying the damage he had done.
“Did you need something?”
He ran across the room and hugged her.
“Thanks. I knew you’d understand.”
Giving him a hug back, she couldn’t help but smile broadly.
“I’ve been there a few too many times myself. Of course I understand.”
He let go and turned his attention on his room. She watched for a moment before going downstairs. She walked into her office and sat down at her desk.
Looking up at the photo of Nick Esasky, she gently reached up and touched it.
“Oh Nick, this just isn’t easy is it?”
The smiling player said nothing from behind the glass. Looking around the room to make sure she was alone, she opened up the secret compartment on her desk. There on the cork board were her old baseball cards. She looked at her Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens cards and wiped a tear that slipped from her eye. She thought for a moment before closing things up.
Looking at her computer, she started typing.
“Gentle reader,” she began typing, “if I had a chance to sit down with certain players, I would look at them and ask the same question: ‘When you chose to leave a team because of money, did you ever once think of the kids that idolized you?’ Maybe I would also ask, ‘Did you ever think they would get over it?’ If they thought they would, I would show them my collection of cards and say, ‘No, no they didn’t.’ So Jonathan Papelbon, you broke my son’s heart today. I don’t know your full reasons for doing so, but you did. For that I will have a hard time forgiving you. I wish you well in Philadelphia but please don’t expect me to welcome you back to Boston with open arms until you truly acknowledge the hearts you broke today. Until you do, like Johnny Damon, you’re dead to me. Now I have to make dinner for a young boy who just learned that the game he loves is a business and it’s players are business men at heart.
Life will go on, my son will recover but just understand you broke something in him today that will never be repaired. Good luck, heaven bless and may you figure out how to throw a third pitch because, trust me, you’ll need it in the NL. If you think Philly is easy, just ask Tito how kind the fans can be.”
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she hit the “post” button and headed into the kitchen. If she knew here son, and she did, he’d want to help cook and tonight she needed some happy mother-son time to help heal the old wounds she felt and start healing his new one.
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