Yesterday I fell at Wrigley. No, not fell. I slipped, hardcore, feet flew out from under me and I fell flat on my back. It was sort of embarrassing, but more funny than embarrassing. My backpack saved my back. Don't get me wrong--I am all kinds of sore today. But I stayed home most of the day, thinking about stuff. It's been a rough couple weeks. A relationship that never could quite get off the ground ended with a thud last week. Then my car died, maybe forever. And some other stuff not suitable for this blog (although, really, none of this is suitable). And then I fell. And I began to realize some things about the other things.
1. Relationship: I usually make terrible choices when it comes to men. This one seemed like a good choice, and I say that because I thought I knew him. But really, I sabotaged everything. I couldn't trust him, even though he never gave me a reason to think he was untrustworthy. And I realized I couldn't trust him because I just didn't think I was good enough for him, so I expected him to be always looking for something better. Why would he want to be in a relationship with someone who doesn't trust him? Earlier this year, he told me he didn't want to date anyone because he wanted to focus on his career, and I accepted that. I should've fought for what I wanted. But I didn't think I was worth fighting for. I think at some point, I need to shake off all the lies I've believed about myself and realize that I'm a pretty cool chick. If someone else who's pretty cool thinks I am, too, I need to just accept it. I have to allow people to like me, to love me. Maybe the rest of my life I will feel bad about the way I handled this relationship, how the rug felt pulled out from under me, but maybe I will find someone else who will make me so glad this didn't work out. I'll get over it like I always do, but, more importantly, I will learn from it. And when I look at who he decided to be with, who he apparently felt would not sidetrack his career, I feel okay about not being with him if that's the kind of person who makes him happy. It's someone I could never be.
2. Cars: I hate them. HATE them. And they stress me out. But in the end, I just have to accept that I need one to live. And while I love my jobs, not having a car is a bad option when you have to drive four hours a day round trip to your places of employment. I don't make the kind of money where it's worth that drive. So, really, I need to start seriously looking at finding employment near my house. I need to think about it seriously. And then the car thing wouldn't stress me out as much.
3. Baseball: I had a good run this year. I have to watch the Braves play, and I will in a couple weeks, and then I will have watched every major league team play this year. Next year, I have to cut down. Getting autographs and meeting the players is fun, but getting attached to them is not. I'm limiting myself next year. I have to.
4. Life: It gets out of control at times, but when I really look at it, my choices have formed a lot of consequences that I don't like to admit. I put myself here. And I can take myself out. I just need to think. And it will all be okay.
That is all. Just wanted to share my thoughts, since a couple of my posts have been a little scary lately. I'll be okay. I will be. Even though this isn't very baseball-y, it's still who I am.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Goodbye to the Most Beautiful People in the World
Last year, Angela called me and told me I needed to come see the Cubs new outfielder, David DeJesus. "He's like a model," she said. and it was true.
I have long believed that all baseball players possess a single gene that not only makes them good at baseball but also makes them good looking. Think about it--think about all the bajillion baseball players that have ever lived, and you will have trouble coming up with a starting lineup's worth of uglies. Lou Gehrig, with his massive dimples and broad smile. Ted Williams, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Jackie Robinson, with movie star good looks that make Denzel Washington look plain.
But David DeJesus was in a class by himself. Dark hair, dark eyes, deep dimples and a perfect, bright smile, perfectly sculpted five o'clock shadow beard. So handsome. Like, drop dead gorgeous, puke all over your shoes, how can he be real beautiful.
But sometimes I forgot his looks, because his lead-off prowess was substantial. The man got on base. He was never an easy out. And he could play any outfield position. He quickly became a favorite in Chicago, with his energy and quickness. I heard someone behind me in the stands say once, "That's a real ballplayer! That's how they're supposed to do it. He hustles out every ground ball. He runs down every fly in the outfield. I wish we had nine DeJesuses on the field."
David was always good to the fans, especially the kids waiting for his autograph and to get photos. Also to the grown-up women who waited, mostly me. Here are some examples.
Then I met his wife. Like most women, I automatically distrust beautiful women. Kim DeJesus was the perfect target for my disgust. Of course I would hate her! I can't begin to describe her beauty in a way that would do her justice. Just look at her: I think you can probably tell which one she is.
I have long believed that all baseball players possess a single gene that not only makes them good at baseball but also makes them good looking. Think about it--think about all the bajillion baseball players that have ever lived, and you will have trouble coming up with a starting lineup's worth of uglies. Lou Gehrig, with his massive dimples and broad smile. Ted Williams, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Jackie Robinson, with movie star good looks that make Denzel Washington look plain.
But David DeJesus was in a class by himself. Dark hair, dark eyes, deep dimples and a perfect, bright smile, perfectly sculpted five o'clock shadow beard. So handsome. Like, drop dead gorgeous, puke all over your shoes, how can he be real beautiful.
But sometimes I forgot his looks, because his lead-off prowess was substantial. The man got on base. He was never an easy out. And he could play any outfield position. He quickly became a favorite in Chicago, with his energy and quickness. I heard someone behind me in the stands say once, "That's a real ballplayer! That's how they're supposed to do it. He hustles out every ground ball. He runs down every fly in the outfield. I wish we had nine DeJesuses on the field."
David was always good to the fans, especially the kids waiting for his autograph and to get photos. Also to the grown-up women who waited, mostly me. Here are some examples.
Then I met his wife. Like most women, I automatically distrust beautiful women. Kim DeJesus was the perfect target for my disgust. Of course I would hate her! I can't begin to describe her beauty in a way that would do her justice. Just look at her: I think you can probably tell which one she is.
But I couldn't hate her. I do not pretend to know her, but I have talked to her enough times to know that she is just as good as she is beautiful. She and David spent countless hours organizing fundraisers for many different causes. She always had kind things to say to her growing list of (mostly male) fans, and she always had kind things to say to me. I found out she grew up in the Chicago area, and she, too, had gone through some baseball crushes. And now she was married to possibly the most beautiful man to ever wear a Cubs uniform.
Even though she possessed an otherworldly beauty, somehow you could imagine that she was your best friend from grade school. When she talked to me, it was as if we were on the same level, and I was not just an ogre talking to the fairy princess. She was more beautiful than any woman I had ever met, but she was also a mom who loved posting photos of her baby boy, and a wife who was still overwhelmed by how handsome her husband is. She talked about being a klutz, having acne, being self-conscious--as if someone that perfect could ever have anything to be self-conscious about!
They're gone now. I wish they were still here. It's difficult to imagine Wrigley without them. But now David will play for a contender. Kim will fit in just fine with the new baseball wives, because how can you not love her? I'll keep in touch with her instagram photos and his headlining baseball stories.
I have watched enough of my favorite players leave the Cubs that I know I should be desensitized to the whole deal. Scott Hairston said to me, "I guess it's just business, right? I guess we're supposed to deal with it." But I could tell in his eyes that he didn't really think that.
I don't know what kind of hope we Cubs fans are supposed to have, how far we are supposed to look to the future for "THE SEASON" that will be the one that's supposed to count. David would've helped us for many years to come. Kim would've organized enough fundraisers to keep the Cubs active in the community for a decade. They were new Cubs, but they were older than most of the Cubs, and in many ways it feels like they've been here forever. And now, they're gone.
I will never forget the standing ovation David got when he stepped to the plate to pinch-hit in his first at bat as a National. Why did he get the ovation? He didn't have the highest batting average. He wasn't our best fielder. He wasn't the fastest guy. How did this guy get an ovation from the least forgiving, most critical fans in baseball?
Maybe because he represented what every Cubs player should be. Not just the physical picture of what we want in a player, although he does have those undeniable good looks, but the moral idea of what a player should be. A hard worker who gives everything on the field, no scandals off the field, just an athlete with a family that means everything to him, a Christian guy who doesn't beat the fans over the head with the Bible, but who quietly exhibits its principles in the way he plays. In many ways, David DeJesus was an average player with average statistics except for a ridiculous on-base-percentage, but in many more ways, David DeJesus was someone whose leadership and work ethic will be impossible to replace, and whose loss will be felt keenly on the Cubs and in our city.
With the loss of the DeJesus family, Wrigley is far less beautiful. Games will be less exciting. But I don't know a Cubs fan in the world who won't root for David no matter where he goes--Washington, Tampa Bay--back to Chicago? Wherever.
Good luck, you beautiful, good, dear people. I'm thankful for the time I had to watch you play and to interact with you both. Many, many blessings for you as you embark on this new path. You will be dearly missed. And, Kim, keep the kale recipes coming.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
A boy and a girl
This is the story of a boy and a girl. I am the girl. He is the boy. Spoiler alert: This does not have a happy ending, at least not for the girl.
The girl met him one night and was rendered speechless by him. She wasn't one who too put much stock in looks, but it was more than his looks--it was him. She was drawn to him. And the more she saw him, the less difficult it was to talk to him. The more she HAD to talk to him, even if she had nothing to say.
The boy was charming, but he was also beautiful, and she knew they would never be together. Except one day after work, he saw her walking alone, and he asked her to join him for dinner. And she went, and they ate (he ate, she sipped a Sprite) and talked and laughed, and he walked her to her car and hugged her tightly.
The days wore on. When he was talking to her, everyone else became fuzzy background, and he only saw her, and she only saw him. One night she met his parents, and his mother told her that they had heard so much about her, and she told him what the boy had been like when he was young.
And then the boy walked up behind them, and slung his arm around the girl's shoulders, and he whispered in her ear, "Did she tell you my deepest, darkest?" and she shivered. She was beginning to love him.
But the weather grew cold, and his job was over, and he was transferred to another state. The last day she saw him, she became pouty and childish. She hated that he was leaving, but she didn't want to be the first to say it. And the boy finally exploded at her because she was so annoying. and she said, "Sorry, but I hate this. You don't even care, but this is killing me."
He pulled her aside, out of the hearing of everyone, and he looked at her, his green eyes blazing, his hands closing gently around her arms, and he said, sincerely, "Don't you think this is hard for me, too?"
He left town as the sun was setting, a beautiful yellow sky, and she cried. She talked to him from time to time, but she assumed she would never see him again.
But then he was back, and she wasn't expecting it, and neither was he. She yelled out the boy's name, and he stopped, then ran to her and picked her up in the best hug of her life. He was the only place she felt small.
One night after work, he said, "I'm hungry. We're going to eat."
The girl said nothing, just nodded and smiled and felt like her heart was going to burst with happiness.
"A bunch of the guys from work are going out to watch the Blackhawks game. Or we could go somewhere else."
"Somewhere else," she said. And he took her arm and led her to the same diner they had eaten at a year before, and she ordered Sprite as they pretended to care about the outcome of the Blackhawks game. He threw a French fry at her face, then reached across the table with a napkin and swiped at her face. And then they locked eyes, and he said, "Your hair is my favorite," and she blushed, so unused to compliments, especially from beautiful boys with emerald eyes.
The boy called her one night, drunk, after celebrating a pretty great day at work. And he told her what he liked about her. She tried to remind herself that this was preposterous, that gods don't dwell among the peasants, but he said he wanted to see her again that weekend.
He had a change of heart the next day, said he needed to focus on work and not women, but that everything he had said when he was drunk was true. She didn't usually believe people, but she believed him.
She tried to act cool, but one day he didn't show up for work, and she was sure he was fired. He showed up late and she burst into tears.
"What's wrong?" the boy asked.
"I thought you were gone," the girl answered.
He took her face in his hands, wiped his tears with his thumbs, and said, "Stop freaking out."
Things were fine, but they weren't good. They weren't romantic. The girl became clingy and the boy became colder. Until one night, when the girl heard someone say, "I'm with The Boy."
The girl looked at the impostor, who was younger, smaller, more casual than she. She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. The girl realized it had been over for a long time.
The girl cried in the car all the way home. She felt pretty stupid.
The girl met him one night and was rendered speechless by him. She wasn't one who too put much stock in looks, but it was more than his looks--it was him. She was drawn to him. And the more she saw him, the less difficult it was to talk to him. The more she HAD to talk to him, even if she had nothing to say.
The boy was charming, but he was also beautiful, and she knew they would never be together. Except one day after work, he saw her walking alone, and he asked her to join him for dinner. And she went, and they ate (he ate, she sipped a Sprite) and talked and laughed, and he walked her to her car and hugged her tightly.
The days wore on. When he was talking to her, everyone else became fuzzy background, and he only saw her, and she only saw him. One night she met his parents, and his mother told her that they had heard so much about her, and she told him what the boy had been like when he was young.
And then the boy walked up behind them, and slung his arm around the girl's shoulders, and he whispered in her ear, "Did she tell you my deepest, darkest?" and she shivered. She was beginning to love him.
But the weather grew cold, and his job was over, and he was transferred to another state. The last day she saw him, she became pouty and childish. She hated that he was leaving, but she didn't want to be the first to say it. And the boy finally exploded at her because she was so annoying. and she said, "Sorry, but I hate this. You don't even care, but this is killing me."
He pulled her aside, out of the hearing of everyone, and he looked at her, his green eyes blazing, his hands closing gently around her arms, and he said, sincerely, "Don't you think this is hard for me, too?"
He left town as the sun was setting, a beautiful yellow sky, and she cried. She talked to him from time to time, but she assumed she would never see him again.
But then he was back, and she wasn't expecting it, and neither was he. She yelled out the boy's name, and he stopped, then ran to her and picked her up in the best hug of her life. He was the only place she felt small.
One night after work, he said, "I'm hungry. We're going to eat."
The girl said nothing, just nodded and smiled and felt like her heart was going to burst with happiness.
"A bunch of the guys from work are going out to watch the Blackhawks game. Or we could go somewhere else."
"Somewhere else," she said. And he took her arm and led her to the same diner they had eaten at a year before, and she ordered Sprite as they pretended to care about the outcome of the Blackhawks game. He threw a French fry at her face, then reached across the table with a napkin and swiped at her face. And then they locked eyes, and he said, "Your hair is my favorite," and she blushed, so unused to compliments, especially from beautiful boys with emerald eyes.
The boy called her one night, drunk, after celebrating a pretty great day at work. And he told her what he liked about her. She tried to remind herself that this was preposterous, that gods don't dwell among the peasants, but he said he wanted to see her again that weekend.
He had a change of heart the next day, said he needed to focus on work and not women, but that everything he had said when he was drunk was true. She didn't usually believe people, but she believed him.
She tried to act cool, but one day he didn't show up for work, and she was sure he was fired. He showed up late and she burst into tears.
"What's wrong?" the boy asked.
"I thought you were gone," the girl answered.
He took her face in his hands, wiped his tears with his thumbs, and said, "Stop freaking out."
Things were fine, but they weren't good. They weren't romantic. The girl became clingy and the boy became colder. Until one night, when the girl heard someone say, "I'm with The Boy."
The girl looked at the impostor, who was younger, smaller, more casual than she. She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. The girl realized it had been over for a long time.
The girl cried in the car all the way home. She felt pretty stupid.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Travis Wood and Parenthood
Yesterday I saw Travis Wood's dad at Wrigley---it was clearly his dad, as it looked exactly like him except for gray hair, very very handsome---and he was wearing a 2013 All-Star hat and All-Star shirt. He must have been so proud of his son, so proud that, weeks later, he wore the All-Star gear as his son pitched at Wrigley, maybe hoping someone would ask him about the game, and he could launch into the story of his son, who was a question mark about even making the Opening Day roster, was chosen to be on the All-Star Team.
For some reason, it choked me up, because I realized that, no matter what level of success a child reaches, his parents are just as proud of him as they were when he took his first step, brought home his first report card, won his first trophy, graduated high school, pitched in the Major League All-Star game. All my students' parents at the State Championship game in their WCS gear--I pictured his dad in the middle of all of that when Travis was in high school, and it just struck me as a universally beautiful thing, the unfailing love of a parent.
And tonight when I talked to Travis, and told him I saw his dad wearing the gear, Travis smiled bigger than I've ever seen him smile, and I saw immediately that the feeling was mutual.
For some reason, it choked me up, because I realized that, no matter what level of success a child reaches, his parents are just as proud of him as they were when he took his first step, brought home his first report card, won his first trophy, graduated high school, pitched in the Major League All-Star game. All my students' parents at the State Championship game in their WCS gear--I pictured his dad in the middle of all of that when Travis was in high school, and it just struck me as a universally beautiful thing, the unfailing love of a parent.
And tonight when I talked to Travis, and told him I saw his dad wearing the gear, Travis smiled bigger than I've ever seen him smile, and I saw immediately that the feeling was mutual.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Some girls actually know about baseball
If you live in Chicago and listen to any sports radio or talk to people who fancy themselves to be sports-radio personalities but are really just middle-aged people who complain a lot, you know that everyone is talking about bunting. The Cubs don't bunt enough. The Cubs bunt too much. Junior Lake should never bunt. I want bundt cake (that's just me, but it does sound good right now). Last night at the Cubs game, some Cubs "fan" (he yelled "you suck!" at every player on both teams) said that Junior Lake should never bunt,
"Well," I said, "Lake can't hot off-speed pitches. So the bunt is probably his best chance to advance the runner."
"But just listen," he said, touching my arm briefly, leaning closely into my space with his beer breath,"Junior Lake is a power hitter. You don't ever have your power hitter bunt."
"Well, Lake is only considered our power hitter because when he first came up he was hitting bombs, but since the teams have figured out he can't hit off-speed pitches, his power numbers have fallen. To zero."
"You just like him because he's [good-looking (my paraphrase)]."
"Well, I don't really like him, and he is good-looking. What I was saying is, the bunt was the right choice."
And then his friend got involved. "How do you know so much about baseball? You're a girl."
"I guess I am a girl," I conceded.
"He just means," Beer-Breath jumped in "that you don't seem like you would know anything about baseball."
"Ah. That makes more sense."
"Well," I said, "Lake can't hot off-speed pitches. So the bunt is probably his best chance to advance the runner."
"But just listen," he said, touching my arm briefly, leaning closely into my space with his beer breath,"Junior Lake is a power hitter. You don't ever have your power hitter bunt."
"Well, Lake is only considered our power hitter because when he first came up he was hitting bombs, but since the teams have figured out he can't hit off-speed pitches, his power numbers have fallen. To zero."
"You just like him because he's [good-looking (my paraphrase)]."
"Well, I don't really like him, and he is good-looking. What I was saying is, the bunt was the right choice."
And then his friend got involved. "How do you know so much about baseball? You're a girl."
"I guess I am a girl," I conceded.
"He just means," Beer-Breath jumped in "that you don't seem like you would know anything about baseball."
"Ah. That makes more sense."
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
My Secret Shame
I have a secret shame, and I'm finally ready to share it with the world:
I collect baseball cards.
Yes, on the outside I am a grown, professional woman with a master's degree and the ability to go to rated-R movies. But on the inside, I am a pimply 11-year-old boy who still thinks kissing is gross. When I'm having a rough day, I go to Target and pick up a pack and rip it open. And I love that smell, the smell of a fresh pack of cards, and, really, the smell of hope. The hope that inside, I'll find a player I really like, and not another Homer Bailey, because he is never nice to me.
This secret shame started the summer of 1992, but I never bought packs. I went down the street to a little Griffith, Indiana, shop named with initials--L&M or something like that. It was a baseball card shop, and inside the owners had beautiful Robin Ventura and Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg and Jack McDowell cards. I only wanted Cubs and Sox, or former Cubs and Sox, and those four players especially. I was a unique specimen, a girl who collected cards and liked BOTH Chicago teams, so the owner used to set aside cards he knew I'd like and cut me a really good deal. We never had the money to go to the park for baseball games, and we didn't have a TV that got reception, so these cards were my window into the faces of these men that I revered, and those faces were in my mind as I pored over the daily box scores. Because above all, above the collecting and the cards themselves, I loved baseball more than almost anything.
I never really thought about getting the cards signed because it seemed impossible. People with autographed baseball cards were so glamorous. I got one card signed--Robin Ventura's #1 Draft Pick Topps card. I think it was a 1988. I need to check on that. I went to Southlake Mall in Merrillville, Indiana, where he was signing, and when I saw him in person, I started crying, like this was the Beatles or something. He signed the card and smiled and I was happier than I ever thought I'd be again. In fact, maybe that moment was the happiest I ever was--it's impossible to quantify that kind of thing, though.
I thought I had a lot of cards. I had a jumbo binder full, all of Cubs and Sox. And then I went away to college, and I brought it with me, proudly displaying a bumper sticker for The Score's old radio station across its cover. But I wasn't proud of the cards--I hid them. I put the binder in my college storage area until I met Mark Wilkins. Mark and I became instant friends when he found out I loved baseball. We had other things in common, too, such as our intense addiction to our college family. We didn't always like the school, but we loved the friends there, and we both thought of our school as our family. But back to baseball, Mark knew Robin Ventura was my favorite (everyone at college knew he was my favorite), and even though Mark cheered for the Red Sox, we talked about Ventura versus Boggs and would a Chicago or Boston team ever win a World Series again? And then he told me he collected baseball cards, and I breathed a sigh of relief, because I finally had someone I could share my secret shame with. His collection was back in Massachusetts, and it was far more full than mine, but I could tell from his face that he understood how cool baseball cards were. And he understood why, when I was feeling homesick, I would sneak up to the storage area and page through my binder and look at the faces of my hometown teams.
And then Mark's brother died, and Mark had to leave school, and I was so profoundly sad for him, my good, dear friend who was one of the most generous people I'd ever known, that he had to experience this intense pain, and then leave the family he had at school. I was no good with expressing emotion, but I wanted him to know I cared, so I wrote him a letter and tucked inside my Robin Ventura autographed card, because I felt like that was the only way to show him that I wanted him to feel better and that I would miss him, and I knew I was telling him in a language he understood.
Mark gave me back the card and another Ventura card, mounted in a beautiful casing, saying he couldn't possibly accept the card but appreciated the gesture. And he eventually came back to Minnesota and we are still friends to this day, and since then he has given me boxes and boxes of baseball cards, and I have a signed Saltalamacchia card that I keep meaning to send him. We've seen teams from both our cities win World Series titles, but not the team that matters. Not the Cubs. I imagine when that happens, he'll be one of the first people I want to celebrate with, because he understands waiting and disappointment and what it means to have just one dream come true.
I didn't really collect any new cards because I had no time for it, and I lost a little interest. But a couple years ago, I started collecting again, and I started collecting players from all the teams, and now I have begun collecting signatures on baseball cards. That means I hang out with some of the creepiest, weirdest, most unwashed people you will ever see in your life. Now, I will only collect autographs at the park. I will not go to hotels, or chase people down in restaurants and ask for their autographs. That's their private time. Some guys only sign at hotels, so I guess I will never get those guys. It's different asking them at the park, I guess because they're at work and it's their jobs. But some of these guys will chase down players in their cars, and they'll pay kids to ask for autographs, and they will beg you for an autograph you got that they really want.
Sometimes I look at them, and I know this is their whole life, and it makes me sad, because I picture their families at home and I know there is no way they can actually support a family on what they make selling baseball cards. Or I picture the families they will never have because I am the first female they have ever spoken to, and I don't really count. And sometimes I look at them and I want to punch them in the throat because they're obnoxious. So why do I do it? I don't really know. I guess it's the challenge. I love that sometimes I'm the only one that the guys sign for, and I know it's because I'm usually the only girl there and I'm hilarious, and they know I couldn't possibly be a dealer. And it's a means to an end. I get to meet these guys. I have met some of the greatest players to ever play this beautiful game. I know the ones who are always nice (Joe Mauer) and the ones who will never stop, even to spit on your face if your mustache is on fire (Yadier Molina). Really, most of the guys are so nice, and if it weren't for their 300 dollar jeans and 1500 dollar shoes, you'd never know they were fancy or famous.
And the thing is, I have met some of the most wonderful people in the world, and I'm not talking about the baseball players. In the middle of the unwashed masses of collectors, a few people have come forward with being awesome.
One guy is a Chicago police officer. He used to be at every game at Wrigley, but last year a guy robbed me, and he chased after him, and he was attacked by the perp, and now it's a big legal battle. We've hung out a few times outside of baseball, and he has a great heart and I'd trust him with my life, even though I barely know him. He never comes anymore, and that's sad. That thief didn't just take my stuff; he robbed me of my friend, too.
Another guy is a Chicago Public School teacher. He's taught me a lot about collecting, and I can talk to him about baseball and he takes me seriously. He's a Brewers fan, but really he just loves the game. He gets really intense when we're having a good day and he gets really curmudgeony when no one signs. Sometimes he brings his two nephews, and he sits back while they get autographs, and he looks alternately proud of them and irritated with them if they aren't aggressive enough. I love to watch it. He just got married, so I know he won't be around as much, especially once he starts having kids. And I know it will kill him when I post the autographs I got at the park while he stayed home with his family. But the difference between most of the other collectors and him is that he has imagined a life for himself outside of chasing down multimillionaires and asking for the stroke of their pen on a piece of cardboard. He likes that, but he doesn't live for it.
And then there's the dad, the rough, ex-gang member who has stories of bullets whizzing by his ear, a former alcohol-addicted guy who has cleaned up his life, and whose kids, especially his youngest son, worship him. He swears constantly, and those words are probably among the nicest things he says. He jokes around and hurts my feelings and then laughs like a pirate. If we were on a reality-television show, they'd have to bleep at least 70 percent of what he says. "This sucks," he says, at least once a game, especially after getting turned down for an autograph. But he's the only one who could get Russell Martin to stop and sign, so I think he's pretty cool. And he loves his kids. He shows it in a bizarre way, threatening to break their arms or calling them gay, but he doesn't mean any of those things. He loves his family fiercely, and he would take a bullet for any of them. And they would follow him anywhere. It amazes me that he has that kind of influence. It is amazing and humbling to know someone out there hangs on your every word and every action. And he was another guy who chased after the robber, his youngest son tagging behind, too, because he does anything his dad does. He went after a criminal for me, someone he barely knew, someone who just happens to have that same baseball-card sickness.
There are a couple other semi-normal ones of us out there, and we all have our stories and our reasons, but none of us really talk about this part of our lives with our other friends. They wouldn't understand. They would think it's cool that we met Chipper Jones and Bryce Harper, but they wouldn't want to stand outside for 12 hours with us. That's something only we understand, and maybe that's why we're friends with each other. We're in a hospital ward suffering from the same disease, or we're at a 12-step meeting admitting we have a problem but that we're not quite ready to get that monkey off our backs.
And I know the baseball players think we're losers, and I can live with that. I won't even think of that after the game when I'm counting my cards and looking at my autographs again and again and texting my friends about our loot, where my one binder has evolved into two bookshelves worth of binders filled with cards. It's my secret shame, but it's public now, and I feel like there are more people like me out there somewhere who are ashamed, too.
Find me. Let's do this together.
I collect baseball cards.
Yes, on the outside I am a grown, professional woman with a master's degree and the ability to go to rated-R movies. But on the inside, I am a pimply 11-year-old boy who still thinks kissing is gross. When I'm having a rough day, I go to Target and pick up a pack and rip it open. And I love that smell, the smell of a fresh pack of cards, and, really, the smell of hope. The hope that inside, I'll find a player I really like, and not another Homer Bailey, because he is never nice to me.
This secret shame started the summer of 1992, but I never bought packs. I went down the street to a little Griffith, Indiana, shop named with initials--L&M or something like that. It was a baseball card shop, and inside the owners had beautiful Robin Ventura and Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg and Jack McDowell cards. I only wanted Cubs and Sox, or former Cubs and Sox, and those four players especially. I was a unique specimen, a girl who collected cards and liked BOTH Chicago teams, so the owner used to set aside cards he knew I'd like and cut me a really good deal. We never had the money to go to the park for baseball games, and we didn't have a TV that got reception, so these cards were my window into the faces of these men that I revered, and those faces were in my mind as I pored over the daily box scores. Because above all, above the collecting and the cards themselves, I loved baseball more than almost anything.
I never really thought about getting the cards signed because it seemed impossible. People with autographed baseball cards were so glamorous. I got one card signed--Robin Ventura's #1 Draft Pick Topps card. I think it was a 1988. I need to check on that. I went to Southlake Mall in Merrillville, Indiana, where he was signing, and when I saw him in person, I started crying, like this was the Beatles or something. He signed the card and smiled and I was happier than I ever thought I'd be again. In fact, maybe that moment was the happiest I ever was--it's impossible to quantify that kind of thing, though.
I thought I had a lot of cards. I had a jumbo binder full, all of Cubs and Sox. And then I went away to college, and I brought it with me, proudly displaying a bumper sticker for The Score's old radio station across its cover. But I wasn't proud of the cards--I hid them. I put the binder in my college storage area until I met Mark Wilkins. Mark and I became instant friends when he found out I loved baseball. We had other things in common, too, such as our intense addiction to our college family. We didn't always like the school, but we loved the friends there, and we both thought of our school as our family. But back to baseball, Mark knew Robin Ventura was my favorite (everyone at college knew he was my favorite), and even though Mark cheered for the Red Sox, we talked about Ventura versus Boggs and would a Chicago or Boston team ever win a World Series again? And then he told me he collected baseball cards, and I breathed a sigh of relief, because I finally had someone I could share my secret shame with. His collection was back in Massachusetts, and it was far more full than mine, but I could tell from his face that he understood how cool baseball cards were. And he understood why, when I was feeling homesick, I would sneak up to the storage area and page through my binder and look at the faces of my hometown teams.
And then Mark's brother died, and Mark had to leave school, and I was so profoundly sad for him, my good, dear friend who was one of the most generous people I'd ever known, that he had to experience this intense pain, and then leave the family he had at school. I was no good with expressing emotion, but I wanted him to know I cared, so I wrote him a letter and tucked inside my Robin Ventura autographed card, because I felt like that was the only way to show him that I wanted him to feel better and that I would miss him, and I knew I was telling him in a language he understood.
Mark gave me back the card and another Ventura card, mounted in a beautiful casing, saying he couldn't possibly accept the card but appreciated the gesture. And he eventually came back to Minnesota and we are still friends to this day, and since then he has given me boxes and boxes of baseball cards, and I have a signed Saltalamacchia card that I keep meaning to send him. We've seen teams from both our cities win World Series titles, but not the team that matters. Not the Cubs. I imagine when that happens, he'll be one of the first people I want to celebrate with, because he understands waiting and disappointment and what it means to have just one dream come true.
I didn't really collect any new cards because I had no time for it, and I lost a little interest. But a couple years ago, I started collecting again, and I started collecting players from all the teams, and now I have begun collecting signatures on baseball cards. That means I hang out with some of the creepiest, weirdest, most unwashed people you will ever see in your life. Now, I will only collect autographs at the park. I will not go to hotels, or chase people down in restaurants and ask for their autographs. That's their private time. Some guys only sign at hotels, so I guess I will never get those guys. It's different asking them at the park, I guess because they're at work and it's their jobs. But some of these guys will chase down players in their cars, and they'll pay kids to ask for autographs, and they will beg you for an autograph you got that they really want.
Sometimes I look at them, and I know this is their whole life, and it makes me sad, because I picture their families at home and I know there is no way they can actually support a family on what they make selling baseball cards. Or I picture the families they will never have because I am the first female they have ever spoken to, and I don't really count. And sometimes I look at them and I want to punch them in the throat because they're obnoxious. So why do I do it? I don't really know. I guess it's the challenge. I love that sometimes I'm the only one that the guys sign for, and I know it's because I'm usually the only girl there and I'm hilarious, and they know I couldn't possibly be a dealer. And it's a means to an end. I get to meet these guys. I have met some of the greatest players to ever play this beautiful game. I know the ones who are always nice (Joe Mauer) and the ones who will never stop, even to spit on your face if your mustache is on fire (Yadier Molina). Really, most of the guys are so nice, and if it weren't for their 300 dollar jeans and 1500 dollar shoes, you'd never know they were fancy or famous.
And the thing is, I have met some of the most wonderful people in the world, and I'm not talking about the baseball players. In the middle of the unwashed masses of collectors, a few people have come forward with being awesome.
One guy is a Chicago police officer. He used to be at every game at Wrigley, but last year a guy robbed me, and he chased after him, and he was attacked by the perp, and now it's a big legal battle. We've hung out a few times outside of baseball, and he has a great heart and I'd trust him with my life, even though I barely know him. He never comes anymore, and that's sad. That thief didn't just take my stuff; he robbed me of my friend, too.
Another guy is a Chicago Public School teacher. He's taught me a lot about collecting, and I can talk to him about baseball and he takes me seriously. He's a Brewers fan, but really he just loves the game. He gets really intense when we're having a good day and he gets really curmudgeony when no one signs. Sometimes he brings his two nephews, and he sits back while they get autographs, and he looks alternately proud of them and irritated with them if they aren't aggressive enough. I love to watch it. He just got married, so I know he won't be around as much, especially once he starts having kids. And I know it will kill him when I post the autographs I got at the park while he stayed home with his family. But the difference between most of the other collectors and him is that he has imagined a life for himself outside of chasing down multimillionaires and asking for the stroke of their pen on a piece of cardboard. He likes that, but he doesn't live for it.
And then there's the dad, the rough, ex-gang member who has stories of bullets whizzing by his ear, a former alcohol-addicted guy who has cleaned up his life, and whose kids, especially his youngest son, worship him. He swears constantly, and those words are probably among the nicest things he says. He jokes around and hurts my feelings and then laughs like a pirate. If we were on a reality-television show, they'd have to bleep at least 70 percent of what he says. "This sucks," he says, at least once a game, especially after getting turned down for an autograph. But he's the only one who could get Russell Martin to stop and sign, so I think he's pretty cool. And he loves his kids. He shows it in a bizarre way, threatening to break their arms or calling them gay, but he doesn't mean any of those things. He loves his family fiercely, and he would take a bullet for any of them. And they would follow him anywhere. It amazes me that he has that kind of influence. It is amazing and humbling to know someone out there hangs on your every word and every action. And he was another guy who chased after the robber, his youngest son tagging behind, too, because he does anything his dad does. He went after a criminal for me, someone he barely knew, someone who just happens to have that same baseball-card sickness.
There are a couple other semi-normal ones of us out there, and we all have our stories and our reasons, but none of us really talk about this part of our lives with our other friends. They wouldn't understand. They would think it's cool that we met Chipper Jones and Bryce Harper, but they wouldn't want to stand outside for 12 hours with us. That's something only we understand, and maybe that's why we're friends with each other. We're in a hospital ward suffering from the same disease, or we're at a 12-step meeting admitting we have a problem but that we're not quite ready to get that monkey off our backs.
And I know the baseball players think we're losers, and I can live with that. I won't even think of that after the game when I'm counting my cards and looking at my autographs again and again and texting my friends about our loot, where my one binder has evolved into two bookshelves worth of binders filled with cards. It's my secret shame, but it's public now, and I feel like there are more people like me out there somewhere who are ashamed, too.
Find me. Let's do this together.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Jill and Alex List the Top Ten Beards on the Chicago Cubs
Jill Jedd and I decided to put our love of beards to good use. Which Cubs made the list of the top 10 beards? Keep looking to see!
Now, I will tell you right off the bat--Carlos Villanueva did NOT make the list. Why? Because he had the greatest beard ever, and then he just walked away from it. You do NOT walk away from an amazing beard like this. So he is off the list.
#10. Ryan Sweeney--The Amazing Non-Beard
Okay, so the Cubs outfielder doesn't really have a beard. But he doesn't need one, and that is why he makes the list. Possibly the only person in the history of the world whose non-beard is so beardly that it had to be on the list.
Okay, so the Cubs outfielder doesn't really have a beard. But he doesn't need one, and that is why he makes the list. Possibly the only person in the history of the world whose non-beard is so beardly that it had to be on the list.
#9 Dale Sveum--The I-Can't-Be-Bothered-To-Sha
The Cubs skipper has a lot on his mind right now, and shaving is the last thing he cares about. He has five o'clock shadow all day long, which leads us to believe that, since he gave up the 'stache from his playing days, this is as long as his facial hair grows.
The Cubs skipper has a lot on his mind right now, and shaving is the last thing he cares about. He has five o'clock shadow all day long, which leads us to believe that, since he gave up the 'stache from his playing days, this is as long as his facial hair grows.
While this beard is more of a goatee and would generally look creepy on anyone else, Matt Garza pulls off this look with the same ease which he uses to get the job done on the mound. His quirky personality fits his beard so well, and both have made him a fan favorite. How long will this beard be in Chicago? Probably not long, so enjoy it while you can.
#7 Jeff Samardzija-- The Backwards Beard ("I Grow Long Unruly Beards on the Back of My Head")
While the Shark generally sports facial hair of some kind, the real beard he has is his long brown mane. It flies in the wind when he pitches, and it follows him bouncily as he walks off the field after striking out the side. Jeffrey Alan does everything he can to make himself look unattractive and intimidating, but most of his true fans enjoy his look.
#6 Nate Schierholtz--The "Beard or Goatee or Both?" Beard
Nate has certainly produced on the field, and he has been a welcome addition to the Cubs. But one of the most welcome additions is his beard. At times barely more than a 1/8" growth around his face, at other times a solid goatee, this otherwise-bald man knows what he's doing with a baseball bat and with a razor.
Nate has certainly produced on the field, and he has been a welcome addition to the Cubs. But one of the most welcome additions is his beard. At times barely more than a 1/8" growth around his face, at other times a solid goatee, this otherwise-bald man knows what he's doing with a baseball bat and with a razor.
#5 David DeJesus--The Light, Cultured Beard
I asked this Cubs outfielder if he had his beard professionally shaped. He said no, and this man does not lie. Somehow, David has managed to perfect the look of this perfectly lined beard. This handsome man, who chose a career in baseball over a career in professional modeling (I'm assuming), perfects the look, causing people everywhere to say, "Just when I thought he couldn't get any more good-looking, he adds a beard over the dimples."
I asked this Cubs outfielder if he had his beard professionally shaped. He said no, and this man does not lie. Somehow, David has managed to perfect the look of this perfectly lined beard. This handsome man, who chose a career in baseball over a career in professional modeling (I'm assuming), perfects the look, causing people everywhere to say, "Just when I thought he couldn't get any more good-looking, he adds a beard over the dimples."
#4 James Russell--The "Don't Call Me Jimmy" Beard
This trusty Cubs closer hails from Texas, so this beautiful beard that covers most of his face probably helps keep him warm during those cold April games. While some would argue that he also sports the Backwards Beard (see #7), the traditional beard overshadows his beautiful, flowing hair.
This trusty Cubs closer hails from Texas, so this beautiful beard that covers most of his face probably helps keep him warm during those cold April games. While some would argue that he also sports the Backwards Beard (see #7), the traditional beard overshadows his beautiful, flowing hair.
#3 Matt Guerrier The "Beard and Baseball Hair Combo" Beard
The newest addition to our beard collection is newly-acquired Matt Guerrier's beard. The picture on the left was taken a few years back when I met him in Detroit. Since then, he has traded in his clean-cut locks for the most perfect baseball hair you will ever see (see right--photo taken from nbcchicago.com). In addition, he has really unleashed his beard. While never out of control, his full beard (also darker now) adds the fierce intimidation and quirkiness that one needs to be a successful baseball relief pitcher. Two thumbs way up, and we welcome you and your beard to Chicago!
The newest addition to our beard collection is newly-acquired Matt Guerrier's beard. The picture on the left was taken a few years back when I met him in Detroit. Since then, he has traded in his clean-cut locks for the most perfect baseball hair you will ever see (see right--photo taken from nbcchicago.com). In addition, he has really unleashed his beard. While never out of control, his full beard (also darker now) adds the fierce intimidation and quirkiness that one needs to be a successful baseball relief pitcher. Two thumbs way up, and we welcome you and your beard to Chicago!
#2 Blake Parker--The "Now-You-See-Me, Now-You-Don't" Beard
Blake scores high on our list of Cubs beards for the simple fact that his face is a revolving door of beardliness. No matter the length, he looks suave and sophisticated and ready to let loose. Even on the rare occasions when he shaves it all off, his facial hair grows back in a matter of minutes. His facial hair has the magical ability to change styles with his clothes. You never know what you'll see on Blake's face from day-to-day, and that mystery makes him #2 on our list.
Blake scores high on our list of Cubs beards for the simple fact that his face is a revolving door of beardliness. No matter the length, he looks suave and sophisticated and ready to let loose. Even on the rare occasions when he shaves it all off, his facial hair grows back in a matter of minutes. His facial hair has the magical ability to change styles with his clothes. You never know what you'll see on Blake's face from day-to-day, and that mystery makes him #2 on our list.
And the # 1 spot belongs to Travis Wood!
Yes, he's an All-Star, but his beard was growing long before his fame grew. Last season, he sported some crazy Arkansas long hair to go with a short beard, but this year, he has wisely opted for the short hair/long beard approach. Travis and his beard are not only great pitchers, but they also hit the ball pretty well, too! And Travis's beard has everything you could ever want from a beard: fullness, flair, a touch of ginger, and a penchant for being unruly. We wish Travis and his beard the best in the upcoming All-Star game and the rest of his time here in Chicago!
Yes, he's an All-Star, but his beard was growing long before his fame grew. Last season, he sported some crazy Arkansas long hair to go with a short beard, but this year, he has wisely opted for the short hair/long beard approach. Travis and his beard are not only great pitchers, but they also hit the ball pretty well, too! And Travis's beard has everything you could ever want from a beard: fullness, flair, a touch of ginger, and a penchant for being unruly. We wish Travis and his beard the best in the upcoming All-Star game and the rest of his time here in Chicago!
Jill and I hope you've enjoyed our list of the best beards in baseball, and from both of us, and Steve Clevenger, who should really grow a beard, we say thanks for joining us.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Steve Clevenger, the nicest guy in sports
When baseball season started April of 2012, I didn't care. If you know anything about me, you would know how out of character that is for me, but I had had a particularly bad year after many personal and professional failures, and baseball seemed like such a small thing. As a mental health professional, I know the signs to look for in a clinically depressed person, and I had all of them. I had very little will to live. I know I sound overdramatic, but believe me when I say that it was an incredibly difficult year with no joy in sight. It took every ounce of strength within myself to get out of bed in the morning.
But my friend Angela was tenacious. "How can you miss opening weekend?" she asked, incredulously. She had already bought my ticket, and she demanded that I go.
"Fine," I said, and tried to muster up enthusiasm. But I was sure this would be my only game. I could say goodbye to Wrigley, goodbye to baseball. Most of my favorite players from 2011 were gone, anyway. On the way there, I just told myself that I could leave early and crawl back into bed soon enough.
But Angela's enthusiasm was bubbling over that first game of the season for us. We stood by the third base side, like we always do, and she called out to the players she knew. It didn't feel the same for me, but I played along, for Angela's sake. And then she saw Steve.
"Steve Clevenger!" she shouted to a player I had never seen before. "That's Steve Clevenger. I met him at Cubs Convention. He's the nicest!" she said to me. I remembered the name and was pretty sure he'd been an All-Star while on the Cubs AA Tennessee Smokies.
Sure enough, he came over, and there was something about his big, goofy smile that I immediately loved. He greeted Angela like she was an old friend, claiming to remember her from the Convention (maybe he did, but we soon came to realize that Steve pretended he remembered everything and usually didn't).
(here is us that first game)
Needless to say, that was not my last game that season. It wasn't even close. I kept coming back to Wrigley because I wanted to see Steve. He made me feel like being at the game helped the Cubs play better. When we left the ballpark at night, we usually waited to say goodbye to Steve in the parking lot, and he always said, "I'll see you guys tomorrow, right?" as if we really NEEDED to be there. And if he knew he was playing the next day, he would say, like a middle school kid, "You guys GOTTA come tomorrow. I'm playing!"
We loved Steve. We made so many signs for that guy. We came up with the catchy slogan "Fear the Clev" and tried to get it trending on twitter. And Steve got off to a great start, but then he strained his oblique and he was on the DL for a while. Through it all, he stayed positive. He would tell us that he was feeling better every day, and I'll never forget the day he jogged over to us and said, "Guess what? They let me swing today!" The joy I saw on his face from the simple task of swinging a bat was indescribable. He just really loved the game.
Shortly after he was activated from the disabled list, Angela and I drove to Milwaukee to see the Cubs play on the road. When he saw us, his face lit up and he came running over and hugged us. "What are you guys doing here? That's so cool that you came all the way here to watch us!" He made us feel so important and appreciated, as if we had done some huge sacrificial pilgrimage barefoot over broken glass from Alaska to watch the boys play.
(here is us in Milwaukee)
"You're so happy all the time," I told him once. "No matter what's going on in your life or how the team is doing, you just keep going."
"Why be miserable?" he asked, then ruffled my hair with his mitt and ran off to shag balls. And that "Why be miserable?" mantra seemed to define everything in his life.
When he came back, his numbers never returned to where they had started, but his enthusiasm did. And defensively, there was not a better catcher on the team. Dave Kaplan from Comcast and WGN kept singing his praises, calling for him to be the Cubs everyday catcher, but even after Geovany was traded, the Cubs split time between The Clev and Wellington Castillo. But it didn't matter how much playing time Steve got; he was always smiling, and he gave the game everything he had.
I made a Clevenger t-shirt,
a song for him ("Fear of the Clev" to the tune of "Eye of the Tiger") and demanded that everyone Fear The Clev. It was so interesting to watch him turn from the guy who was always laughing, head thrown back in a guffaw, into a fierce competitor. I saw him, red-faced, cheek full of tobacco, cuss out an ump and get ejected. I watched him get into a big scuffle with the entire Washington Nationals team and get ejected. I supported him through slumps and fights and, really, I was never disappointed. While he didn't get enough playing time for my liking, he seemed to get the hits that mattered, the hits that were needed when everyone else on the team just wasn't producing. He played his heart out as if every game was game seven of the World Series, rather than just another game to a 100+ game losing season.
(here's me with my song for him)
Everyone knew he was my favorite player. My dad called to tell me Steve had hit his first home run. My friends texted me to tell me they had met him or they saw him on TV. And I wasn't the only one who loved him. Sports commentators raved about him. Even the Milwaukee sports people called him a throwback to a better era of catchers, when the catchers gave their all on the field and at the plate. You just knew this guy was going to succeed, and you rooted for him, because he was such a nice, nice guy.
He took the time to explain baseball terms to me (he was the first baseball player I felt comfortable asking without feeling stupid), terms like "designated for assignment," and "put on waivers." And he never made me feel stupid for asking. And he also let me try on his catcher's mask.
On a hot day in July, he gave Angela and me his batting gloves. He promised us bats, too, but on the last day of the season, he couldn't find us, so he gave them to some random boy. Stupid random boy, who probably didn't even know who Steve was. I would've put that bat proudly on my mantle. I would've told my grandkids about Steve Clevenger, the nicest guy in sports. I would've explained that Steve didn't start out as a catcher, that he was an infielder who turned himself into a catcher after hearing what a hot commodity left-handed-hitting catchers were, a quicker route to the bigs. I would've told him how Steve signed for every single person who asked, even after a game, even when his eyes were tired and his spirit was a little down.
(here's us with our batting gloves from Steve)
On one of these many occasions, I saw his beautiful fiancee Tiffany standing by. "I'm so sorry you have to wait," I told her.
Tiffany smiled sweetly and said, "Oh, ah don't mahnd," in her adorable Southern drawl, and it was really in that instant that I knew that Steve had found himself a girl as lovely as he was.
When I got to Cubs Convention in January, I turned to Angela and said, "I won't scream when I see Steve," but literally five seconds later I saw him, and I screamed, and when he saw me, his eyes crinkled and he smiled that big Steve smile.
"Definitely 10," he said, and I believed him.
(here we are after seeing him for the first time in forever at Cubs Convention)
He and Tiffany talked to us for a long time in the hotel lobby, and not just about baseball. About wedding plans and movies and music. We saw him a lot during the convention, and he always greeted us with hugs and smiles and what-are-you-guys-up-tos. He left the Convention a day early to watch the Ravens in the playoffs.
I made sure I saw him at every possible autograph signing. Here I am enthused to see him signing autos:
"Those are my boys!" he said, proudly sporting his wind pants and New Balance t-shirt. Unlike the other players, Steve's wardrobe did not betray his salary. He dressed like a college baseball player who was always taking one last set of balls in the cages.
(here's after he told me he was leaving the Convention early for the Ravens)
Before he left, I told him I was scared about his playing time with Wellington and the newly-acquired Hector Navarro.
"Alex," he said, completely serious. "I'm not even a little worried. Look at me. No worries."
Because all of the games I had tickets to were postponed, I didn't get to see him play for a while, but I did see that they were using him in the infield. When I eventually did see him, he greeted me with, "Did you see me at third base? Did you know that's where I used to play?" It was like talking to that excited middle-schooler again, and I loved to see it.
The first game I went to in the 2013 season, Steve didn't come in until he pinch-hit with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning. It was like a movie, I thought, and maybe Steve will save the day.
Except that, when he swung, he suddenly went down hard, as if someone had shot him. And he wasn't moving. I ran down as far as the ushers would let me to see what was going on as the coaches and trainers rushed the field. Word traveled that it was his oblique again. He was carried off the field, and I stewed in my worry until I saw him limping to his car after the game. "How do you feel?" I yelled to him. He responded with two thumbs down.
The next game I went to was rained out, but I talked to Steve in the pouring rain as he waited in his car for Darwin Barney. He told me this was his other oblique, and that he would be out for 60 days. He seemed sad, the saddest I'd ever seen him, and he even agreed to let me make him cookies, leaving his healthy diet for a few comfort-calories.
"Just tell me. Will I see you play this year?" I asked, and he just shrugged and smiled weakly, and my heart sank.
Of course, a side of me is happy for him. How cool to play for a contender, and to play for the team you grew up rooting for! But Steve was the reason I gave so much money to Wrigley over the past year. He's the one who made me love baseball again, and, ultimately life. Focusing on him helped me stop focusing on myself and all of the things going wrong in my life. After all, "Why be miserable?" If the Cubs were smart, they would encourage all of their players to be as friendly and approachable as Steve. It's players like him that keep fans coming back to the park, even when the team is losing. The Cubs should give him a commission from all the money he brought in, making little kids' days by signing autographs and taking photos. He posed for so many pictures with me, at first posing like a tough guy, but eventually smiling like the happy-go-lucky guy he was.
It's always hard for me to lose a Cub. But to lose this Cub? Almost unbearable. I never got to say goodbye. Steve, if you ever read this, know that you changed my life. You brought me such joy, and I will miss you more than these words describe. And know that, no matter what team you play for, I will be your number one fan, cheering loudly with my homemade signs and t-shirts, and wishing you still wore Cubbie Blue.
Here are some more pictures of us together. I have about eight million pictures of him playing, but I'm too sad to go through them.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Soxfest 2013 Part Two
In the middle of the night between Saturday and Sunday, I felt worse than death, so I called my sister and told her we were not going to SoxFest Sunday. But then I decided, no, I was going. I make decisions weirdly. I couldn't get ahold of Veronica, so I had to go alone.
Since I got there late, I was unable to secure a spot to see Tony LaRussa, so I settled for Hector Santiago, a very likable gentleman. It was not as fun alone. Nick was off getting everyone's auto. We made a deal that I would try to get Joe Crede for him and he would get LaRussa for me. But you're only supposed to get one thing signed, so it seemed like a long shot.
Anyway, here's nice-guy Hector. He is one of the most fan-friendly players I have ever met, and I think he's going to be great for the Sox.
I then went to get a photo with Addison Reed. I mean, who wouldn't want that? He's a doll.
We got a photo with my camera, but the Sox camera broke (no jokes about me being ugly, please. I'm very sensitive). So it ended up being a photo shoot with my camera while we waited.
I was uncomfy with so many pictures of me next to him. I mean, seriously. He's just so cute. So I started making small talk. Here, you can see that he's like, "Okay, get her outta here!"
But I am an acquired taste, and soon I had him laughing uproariously. He probably wished for me to never leave, but we needed to be fair to other people.
One of the things I asked Addy about was how it felt always losing players. Did he miss them? Did it make him sad. He said, no, it was all part of the game, and they know that going in. But I can't help but wonder if that was just his little "Addison Reed, I'm a kid trying to prove myself so I gotta act tough" thing. I mean, you're a human! Don't you miss people? He's so cute. though.
I then went to pay tribute to John Danks again. I really love this guy.
I got a Joe Crede wristband next, and the problem with that is, once you get a wristband, you can't go in any more lines. One wristband only. So I went downstairs, and at the Comcast booth, you could meet those guys without a wristband. So I decided to get in line for Tom Paciorek. He was the TV guy with Hawk Harrelson when I first became a fan, so it was really cool to meet him. I was weirdly nervous.
In line, I was talking to my dad, when something green came up behind me and took my phone. It was Southpaw.
Here I am with Tom Paciorek. I talked to him a little and he hugged me, then told everyone my hair smelled amazing.
More time to kill, but then I saw that there was a seminar with some of my favorite people, including Robin Ventura (all-time favorite), Darrin Jackson, and Bobby Thigpen, who I loved to watch pitch back with my 90s Sox. I was alone, but the room was packed, and I just decided I would go up and ask a question.
First, I said that Robin should've been manager of the year, because HE SHOULD HAVE! And then I asked when they would bring back Craig Grebeck, causing this great laugh from the people up on stage.
Then I just asked Robin about coaching with guys he had played with. It was nice. Here he is running away from me.
Then I went to the Alexei Ramirez photo session, but Frank Thomas was leaving! I high-fived him and wished there was a way to preserve my hand.
And then I got an autograph from him. He's so nice.
Here I am with Alexei.
And then I finally met Joe Crede! People said he was mean, but he was so nice to me! I love third baseman, and I had admired him for a long time. He signed my card and Nick's and then took a photo.
I did rush down to see Gordon Beckham. This is the most I saw of him all weekend. Not enough!
Oh--and Nick did get me that LaRussa autograph! He didn't want to trade but a deal's a deal.
And that is it for my SoxFest adventure!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)