James Russell is a good guy

Last night I met an 8-year-old girl. When she was 5, after many diffferent doctor visits and no answers except being told she was dying, she was diagnosed with a rare allergy to light. She's not simply allergic to the sun, but even lightbulbs. There is only one other person in the world who has this illness, a middle-aged man in England. Her doctor has made a sunscreen especially for her that she has to drink. This allows her to be in the sun for up to 10 minutes instead of the usual 2. She has to use a special umbrella at all times while outside. Most of her time in school, she has had to stay in one special room while the rest of her class went to art and P.E. and recess. For library time, they would ask what kinds of books she wanted and bring her a couple (However, her principal recently received a grant that paid for changes at school that now allow her to have much more movement around the building.). Exposure to light causes her organs to fail, and she literally begins burning from the inside out.

BUT during one of her particularly long and difficult hospital stays in Chicago, several players and coaches from the Chicago Cubs came and visited her. Most of them said hello and stayed for a few minutes and then left, but James Russell and Lester Strode stayed for a long time and played with the children. The little girl fell in love. From that moment on, she has referred to him as her "honey." He had been traded to the Braves for a short time, but when she learned he was back with the Cubs, she danced around the house and cheered.

She talked a great deal about him and was wearing his spring training jersey, which hung like a dress around her tiny body. A man in the front row next to the bullpen gave up his seat so she could watch him walk out and see him again. Her whole face glowed, as if all the light she had to avoid was shining right out of her at that moment. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, the way her face looked when she saw James.

He did a pretty small thing for a sick girl 3 years ago that she and her family will never forget. The cameras were gone. It wasn't about PR. It was just a kind thing to do.

Stories like this make me almost forget about the gross things in life. It's a small thing to be kind to people, but the results are incalculable.

 

 

 

In the lower right corner, you can see the top of the girl's umbrella, and the woman next to her is her mom. They're watching the bullpen boys.

Saying goodbye to someone I love

My phone just went off 3,000 times, and it was everyone who knows me telling me that Blake Parker was designated for assignment. I have to read these messages several times to understand. Blake Parker. Designated for assignment.

Maybe you don't know who Blake Parker is. If that is the case, it is surely your loss. But all I can do is sit here and re-read that Blake Parker was designated for assignment. I'm so sad, deep-in-the-pit-of-my-guts sad because I think what this could mean is that I will never see him again, and I don't think I can handle that.

You might be thinking, "Man, that girl is selfish. What about how he feels?" That is pretty much ALL I'm thinking about. I used to watch baseball strictly as a fan, and I would get ticked when guys I liked got traded, but I got over it fast because they were just faces on baseball cards and television. But then I became involved in baseball, as in, it became my life, and it became my home, and the players became almost another family for me. And then I began to see them as humans with gifts and insecurities and dreams and talents and families and flaws. And then when they would get traded and sent down to the minors and released as if they were nothing more than property, which, really, they ARE, I get emotionally involved and worry that they don't have a backup plan, and I wonder if their lives will be empty without that ball in their hands. I wonder if they will question why they worked so hard all their lives for a few seasons of on-and-off big league ball.

So I will tell you about Blake. Blake is, like pretty much every baseball player, breathtakingly handsome. He is, more importantly and rarely, kind in such a genuine way that you really do feel like you are his friend after talking to him a few times. He takes off his cap, bows his head, and prays before he pitches. His grandfather's initials are stitched in his glove. My friend Angela used to ask him for relationship advice--that's the kind of everyday guy he was. He was the kind of guy who wrote me a heartfelt message when I told him my dad died (my dad loved the guy and called me at work every time Blake pitched to tell me how the game went). He was the kind of guy who took time out on a very hot day to talk to my friend Matt's son Colin, and Colin became his fan that day and will always, ALWAYS remember the day a baseball player took time out for him. There are many young kids and swooning women and even several men who were starstruck because Blake Parker talked to them and looked them in the eyes and took pictures with them.

I can't tell you about his abilities as a player, except that he has the save record in Iowa and that he had one amazing  year where he was absolutely fantastic, but had some injuries and things changed. I can tell you for a fact that he is a better player than the majority of humanity or else he never would be in the major leagues, and that being a relief pitcher, especially a middle-reliever, is a thankless job because you are basically expected to be perfect every single time out, even if you walk into a bases-loaded, no-outs situation. But he is a person in addition to being a player, which is why I can't focus on the pitching. The year I was fired from a job I loved and wanted to do forever--that was the year I met Blake. That was the year I found something else to love and to hang on to. I was drowning in sadness and despair, and his kindness and affection and friendship made me feel like I mattered. He and Steve Clevenger (who was also taken away from me) gave me more than I could ever give back to them in platters of cookies and failed attempts at German Chocolate Cake and Strawberry Shortcake. He saved my life. He was something I talked to my dad about, and for that I owe him even more, because at the end of my dad's life, when he was lying in the hospice bed and didn't always remember me, he asked about Blake.

I remember the way Blake's face lit up when he saw me after not seeing me for a long time, and the way he tried a little bit to avoid me when I wanted a 87th picture that week. I remember Blake giving me his cleats and shirts and other game-used things and feeling like I was the luckiest person on earth. I remember talking to Blake one night after a game, and he was talking about a girl cheating on him, and I think of him now, so happy and in love (yes, it's creepy that I know that, but thank goodness for social media that lets me be in his life from afar), and I know that really he will be okay, I just don't think I will.

Maybe he'll stay on the Cubs (that happens a lot), or maybe he'll end up on another team (I hope he does). But I'm so scared he'll stop playing. I would like to tell him goodbye. I would like an autograph. I would like one of his trademark one-arm hugs (although I would probably force him to give me a real hug). I would tell him how much I will miss his beard, and his eyes that were greener than the Wrigley grass itself.

I would like to tell him not to give up and that I will always be grateful to him for treating me like an equal human being, instead of just a starstruck girl who annoyed a really cool athlete. I would tell him that I will love him forever, and that someday, I will write his story in a real book and everyone will know him. I just wish I could see him one more time to tell him that he did more to advance the love of the game of baseball in the hearts of Wrigley's children than Clark the Cub will ever do. I would tell him he is more than a name in a score box. I would tell him my heart hurts, but I know he'll be okay.