My life motto can best be summed up by this clip from "Fever Pitch." But lately, I admit, I am spending less time at the fields of my dreams.
I have heard a lot of questions since the season started about my lower participation in baseball shenanigans. I guess it is very different. It is almost June, and I have yet to visit my beloved Wrigley or my also loved Miller Park. The only White Sox games I've been to have been Twins games, and I even skipped one of them this year. I am not getting autographs. I haven't even looked at my stack of cards and I haven't bought anything to get signed in a while.
Let's go back 5 years to 2012, when Angela and I basically lived at Wrigley. That was a glorious time. I gotta say, that summer is still the best summer of my life. I was actively meeting players, hanging out with them, meeting their families. It was surreal. I had more autographs than I knew what to do with of players more talented than I understood at the time. Angela and I made friends that year that continue to be our friends today.
But the thrill of autographs is almost gone. Chicago autograph hounds are basically the worst ones in the world. And I am only saying that because of all the stadiums I have been to, only Milwaukee graphers are more annoying. Players have told me it is worse here than anywhere else. So I admit that I feel like a doofus standing there, an adult, asking another adult to sign a baseball card. I've gotten most of the big names. Now, unless it's someone I really like, I just feel meh about it.
Do I love baseball less now? Not even close. I love it more than ever. I believe in its healing powers and beauty and majesty. But I admit it feels different. I don't really want to go to a Cubs game. I think about the traffic, the parking, the expense of the ticket, how crowded it is now--and mostly the fact that I would be going alone. I don't want to spend a lot of money to sit by strangers when I could hang out with people I enjoy. Plus, the Cubs have won their championship. It felt good and I was proud. But now EVERYONE is a Cubs fan, and it feels cheap. Not the tickets. Just the feeling.
I love going to Sox games--it's close to home, easy to get to, cheap, comfortable, and I always have someone to spend time with there, as my friend Laura and her mom have season tickets and literally never miss a game, for almost 700 games now. But it's harder and harder to get time off work, and other responsibilities and hobbies and people have taken up extra time, so my baseball time is limited.
I work in Adult Protective Services and run the Will County, IL, branch. We investigate allegations of abuse of adults 60 and older and all adults with disabilities. It sounds fancy, but really, it's a lot of hard work, generally 60+ hours a week of paperwork and signing off on forms, and now, with the influx of abuse cases, I am carrying a small caseload myself. If I take off work, someone might continue to get abused. Someone might die. So I have a hard time using days off when we are so busy. It's hard to even leave early, even knowing my hours are way overboard. I have never excelled at a work/life balance, although the last couple years I was doing much better at the life part. Now I just think of all the extra work it will create if I am gone, of the additional burden on staff if I am gone. So I generally stay. This Friday I had planned to leave work early to hit the Sox double-header, but we have a budget crunch I need to attempt to resolve, so I will probably be here.
Church isn't really an issue. I go to a church that has a Saturday evening service and three Sunday services. But now Sundays I enjoy visiting shut-ins at the nursing homes with my mom. They look forward to our visit, as I look forward to seeing them. It's hard to explain--they aren't my grandparents. But I really adore them. I also know we are the only visitors most of them ever have. How can I skip that for the six months of the baseball season?
And then there is my boyfriend. He doesn't like baseball really at all, so he has no interest in going to games. And even though I am fine spending time apart from him, weekends are my only times to see him, as we work opposite schedules during the week. Saturday day games are easy--he is usually shooting at the range or at a gun show--but Saturday night games, when he is free, I have a hard time choosing baseball. One night I was on my way to Sox Park, and he called, wanting to go for a motorcycle ride, and I went to his house instead, because that sounded more fun.
More fun. What could be more fun than baseball? Not much, but hanging out with someone who I am quite smitten with and who enjoys me sounds wonderful. I do wish he loved, or even liked baseball, but he doesn't. So I am stuck choosing. And often, I will choose him. Just as I now choose family events I used to skip, and HIS family events. I feel like I am living a more balanced life, getting more sleep, eating more healthy, etc.
This is the biggest difference: In 2012, I needed baseball. I couldn't breathe without it. It kept me alive when I wanted to die and it gave me something to look forward to. I'd lost my beloved job and most of my friends. I had to move back home to Indiana. But I could always count on baseball to carry me. And now...well, I just don't need it anymore. I'm healed from the hurt of that horrible time in my life and baseball gets all the credit. But I loved it before 2012 and I still love it, the way you love an old friend that you don't get to see much anymore. When we reunite, it's as if no time has passed and I feel so comfy and at home. But I can also walk away and feel okay about it.
This is the new me. It's weird. Don't hate me.
Showing posts with label autographs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autographs. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
The death of a friend
I was driving home from work, stopped by a train, and was glancing through my e-mails. I saw the subject: "Ernie died!!!!"
Ernie? Ernie who?
And then I knew.
I've written before about the culture of us autographers (http://baseballgirl23.blogspot.com/2013/08/my-secret-shame_7.html). We're a strange bunch. We see each other 6 months of the year, and we form alliances, much like you'd see on Survivor, and also, much like Survivor, we betray those alliances when we get a better offer. Graphing is all about us, how much we can get and who we can get. We hate when a guy signs for just one of us, unless we are the one, and then we gloat.
But really, I am not hardcore. I don't care enough. I pout when someone I really like passes me up. But I don't lose sleep over missing someone, even a big name. The guys I usually want the most are ex-Cubs or ex-Twins or someone I want to meet because he has a great beard. I don't care about the big names because I will never sell anything and because I have no one to brag to except the guys I graph with, and, really, they won't let me brag.
Most of the guys who do this don't like me. They humor me because they know I'll help them identify the players and bring the Twins players over and because sometimes the players only come over because they see the oddity of a woman standing amidst the grown men. But they talk about me behind my back and make fun of the way I squeal with delight and excitement when I see the players. Usually, unless I see one of my friends, I try to stay invisible, hiding behind the legs of Billy Williams, trying to see if a cab is coming.
There used to be another woman who came out with her autographs. Sheila was much older in an ambiguous way. Sometimes I thought she was 50. Sometimes I thought she was 90. She was unorganized but passionate. Sometimes she would limp up to a player, only to spill all of her cards out in a spectacular mess. But she knew almost every player and would trot after them in a way that was so pathetic that the players would often think twice about passing her up, double back, and sign for her. She talked and talked and talked, often to herself, sometimes to other people. She looked unshowered, unkempt. I don't think I ever spoke to her. Not because I'm snobby about that stuff, but because, with the exception of two people, I don't trust any of these guys. I didn't know if her homeless look was just a schtick or if she really was mentally ill. I didn't want to form an alliance with her.
About a year ago, at Cubs Convention, I heard Sheila died. She was a cashier at a grocery store, and she just dropped dead. It was shocking, but I suppose it shouldn't have been. She didn't look healthy ever. My friends teased me. "That's going to be you," they would say, and I laughed on the outside, but on the inside I was terrified. What if that was me? What if my death became the punch line for a group of graphers who had always made fun of me anyway? What if that was all I left behind?
I later heard about people buying cards from her "estate." It made my skin crawl, to think of strangers (or, maybe worse, those I'd stood collecting with) picking over my treasures, talking one of my siblings down in price.
The first time I saw Ernie, I was appalled. I know, I know, that's horrible, but I was trying to be invisible--remember? He was somehow both large and small at the same time, with just a few teeth, moving with a liquid slowness, the way a slug moves on the bottom of an aquarium. He talked loudly and incoherently, sharing stories of both success and rejection with the other old timers. His clothes were torn and stained and ill-fitting. I assumed he was homeless, or nearly so.
I saw him a lot, almost every time I was out. He was usually clutching just one baseball wrapped in a baggie and a blue pen. He didn't drive, just took the train to Wrigley or to the Cell, and usually sat outside the park waiting for the big names. He didn't care so much about all the little guys. There's a guy in Chicago, one of the biggest autograph dealers in the country, and he'd give Ernie 10-20 bucks if he bagged a big name. I didn't like that either, but then I started to think that the guy must be pretty hard up to stand outside all day for the possibility of 10-20 bucks.
He could be pretty aggressive, too. When a big name, like Jeter or McGwire, came by, he would press his way to the front. I think sometimes people stopped for him because they felt bad for him, but sometimes it was just his sheer wily nature, the way he would slip his baseball in deftly between two other people and get the autograph. One time he pressed up against my back to get Yu Darvish. I was so mad that I was seeing red. I didn't want this gross guy pressing up against me just to get a stupid autograph.
But when the crowd went down, he came up to me. "Hey, Alex," he said, and I was surprised he knew my name. "Did you get him?" He didn't ask in a mean way, or like he was annoyed. He seemed to genuinely care.
"Yes," I said, apprehensively, trying to figure out why he wanted to know.
"Oh, well, that's just great for you!" he said, and not sarcastically. Sincerely. "I missed him, but I guess I'll get him next time.'
After that, we were fast friends. For the next few years, he always greeted me at the park, always asked me before he asked any of the guys if I needed help getting an autograph. He always seemed glad to see me, not like he was annoyed that there was one more person out there to ruin his chances of success. He came to the park nearly every day. Some days, he just didn't look well, and he would find a place to sit in the shade, but usually he looked the way he always looked and stood around with us, angling for the best spot. Sometimes his adult son would come to the park and they would work together. They were nice people, really just nice to everyone.
I got used to seeing him, which is why it was so sad that he sat out the entire 2015 season after getting knee surgery. We all missed him and talked about him, saying he was on the DL for the season. We saw his wife, who was a vendor at Sox Park, and asked for updates.
"Oh, he's just so stubborn. Won't do his physical therapy." She told us he was always cranky because he was cooped up in the house. She spoke about saving her tips to buy him something, but I don't remember what. I knew they didn't have a lot of money.
His son came out to a lot of games as well, and we asked about Ernie. "Oh, you know Dad. He's always grilling me about who I got and telling me I should've gone for the big guys. I tell him, get better and come out there with me then."
Even though Ernie was gone, he was always with us. We talked and told stories. like the time Ernie was too lazy to walk inside the bar to use the bathroom and subsequently was fined for public urination. I think he talked his way out of it, but everyone told the story differently. We talked about the way he weasled in for autographs. We talked about how strange it was that he wasn't there.
I knew he had bad knees. I didn't know he had Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, but that's what took him.
My heart hurts. He was a good guy. No, I don't know much about his personal life, but he was part of my autograph family. He was the patriarch, or at least the weird uncle that everyone likes.
I hope he is not forgotten. But I know he won't be. His legend will live with all of us who graph and who knew him.
I scrolled through my thousands of pictures, and I don't have one single picture of him. I hope I find one and can add it to this post.
This one's for you, Ernie.
“He Is Not Dead"
by James Whitcomb Riley
I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn
For an old-time step, and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here.
Think of him still as the same. I say,
He is not dead—he is just away.”
Ernie? Ernie who?
And then I knew.
I've written before about the culture of us autographers (http://baseballgirl23.blogspot.com/2013/08/my-secret-shame_7.html). We're a strange bunch. We see each other 6 months of the year, and we form alliances, much like you'd see on Survivor, and also, much like Survivor, we betray those alliances when we get a better offer. Graphing is all about us, how much we can get and who we can get. We hate when a guy signs for just one of us, unless we are the one, and then we gloat.
But really, I am not hardcore. I don't care enough. I pout when someone I really like passes me up. But I don't lose sleep over missing someone, even a big name. The guys I usually want the most are ex-Cubs or ex-Twins or someone I want to meet because he has a great beard. I don't care about the big names because I will never sell anything and because I have no one to brag to except the guys I graph with, and, really, they won't let me brag.
Most of the guys who do this don't like me. They humor me because they know I'll help them identify the players and bring the Twins players over and because sometimes the players only come over because they see the oddity of a woman standing amidst the grown men. But they talk about me behind my back and make fun of the way I squeal with delight and excitement when I see the players. Usually, unless I see one of my friends, I try to stay invisible, hiding behind the legs of Billy Williams, trying to see if a cab is coming.
There used to be another woman who came out with her autographs. Sheila was much older in an ambiguous way. Sometimes I thought she was 50. Sometimes I thought she was 90. She was unorganized but passionate. Sometimes she would limp up to a player, only to spill all of her cards out in a spectacular mess. But she knew almost every player and would trot after them in a way that was so pathetic that the players would often think twice about passing her up, double back, and sign for her. She talked and talked and talked, often to herself, sometimes to other people. She looked unshowered, unkempt. I don't think I ever spoke to her. Not because I'm snobby about that stuff, but because, with the exception of two people, I don't trust any of these guys. I didn't know if her homeless look was just a schtick or if she really was mentally ill. I didn't want to form an alliance with her.
About a year ago, at Cubs Convention, I heard Sheila died. She was a cashier at a grocery store, and she just dropped dead. It was shocking, but I suppose it shouldn't have been. She didn't look healthy ever. My friends teased me. "That's going to be you," they would say, and I laughed on the outside, but on the inside I was terrified. What if that was me? What if my death became the punch line for a group of graphers who had always made fun of me anyway? What if that was all I left behind?
I later heard about people buying cards from her "estate." It made my skin crawl, to think of strangers (or, maybe worse, those I'd stood collecting with) picking over my treasures, talking one of my siblings down in price.
The first time I saw Ernie, I was appalled. I know, I know, that's horrible, but I was trying to be invisible--remember? He was somehow both large and small at the same time, with just a few teeth, moving with a liquid slowness, the way a slug moves on the bottom of an aquarium. He talked loudly and incoherently, sharing stories of both success and rejection with the other old timers. His clothes were torn and stained and ill-fitting. I assumed he was homeless, or nearly so.
I saw him a lot, almost every time I was out. He was usually clutching just one baseball wrapped in a baggie and a blue pen. He didn't drive, just took the train to Wrigley or to the Cell, and usually sat outside the park waiting for the big names. He didn't care so much about all the little guys. There's a guy in Chicago, one of the biggest autograph dealers in the country, and he'd give Ernie 10-20 bucks if he bagged a big name. I didn't like that either, but then I started to think that the guy must be pretty hard up to stand outside all day for the possibility of 10-20 bucks.
He could be pretty aggressive, too. When a big name, like Jeter or McGwire, came by, he would press his way to the front. I think sometimes people stopped for him because they felt bad for him, but sometimes it was just his sheer wily nature, the way he would slip his baseball in deftly between two other people and get the autograph. One time he pressed up against my back to get Yu Darvish. I was so mad that I was seeing red. I didn't want this gross guy pressing up against me just to get a stupid autograph.
But when the crowd went down, he came up to me. "Hey, Alex," he said, and I was surprised he knew my name. "Did you get him?" He didn't ask in a mean way, or like he was annoyed. He seemed to genuinely care.
"Yes," I said, apprehensively, trying to figure out why he wanted to know.
"Oh, well, that's just great for you!" he said, and not sarcastically. Sincerely. "I missed him, but I guess I'll get him next time.'
After that, we were fast friends. For the next few years, he always greeted me at the park, always asked me before he asked any of the guys if I needed help getting an autograph. He always seemed glad to see me, not like he was annoyed that there was one more person out there to ruin his chances of success. He came to the park nearly every day. Some days, he just didn't look well, and he would find a place to sit in the shade, but usually he looked the way he always looked and stood around with us, angling for the best spot. Sometimes his adult son would come to the park and they would work together. They were nice people, really just nice to everyone.
I got used to seeing him, which is why it was so sad that he sat out the entire 2015 season after getting knee surgery. We all missed him and talked about him, saying he was on the DL for the season. We saw his wife, who was a vendor at Sox Park, and asked for updates.
"Oh, he's just so stubborn. Won't do his physical therapy." She told us he was always cranky because he was cooped up in the house. She spoke about saving her tips to buy him something, but I don't remember what. I knew they didn't have a lot of money.
His son came out to a lot of games as well, and we asked about Ernie. "Oh, you know Dad. He's always grilling me about who I got and telling me I should've gone for the big guys. I tell him, get better and come out there with me then."
Even though Ernie was gone, he was always with us. We talked and told stories. like the time Ernie was too lazy to walk inside the bar to use the bathroom and subsequently was fined for public urination. I think he talked his way out of it, but everyone told the story differently. We talked about the way he weasled in for autographs. We talked about how strange it was that he wasn't there.
I knew he had bad knees. I didn't know he had Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, but that's what took him.
My heart hurts. He was a good guy. No, I don't know much about his personal life, but he was part of my autograph family. He was the patriarch, or at least the weird uncle that everyone likes.
I hope he is not forgotten. But I know he won't be. His legend will live with all of us who graph and who knew him.
I scrolled through my thousands of pictures, and I don't have one single picture of him. I hope I find one and can add it to this post.
This one's for you, Ernie.
“He Is Not Dead"
by James Whitcomb Riley
I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn
For an old-time step, and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here.
Think of him still as the same. I say,
He is not dead—he is just away.”
Sunday, April 27, 2014
How two baseball stars made me cry, in a good way
Ian was excited to give me my birthday present. "Do you want it now, or at your party?" he asked a week early.
"Party," I said, and he looked disappointed, but he complied. So on the day of my birthday party, January 5, 2014, he gave me my present.
"Open the card first," he said, with that crooked smile of his. On the inside, he had written, "Get #3 on this." I looked at him questioningly. "Or David Price," he said, his grin widening. And that's when I figured out "#3" was referring to star third-baseman for the Rays, Evan Longoria.
I opened up the present, and it was a Tampa Bay Rays baseball. I love collecting team baseballs, although I don't usually get autographs on them, as their quality is bad and usually the autograph fades. But it was such a sweet, thoughtful gift from Ian, a Tampa-area native, and I thought, even though these big stars were probably out of my ability to get, I would try to get their autographs, then show him and impress him.
But what made the ball even more special was that he bought it at all. Ian rarely had two dimes to rub together. He was finishing up his senior year of college and paying his own way. While his soccer scholarship paid for part of his education, it also prevented him from working much, so money was tight. The fact that he got it for me at all was lovely. But it also looked like it was bought used. The plastic casing was cracked and there was no label on it. There was a little tear along the seam on one side. Maybe it was even his once and he was giving it to me. I am the kind of person who LOVES used gifts. Find me some books at a thrift store or a weird necklace at a garage sale, and I am so touched. Ian knew that I absolutely loved baseball and the Rays were one of my favorite teams. So this was special to me, very sweet and very dear.
Exactly two weeks after my party, I came home from Soxfest, having had a really great day, only to find out that Ian was dead. He was the victim of an apparent suicide, although I still have my doubts about all of that, but that is a story for another day. It didn't really matter why, but he was gone. Ian, talented soccer player, brilliant biology major, about to be an officer in the Marines, was never going to come over again. We were all devastated. My family loved Ian as if he were already our brother-in-law. He practically lived with us the previous summer and spent his free time with our family. He was nerdy enough to talk excitedly to my stepdad about science, but sweet enough to go with my sister to a Jonas Brothers concert. No one was more devastated than Jennie, who had planned to spend the rest of her life with Ian. I guess we all took for granted Ian's presence in our family. It was whole with him and now there was a hole without him.
I put the card from him and the baseball in a box. I couldn't really look at it. My dad had died a month earlier, and I still hadn't really faced that. I have never been afraid of death--when it's time to go, you go. My dad was relatively young when he died at 65, but, besides that, he had been in hospice for a few weeks and I knew it was coming. But not Ian, not 22-years young and funny and thoughtful Ian. So I was pretty angry at death now. I know God is the one who orders our days, so maybe I was mad at Him, but I don't think so. I never looked at it as God's fault. I think I was just mad that death had to exist, thanks to our stupid sin. I was mad at mental illness and depression, because that's what took Ian ultimately. I guess I was really mad at Ian, because I didn't think he was thinking about how our family would be lost and crying for days without him, how my sister was destroyed. Did he imagine that I, who was not even as close to him as most of my family, would still cry about him on a weekly basis three months after he left? So I hid the stuff he gave me because seeing it made me remember the things I loved about him and it was so much easier to be angry.
But when baseball season started, I knew I had to try to get those autographs. The Rays came into town to play the Sox this weekend, and they play the Cubs later on, in August. That gave me 7 games to try to fulfill his wish. Friday night I tried, but no luck, and then the doubt crept in and I just didn't want to do it. I didn't want to carry this stupid ball around anymore, empty of autographs. For some reason, it made me sob, and I was at a freaking baseball game for crying out loud. There's no crying in baseball!
The next day, Saturday, I arrived early in the hopes of catching one of them pulling in to the park. My friend Cisco, who works in the parking lot, knew my story. He had actually been with me the day Ian died. Cisco told me that he had spoken to David Price and told him a little about me, and Price said he wanted to hear my story. That was really nice of Cisco, but I didn't actually believe David Price cared one dot about my story. I'm sure people have all kinds of stories they use to get autographs. I was still going to try, though.
When I got inside, I assumed my regular post by the dugout. There were about 40 people there, and they all wanted Longoria and Price. They were shouting for the guys, which is rude, but I get it. But I started to get mad, thinking how a lot of these guys would probably sell the stuff and they didn't want the autographs like I did. They didn't understand that for me to have some kind of peace in my heart, I had to get this stupid ball signed.
Then Evan Longoria jogged over. And he jogged right to where I was standing. I couldn't speak, just held out the ball. He signed it and I tried to thank him, but at this point, I was crying way too hard to say much. Evan didn't notice and I know I was just another greedy grapher to him, but when he signed that ball for me, it was like a dam had burst, but one you wanted to burst. I wanted to know that I could fulfill the birthday wish Ian gave me. I immediately smeared the signature, but that was okay. Even if I never got Price, I had done what he asked in the card. I could put the ball on a shelf and I could stop worrying about getting it signed.
Except that, when batting practice ended, David Price, one of the best pitchers of our time, came jogging over, too. And right to me. He took the ball from me, signed it, then said, "I want to hear your story." So I told him, as best as I could as the tears flowed freely. And as the graphers shoved their books in front of me and pressed against me and completely ignored the sobbing girl in front of them, David Price looked at me, and I could see that he really cared, even though he didn't know me and didn't know why this was such a big deal.
"Aw, come on, now, don't cry," he said, and he looked so sad himself. "I gotta give you a hug. Move back, people." And the crowd grudgingly parted, and the great David Price took me in his arms and hugged me.
I don't know how heaven works, but am I crazy to hope Ian saw that?
I am so thankful for both Longoria and Price, who took time for the fans, even though they have no idea why it was such a big deal. The graphers around me, oblivious to my crying, asked me why I got that cheap ball signed and not a baseball card. They're idiots. That cheap ball with the smeared autographs is now on a shelf above my bed, and I prize it more highly than almost anything else. I always will, and I will always love those two guys.
"Party," I said, and he looked disappointed, but he complied. So on the day of my birthday party, January 5, 2014, he gave me my present.
"Open the card first," he said, with that crooked smile of his. On the inside, he had written, "Get #3 on this." I looked at him questioningly. "Or David Price," he said, his grin widening. And that's when I figured out "#3" was referring to star third-baseman for the Rays, Evan Longoria.
I opened up the present, and it was a Tampa Bay Rays baseball. I love collecting team baseballs, although I don't usually get autographs on them, as their quality is bad and usually the autograph fades. But it was such a sweet, thoughtful gift from Ian, a Tampa-area native, and I thought, even though these big stars were probably out of my ability to get, I would try to get their autographs, then show him and impress him.
But what made the ball even more special was that he bought it at all. Ian rarely had two dimes to rub together. He was finishing up his senior year of college and paying his own way. While his soccer scholarship paid for part of his education, it also prevented him from working much, so money was tight. The fact that he got it for me at all was lovely. But it also looked like it was bought used. The plastic casing was cracked and there was no label on it. There was a little tear along the seam on one side. Maybe it was even his once and he was giving it to me. I am the kind of person who LOVES used gifts. Find me some books at a thrift store or a weird necklace at a garage sale, and I am so touched. Ian knew that I absolutely loved baseball and the Rays were one of my favorite teams. So this was special to me, very sweet and very dear.
Exactly two weeks after my party, I came home from Soxfest, having had a really great day, only to find out that Ian was dead. He was the victim of an apparent suicide, although I still have my doubts about all of that, but that is a story for another day. It didn't really matter why, but he was gone. Ian, talented soccer player, brilliant biology major, about to be an officer in the Marines, was never going to come over again. We were all devastated. My family loved Ian as if he were already our brother-in-law. He practically lived with us the previous summer and spent his free time with our family. He was nerdy enough to talk excitedly to my stepdad about science, but sweet enough to go with my sister to a Jonas Brothers concert. No one was more devastated than Jennie, who had planned to spend the rest of her life with Ian. I guess we all took for granted Ian's presence in our family. It was whole with him and now there was a hole without him.
I put the card from him and the baseball in a box. I couldn't really look at it. My dad had died a month earlier, and I still hadn't really faced that. I have never been afraid of death--when it's time to go, you go. My dad was relatively young when he died at 65, but, besides that, he had been in hospice for a few weeks and I knew it was coming. But not Ian, not 22-years young and funny and thoughtful Ian. So I was pretty angry at death now. I know God is the one who orders our days, so maybe I was mad at Him, but I don't think so. I never looked at it as God's fault. I think I was just mad that death had to exist, thanks to our stupid sin. I was mad at mental illness and depression, because that's what took Ian ultimately. I guess I was really mad at Ian, because I didn't think he was thinking about how our family would be lost and crying for days without him, how my sister was destroyed. Did he imagine that I, who was not even as close to him as most of my family, would still cry about him on a weekly basis three months after he left? So I hid the stuff he gave me because seeing it made me remember the things I loved about him and it was so much easier to be angry.
But when baseball season started, I knew I had to try to get those autographs. The Rays came into town to play the Sox this weekend, and they play the Cubs later on, in August. That gave me 7 games to try to fulfill his wish. Friday night I tried, but no luck, and then the doubt crept in and I just didn't want to do it. I didn't want to carry this stupid ball around anymore, empty of autographs. For some reason, it made me sob, and I was at a freaking baseball game for crying out loud. There's no crying in baseball!
The next day, Saturday, I arrived early in the hopes of catching one of them pulling in to the park. My friend Cisco, who works in the parking lot, knew my story. He had actually been with me the day Ian died. Cisco told me that he had spoken to David Price and told him a little about me, and Price said he wanted to hear my story. That was really nice of Cisco, but I didn't actually believe David Price cared one dot about my story. I'm sure people have all kinds of stories they use to get autographs. I was still going to try, though.
When I got inside, I assumed my regular post by the dugout. There were about 40 people there, and they all wanted Longoria and Price. They were shouting for the guys, which is rude, but I get it. But I started to get mad, thinking how a lot of these guys would probably sell the stuff and they didn't want the autographs like I did. They didn't understand that for me to have some kind of peace in my heart, I had to get this stupid ball signed.
Then Evan Longoria jogged over. And he jogged right to where I was standing. I couldn't speak, just held out the ball. He signed it and I tried to thank him, but at this point, I was crying way too hard to say much. Evan didn't notice and I know I was just another greedy grapher to him, but when he signed that ball for me, it was like a dam had burst, but one you wanted to burst. I wanted to know that I could fulfill the birthday wish Ian gave me. I immediately smeared the signature, but that was okay. Even if I never got Price, I had done what he asked in the card. I could put the ball on a shelf and I could stop worrying about getting it signed.
Except that, when batting practice ended, David Price, one of the best pitchers of our time, came jogging over, too. And right to me. He took the ball from me, signed it, then said, "I want to hear your story." So I told him, as best as I could as the tears flowed freely. And as the graphers shoved their books in front of me and pressed against me and completely ignored the sobbing girl in front of them, David Price looked at me, and I could see that he really cared, even though he didn't know me and didn't know why this was such a big deal.
"Aw, come on, now, don't cry," he said, and he looked so sad himself. "I gotta give you a hug. Move back, people." And the crowd grudgingly parted, and the great David Price took me in his arms and hugged me.
I don't know how heaven works, but am I crazy to hope Ian saw that?
I am so thankful for both Longoria and Price, who took time for the fans, even though they have no idea why it was such a big deal. The graphers around me, oblivious to my crying, asked me why I got that cheap ball signed and not a baseball card. They're idiots. That cheap ball with the smeared autographs is now on a shelf above my bed, and I prize it more highly than almost anything else. I always will, and I will always love those two guys.
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