Oh man. You know, I knew this day was coming, almost exactly 6 months after the death of my dad. But I really thought I'd be better by now. Not over it, maybe, because losing a dad isn't something you just forget about, but I thought I'd feel closer to whole. I don't. I feel worse than ever. I feel like every day that gets closer to Father's Day, I think of one more way that I was a pretty bad daughter.
It's ridiculous. I was a great daughter. My dad and I had a lot of fun, and a lot of good talks, and spent a lot of time together. Truth be told, he would be the first to say that I was a far better daughter than he was a dad. But I still think of all the things we didn't do together, and lately I begin to cry at the slightest reminder that I will never talk to my dad again. It's hard to NOT think of all the things you didn't do, didn't say, all the ways you let him down. But I always did Father's Day right by him, that I know.
Every Father's Day, I went to church, then stopped and picked up food, then went to his house to watch the Sox game. That was our pattern every year since years began. He was a simple guy. I usually bought him a couple Sox t-shirts or something. But what he really wanted was to watch the Sox with me, just to spend time with me doing something he loved. That was the real present.
This year I decided I would leave town for Father's Day. I thought being away physically might also distance the pain emotionally. But a couple weeks ago, when I began to cry more regularly at the thought of this day coming, I realized that it didn't matter where I was. I'm going to cry on June 15th. I may even cry the whole day, even among strangers, even making people super uncomfy. Geography isn't going to stop me from remembering that I should be sitting in my dad's dusty living room eating pizza and listening to him tell me why the White Sox were the greatest team in the entire universe and Paul Konerko should be president of the world and Gordon Beckham should've won the Gold Glove the last three years and Alexei Ramirez should stay with the team at ANY COST and Robin Ventura is a genius and just you wait until Adam Dunn gets on a roll because he will blast every home run imaginable and have you seen Jose Abreu and what a steal he was and that brilliant Rick Hahn, etc., etc., etc. My dad loved the Sox and supported their every move. I still can't wrap my mind around the idea that he is gone and those conversations are over.
So here's how I will spend Father's Day. In Chicago. At a White Sox game. Family Sunday, which I realize sounds like I am torturing myself, but listen---I look forward to seeing dads with their daughters. It might make me sad, it might make me miss him more, but above all of that, I will remember my own father's delight when he realized that I loved baseball and he would have a child to watch with, to talk with. I will remember how he drove all the way through Chicago during rush hour so he could take me to Southlake Mall in Hobart, Indiana, so I could meet my favorite baseball player, Robin Ventura, how he laughed when I cried and said I reminded him of a girl he knew who met the Beatles. I will remember all the times he took me to SoxFest, such a waste of a ticket because he didn't care about autographs or anything--he just loved watching my reaction meeting players. I will remember all the Twins-Sox games we went to, and how he would roll his eyes and say, "Are you really going to wear that?" at my Twins gear. I will remember my dear old dad and our good baseball times as I watch loads of dear old dads with their kids, and I hope they all savor every second, because who knew you only get 65 years sometimes? I will cry, but I will be happy because Andre Rienzo is pitching, and my dad absolutely raved about him, and he is one of my favorite people on this planet. Maybe I'll splurge and get really good seats and just enjoy the game. Maybe I will buy an extra ticket for my dad, even though he probably won't make it. Maybe I am getting all my tears out now and there will be nothing left Sunday.
But the bottom line is, I will spend this Fatherless Day with the White Sox, who, in spite of my support for the Cubs and Twins, I really do love. I will always love them because they brought my dad and me together 22 years ago, and they kept our relationship solid up until the day he died. So see ya Sunday, Sox!
Showing posts with label robin ventura. Show all posts
Showing posts with label robin ventura. Show all posts
Thursday, June 12, 2014
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.
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!
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