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.

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.

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.