BOSOXBLOG

Math and Baseball

I have to write an autobiography about math for a class.  What do I remember, how do I use it now, and so on. I found ways to avoid math for the larger part of my life. Went to a university that allowed me to create my own requirements. For my science credit I took the geography of wine...
    I add money at the end of my shifts. I calculate tips. But when do I actually think about math?
    Baseball. Baseball is the only time I really evaluate numbers.
    I was at a SABR event recently, and someone made a comment about math and baseball.  They said all sports writer’s need now are numbers. There is a science to baseball, and not the type of science I learned in college. All of the sudden I worried, had I fallen into the wrong sport?
    As I looked out my window this morning, I watched a boy playing baseball in the bitter cold. I wondered if he was thinking numbers. When I was growing up I don’t remember focusing on the numbers. I collected baseball cards, but I never studied the backs of them. I knew there were usually nine innings in a game. Three strikes to an out. Too many fouls, and three outs to an inning.
    I remember the drama. I remember trying to hear the silent communication between the pitcher and catcher. I remember the guilt from forgetting to wear my lucky socks.  I remember Nomar’s habit before batting.
    But I don’t remember the numbers.
    I used to dream of being a sports writer, but in reality, I’ll always be a story writer.

Practice what you preach

I told my students not to watch the games this weekend. I told them the games were on too late. I told them this with red socks on, so it’s hard to say how seriously they took me. What I should have told them is good to bed while you still can. Go to sleep before you get to a point where even when the game ends you stay up for hours questioning calls, mostly because you are too afraid to get to the real question.
    They don’t yet understand the seriousness of it yet. They are eight years old. They don’t understand what eighty-six years can do to a person.  Even when the drought ends, there is always the fear another will begin.
    I should have told my students to ask their parents to move to a different city, hell, a different state. Before it’s too late.  As much as I love this dirty water, lately, it feels a little bit poisonous. If nothing else, I hope my students never start listening to sports radio. And I hope they don’t switch from Harry Potter to Shaughnessy.
    Alright, Clay, show us what you got tomorrow.  We’ve seen glimmers of your brilliance. I plan on a red bull and twelve pieces of bacon for breakfast.  Hopefully, I’ll be having the same thing Tuesday morning.

Let the insanity begin...

    Last night I did something very unlike me. I left the game early. Even though we already had the wild card, and essentially all of our starters were no where to be found, I figured, its still Fenway, it’s not raining and Wake and Halladay are pitching.  Still could be a great one to watch.
    By about the sixth inning the stands were relatively clear, Wake was gone, and we pretty much didn’t have a shot in hell of making it back, between our lack of bats and Lowrie’s week throw on third.
    The man sitting beside my said, “this is probably the worst game of baseball I have ever seen.”
    “Yeah, and yet we’re laughing.”
    This is when he said something I truly couldn’t believe.
    “Yeah, but how can you not be happy in Fenway?”
    I envied his light heartedness.  I thought about the times I’ve cried in the ballpark, the times I’ve lost it. And I thought about how the fact that I laughed last night and was able to leave in the 8th. The pre-World Series me would have stayed, watched them lose, blamed it on the fact that I can’t find lucky hat.
    Insanity is gone for baseball. I was looking ahead last night, as was Francona. I wasn’t going to stick around to watch Halladay dominate the minors when hockey starts today. I wasn’t going to waste my tears on Wake yet, because it comes back.
    Every year playoffs hit, and the insanity is back like a plague. I can’t laugh at errors. I can’t laugh at relief I haven’t heard of. In fact, for playoffs I’m lucky when I’m breathing.

Ready for Remy

We are seven games behind.  We are just a game ahead of Texas in the wild card race. But here’s the thing, I’m not panicking.  Last night over dinner my father asked me if the Yankees lost Tuesday night. I had no answer, I had to look it up.  Since I’ve had the Internet, this noted the first time I didn’t know where the Sox were in the standings.

It isn’t that I am overly sure of the Sox either. I can hardly watch them this month. I want to send my kid cousin in to pinch hit.  This summer than addict was taken out of the fanaddict.

The thing about baseball I always loved was the purity of emotion.  It had always been about the game.  It was about commiserating for the players.  When they didn’t hit you may as well not get out of bed until 3PM,because these were our boys.  This year we were asked a lot out of these boys.  The heroes and legends that broke what in Boston seemed like a mythical curse, suddenly were tainted.  I was genuinely upset. I cheated in Go Fish years ago, and I still think about it.

I know this is only temporary. I had one of these spells when Johnny Damon went to the Yankees years ago. Where did all the good men go, and thankfully, that winter I found them in hockey.

Friday I am going to the game. I am taking a kid who has never been. I have been waiting to take him to Fenway since he was born, asking his father each year, is he ready?  Because, to me, a Fenway first is more life changing than communion will ever be.  It’s a game against the Yankees. But that’s not why I’m excited. Remy is back. And in this dark season of baseball, Remy reminded me of the good men.  Remy who has made us laugh for years, got us through the winless years, told us he was dealing with depression.  One of the hardest things to vocalize.  In an era where players can’t even be honest even when the fans already know, Remy showed us honesty and integrity we had stopped associating with baseball.

So soon this spell will be over. I will be getting back to baseball, and even better, so will Remdawg.

Not a complete loss

So the fifth shut out of the season for the Sox. Nice and old fashioned timing. As much as I enjoyed watching the replay of Youk charging the mound,  now I wish he hadn’t. Our bats are hurting. Ortiz has become an automatic out. Guess he’s off the vitamin water.

It’s been a long few weeks for us in Boston with a few glimpses of sunshine. The 10 packs are back for the Bruins. The Patriots sort of start tonight. And it looks like our decision to keep Clay was a good one. I listened to the entire game because I liked the sound of his change up. He sounded like the no hitter Clay we fell in love with and ever since have been unable to give up on.  Verlander was able to pitch a 98mph ball after 100 pitches. He was hardly human today. Buchholz could have gotten a win today. I know could have isn’t enough when it comes to August, but if the bats pick up, I have no doubt in my mind this kid is capable of greatness.

Lets relax and watch some football tonight. Before we know it, Youk will be back in the line up, Lowell will still be hot and playing DH, and Wake will be on the mound. Until then, Go Pats!

We aren't dead yet!

Thursday started out with my Boston cousins. A beautiful Cape Cod night. Boys playing baseball in the backyard in Ellsbury jerseys, one boy and even had a Brady jersey making fall not look so cold. My cousins’ son told his him, he couldn’t dress up for dinner. He had to wear his Ellsbury jersey, because it was the start of the Yankees Red Sox series. I sipped on  my Sam Summer as if  it was the last and listened to Joe cast the game over the radio. Until we couldn’t…. we pretended it was politeness and dinner. But the truth was, the only thing worse than listening to the Sox over the weekend was watching them.

The weekend passed slowly, surrounded by my mothers New York side of the family.  My eleven year-old cousin asked jollily, “Did the Sox lose againI used my old, if you can tell me who pitched, I will answer that question, line.  Probably the only thing I like about Yankee fans, they can never tell you who pitched.

I returned back to Boston last night.  I turned on my radio to put me to sleep.  The silence of those Red Sox bats, has become like sheep.  Thankfully I was wide awake. It wasn’t just Youk being frustrated at being hit last night. Youk always gets hit due to his graceful batting stance. Youk provided us with the wake-up call Boston needed. A nation hit down by steroids, empty promises, and losses.  Lowell homered twice reminding us anything is possible in this game and finally we won. Tazawa got a win after his Yankee humiliation. Things are looking up. We are still 5 1/2 behind the Yankees(this fact my New York cousins can always tell me.) but we are alive once more. It’s not September yet, and we aren’t dead yet

By next Friday I’ll be at Fenway, hopefully taking my cousins kid to his first game ever, and against the Yankees at that. He’ll be in his best jersey. And I’ll remember the Fenway magic once more.  And with any luck, my cousins in New York will remember what feeling nervous is like.

Broken up in Boston

To think I was just writing a lesson plan for my students to write a poem about Ortiz.  People were shocked I didn’t see this coming, but I can’t see these things coming, because it ruins baseball. Where have all of the role models gone? Were they ever really there, is maybe the bigger question.

I’ve had my heart broken by sport plenty of times.  Game seven galore this year.  But I will never forget having to take my Mo Vaughn poster down when I was a kid because he got another DUI. That was the first real heartbreak. When Wake has a bad game I don’t blame him. Sure, I yell at the TV screen a good bit. But players make errors; it’s why sports are so interesting. If athletes played perfectly they’re would be no hail marys, no underdogs, no curses to overcome. It would be like anything else on TV.

This is my plea to professional athletes everywhere. Shapen up. I’m serious. We love home runs, especailly game winning three run homers, but only when our heroes hit them.  And lately, it feels like everyone’s a Yankee.

Rice brings Sunshine to Mudville

Watching Jim Rice last night I became jealous for the years of baseball I missed.  Watching highlights, watching his grace, watching Nomar’s reaction, I wished for an era of baseball not so full of pettiness. It seems the more we pay a player the more they complain. Or the more they have no choice but to do steroids.

Maybe it’s just the heat.  Maybe it’s being behind the Yankees when it counts, but I couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for America’s past time. For weeks I’ve been looking through old papers trying to find a Casey, trying to find a Mudville.  Trying to find when baseball still meant everything, not just to the fans.  Watching Rice last night, it was like I finally found that.

So lets tip our hats to the man.  Lets tip our hats to a generation. Filled with sport. And lets forget about the Mannys and the Dice-Ks for a while.

With break in baseball we can get back to other important aspects of life...

Like hockey and basketball.  I sat through class unable to listen to a word just picturing the line I knew was forming outside of the garden. Would I even get a chance at a lucky ticket?  I brushed over the details on the Internet. For some reason I thought it was only for Bruins tickets (selective hearing) so you can imagine my surprise stepping onto a train full of KG jerseys.  I quickly found a Bruins fan to stand by.

As soon as I exited the train I saw a sea of Bostonians, in suits, Bruins jerseys, Celtic t-shirts, and one odd teenager in a Penguins jersey and a Mets hat…there’s always one.  I couldn’t see where the end of the line stretched, so I pushed aside all my learned manners, walked on the street and used my rugby skills to find windows.  It kept going…

When it finally stopped I felt like I had finished the freedom trail, I found my spot in line.  It was long, but not 19,000 people long.  With no water, no food, and no friends, I realized it was going to be a long ass wait, for a crappy chocolate bar that may or may not have a golden ticket.  Quickly the line became a bar with no TV, well, and no booze.

The girl beside me in line and I became fast friends.  What are the chances of standing right behind another girl on her own, who has dedicated her entire day to a vague promise from the “TD” Garden.  After an hour and a half of waiting a man in a suit with a walkie-talkie, informed us there was a good chance they would run out of chocolate bars before we got to the end.  No one moved.

All it takes is a few days off baseball for Boston to became obsessive with hockey and basketball again.  We waited it out.  It drizzled, people in cars and offices made fun of us, but we stayed. After 2 and ½ hours we walked into the garden, which felt more like a grade school party, full of balloons, and bad music.  Everyone was smiling.

We were literally joyous as we received our two chocolate bars, and quickly took them to the ‘unwrapping zone’.  Nothing.  One man screamed with excitement discovering he had won two tickets to Disney on Ice.

I left still smiling oddly enough.  My new friend and I had a beer and discussed what could have been.

Boston isn’t always a friendly city.  But when we talk sports, we’re all like old war buddies, especially when losing is a possibility again.

Nomah returns...

Finally in Boston we can take a MJ break.  Not to talk about the political status of Honduras but to talk of the return of Nomah. Boston is full of the most loyal and yet harshest fans.  I remember the first time I ever saw Dice-K, he dropped the puck at a Bruins game when we were still figuring out how to say his name correctly.  Everyone in the Garden stood, only expecting greatness, from a pitcher we truly didn’t know much about.  Last same I saw him, he was on the mound at Fenway, and he got booed like a Yankee. Before 2004 the medias only job in Boston was to boo.  You read the sports page now and it’s a whole new thing, full of bunnies and flowers, and maybe the occasional Manny bashing (even with him all the way in LA).  Before it was all a bashing.

Tonight lets not just focus on our break-up with Nomar. Lets focus on the man, the player. He was a go to guy while he was in the city.  Kids playing peewee mimicked his superstitions at bat.  For a while, he was Boston. He embraced the butchery of his name.  Think back to a shortstop Nomah caliber, who has stayed long enough for you to invest in a jersey…

The trade ended up working.  But without Nomah, even just his promise, that season would we have made it to the Series?  I cried when he was traded. I went to Wrigley that season in my jersey and Cubs fans bought me beers, because we got each other.  We understood the misery of curses, we had an excuse to be massholes, we had every right to drink a few too many, and boo at our own players.

But now we have six players going to the All-Star game, about time, Wakey! We have two rings, and Cubs fans hate us.  Boston sports writers are smiling, guest starring on PTI and Around the Horn.  It’s been raining all summer, and we are in better moods than five years ago.  We’re in first place. 

So I’m standing for Nomah.  Lets show an old hero how far we have come.  And then lets stand for who will hopefully become a Fenway hero, Smoltz…