The Red Sox Bear Us Away To Winter

It's over. 162 games. The Postseason. The World Series. It has ended gloriously for us Red Sox fans. Our second World Series in 4 years. An absolute and unequivocal drubbing of the Rockies to win the World Series. And two mornings removed, the smile not yet wiped away from my face, it still remains over.

I watched the game. Every pitch. Every hit. Every inane comment from McCarver and Buck. It wasn't riveting, it was affirming. I knew we had a good team, a great team. Young and talented in some corners, experienced and unrelenting in others. Scrappy and emotional in the field, quiet and graceful at the plate. Never have I been so impressed with my Red Sox. Sure 2004 was outstanding, a beyond-words-cornucopia of glory and emotion. But 2007 was stunning. A knock you to your knees awe-inspiring season. There were rough moments, but you expect those with anything that takes perseverance. There were few come-from-behind wins this year, more content to take the lead and never surrender it games. I can honestly say there were never any doubts. When you see a team this good, this powerful and dominating, they leave little room for doubts.

Since 2004, the ominous and foreboding feeling has gone. I read that 2004 was an exorcism, 2007 was an exercise in domination. I tend to agree. This was a very good baseball team. And almost as exciting, this will be a very good baseball team next year.

I watched us emerge victorious in Game 4 in the same manner and means I watched us win Game 7 of the ALCS. Isaac was awakened and seated in my lap, my legs crossed underneath me, his draped over them. His stiff little back holding his alert head upright braced against my chest. Faced forward, eyes open, both of us watching the Red Sox win. I told the Mrs. last night I swear he knew something was going on. Occasionally he would look up at me, bright blue eyes reflecting the green fields of my childhood imaginations of World Series victories. Those eyes would stare into mine, then turn to the T.V. for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. He may have been saying nothing, just taking note of the two animate things in the living room at midnight. But in my mind he understood. Not what was going on, only that something was going on. So we watched. Cheered. Called family. And we, together, father and son, won the World Series.

For the 2007 season I watched the games. Never sure what was happening in the larger sense, only that something was happening. This was a good baseball team and a lot of fun to watch. Now that we've won, I'm still not sure I can put winning the World Series into words. Twice in a lifetime!", that was the headline on ESPN yesterday featuring an animated, wide-eyed, wearied and enthralled Papelbon. That's about right. Twice in my lifetime the Red Sox have won the World Series. The Red Sox have won the World Series twice. Never gets old, always bears repeating.

For all the celebration, the quiet moments of joy with my son seated in my lap, I am sad this morning. Baseball, my pastime, my favorite sport, is over for the winter. It will be a short winter though. And a warm one, images of Papelbons and Pedrioas dancing in my head. Of Manny's and Papi's and Jacoby's bringing smiles to my face. But baseball is over for another year.

But it was a year in which the Red Sox have won the World Series. And that's only happened twice in my lifetime.

The Modern Prometheus

If you're familiar with the stuff of myth, the stuff of fantastic stories and tales, perhaps you'd be acquainted with the ancients conception of how fire was brought to man. Prometheus concealed the conflagration in his cloak, thieved from the heavens, and bestowed it to man. Interesting to note in this story that fire was the stuff of heaven. That it is not man's, not originally present on earth to the Greeks. I mean, there are no stories of a man named Chuck thieving water in the folds of his shirt, or Larry holding air in his wallet as he crept out of heaven. It's fire that's the stuff of heaven. God made the bush burn, not rain, when he chose to speak to Moses. Fire is the stuff of heaven.

So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.

Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...

Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.

We Win The World Series.

I Despise The Rain King

Not the song. I actually like the song. I was hoping it would play in my head as background to the novel Henderson The Rain King by Saul Bellow. Instead, I've been unable to drown out the metaphorical noises of my banging my head against the wall. I'm doing it, however, to the tune of The Rain King, so that's something.

Ever been caught in a book you can't get out of? One you have to finish only because it's required by some person or class? This is where I'm at. I love reading. Love to open a book, sit down, shut-up and read. I dream about reading at work. Looking forward to going home, when everything is over for the day, and beginning a new book, finishing one I've started or re-reading that last chapter because something struck my fancy. But not this book. Not this horrible, horrible book.

It won the Nobel Prize for Literature at some point in the 60s or 70s (I don't even care about when it did; I don't care about being factually correct about this terrible book). I can see why, given context of the social and literary situations of that era. It's a book about discovery; about finding oneself. But the lead character is a misanthrope; an unlovable Falstaff. One who is subject to haughty prose about nothing really, no fluid thoughts or developments of ideas, just ramblings that occasionally make sense, but not so much sense that you remember it after you close the book.

It's taken me two weeks (of course, it's the playoffs and I rarely get much done anyway) to finally see the end. Of course, the end is more like a desert oasis because in no way am I finished with this book when I finish it. Then I must write a paper, and explore the deeper significances of this terrible, meaningless work. One that takes itself much to seriously, much to important. There's humor in it, meaning in it, but it's ultimately humorless and without meaning. And that sentence is indicative of every sentence in the book.

Sorry for the rant. It's just that "When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird) I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers". None of which could ever be used to write this book.

On Standing

We stand for different reasons. To keep from sitting to long. The Pledge of Allegiance. A bride walking down the aisle. But for Isaac on Monday, he stood because he figured out he could. I could describe that moment, the first moment he stood for something. Albeit that something was merely because he realized he can.

It was an out-of-the-blue occurrence. Just days before he had started grabbing for things above him. Balancing on three of his four extremities. But on Monday, he made the bold move of, while doing the three-fourths balancing act, to lift his other hand onto the shelf of the entertainment center. I think at that moment, my son developed a dare-devil spirit. Not content with that accomplishment, he strove for something more. Strove to stand for something. It took a minute or so, one that involved him rocking back and forth, hands perched on the shelf, knees under him, during which time he laughed mischievously aloud. And this caught our attention. What was he planning?

Then I saw his leg scoop underneath him and the sole of his foot go flush with the floor. I turned and whispered to the Mrs. , pointing out the development. I mouthed, "Get the camera" and she ran into the other room. Thankfully, he didn't make any move until she got back. And before she could turn it on, he arose. Feet square with the ground, shoulder width apart.

It's the first of his firsts. Sure he was crolling (which has now become a crawl after Monday's events). Sure he ate his first meal, rolled over, slept through the night. But Monday was the first real moment the Mrs. and I realized our son was growing up. Almost too fast. Isaac was standing. Thinking about that moment, the achievement it was for him, one he did without our involvement, did solely on his own, speaks more to how fast he's growing up and how he's developing. In every other first we've been prominently involved. But here we were just bystanders (pardon the pun). Witness to his own will and desire and manifest destiny. And it's a moment and feeling I won't soon forget.

Our son, standing up.

And here's the video version.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

I Think I'll Go To Boston

It's easy to arise on mornings like this. One's where the rain has steadily been falling all night. Where it's moved out, given way to the sun and foretells a glorious weekend of sunshine.

Dane Cook says it best, There is only one October.

And this is an October morning.

On Art

So this is an interesting article. And reading it is almost as big a waste of time as the reason for the article. Finally, one of the world's great mysteries has been solved. But if not for a simple quote near the end of it, reading it would have been a complete waste of time.

"Art is never completed, it is only abandoned."

DaVinci said this. Fascinating idea. And I don't think we're solely talking about painting either. Any kind of art. Music, literature, it all goes un-completed. Ends up like the house on the end of the road with the overgrown shrubbery.

About 6 months ago I ordered a book, Art and Scholasticism. It was a profound influence on some writers I had stumbled across (Ironically it has gone abandoned on my shelf if only because I mistakenly ordered a flimsy bound, large print edition. I'm particular about few things, I like my books to feel a certain way). I think, perhaps soon, I shall pick it up. Possibly there lies an answer to the profundity of the aforementioned quote.

Until that time, I remain challenged by this quote. Can art ever be completed? I suppose in the sense that art is to be interpreted it can never be complete. There will always be a new perspective that can be offered as to the beauty of a particular work of art. But for the artist, must they simply abandon the task? Must they put down the pen, the chisel, the paintbrush and leave? It's been my experience that this is necessary more for the sanity of the artist who tend to go rather Type A on their "masterpieces". But lest we think less of them, consider this: artists (in the broader sense to include writers, musicians and the like) have stumbled into a vast ocean, an uncharted and unmapped region. Pulling from it colors, experiences, rhyme and the details of this magnificent place. Translating and transliterating it to us, the meager peons. And here's where I find this quote so apropos, the artist is just "stretching himself in this world". And it is a vast, nearly infinite world he has just sought to "get his head into". If such is the case, I suppose we cannot expect the artist to complete his work.

But to say it's abandoned. Or must be abandoned. That's a brilliant quote from a brilliant artist.

Residents of Mudville

So that's how I feel today. Like a resident of some imaginary town in a children's poem.

"Upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat"

But with Beckett going tomorrow night...

"A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast"

For when the dust lifts....

Getting You There From Here

For aesthetic reasons I've decided to do some "live" blogging at a new blog I've just created. You can get there from here. This way I don't clog up this site. But also, I really like the name of the new site: Crackerjacks and Peanuts. There are more reasons as well, but you'll have to head over there to read them.

Enjoy tonight's game, I'll begin blogging over there right around the time of the first pitch.

Crackerjacks and Peanuts

Not Peanuts And Crackerjacks

Now we have Midge Masks. Before there were Rally Monkeys, ThunderSticks and Rally Paddles. Now there's Midge Masks? I have respect for Indians fans. Good fans. Love the game. Are extremely passionate in that un-irritable sense. But Midge Masks? I now am no longer in fear of the Indians.

Why must sports franchises do this? Why must they bastardize a game I love? A game I know intimately and as profusely as the expression involving the back of one's hand. It's as bad as putting "Cheer Now" messages on the JumboTron. It was bad when the Red Sox introduced Wally The Wall Monster. Glorious when fans subsequently booed him. No JumboTron message needed then.

Give me peanuts and crackerjacks. Give me the home team in it's final at bat in a close game. Give me the chance to score a run or prevent a runner from scoring. Give me a great pitching performance, a base hit or a run-scoring grounder to short. I'm cheering. You don't need to tell me. Don't need to mask it with some prop. It is what it is. And it's great. If you can't get into that, well, then, baseball is not for you.

But alas it is. So we'll see fans with Midge Masks tonight. But I don't care if they ever come back. Give me a Red Sox win.

NOTE: I'm going to attempt to "live blog" during the game. I'm not sure why though. Seems like it could be fun. So tune in around game time.

EDIT: Semi-related to the post. It's pretty cool. A good Christmas present for Isaac grandparents!

On Being A Dad

So this past week has been especially trying. Thank you for all of the condolences on this blog. My family appreciated it. Much more could be said about my recent trip up to Maine following Grammie's passing. Like the first trip to Grammie's house. The conversations with Grandpa. There's a lot I've still got tied up inside, still knotted and unkempt. But those are tasks and memories and thoughts for myself alone.

What I will share with you involves Isaac. He made the trip with me. Just he and his Dad. Flying up early Wednesday and coming home yesterday. The Mrs. was also able to be there, coming later and leaving a day earlier. So, for a time, it was just Isaac and I.

Normally in these situations Isaac looks to his Mom as his protector and comforter in a strange place with unfamiliar faces. But with her not always there, I fell into this role for the first time. Hearing his cries for me. Having him curl up in my arms when he was tired. Me being the one whom he expected to make him laugh. It's marked a change in our relationship. Not that I'm not fully involved in Isaac's life, but, let's be honest, the Mrs., his Mom, is his lifeblood. The connection between the two of them is amazing to watch. And this week, a very difficult week, Isaac and I shared that connection as strongly as we ever had. I told the Mrs. I felt like a Dad this week for the first time.

This morning, laying in bed, the Mrs. brought Isaac in and placed him between us. He laid there for few moments, before rolling over and curling up next to me, cuddling in my arms. He had never done that before. And it makes life around you easier, in those moments.

On My Grandmother

After a long battle with cancer, my grandmother passed away Sunday. Surrounded by her family. In her home of some 50 years; the one that got bigger every time we visited because Grandpa was always adding on. It got bigger as her family got bigger.

I will remember her for her strawberry rhubarb pie. For how sweet and bitter and warm it always was. It was a good pie.

I will remember her for her eyes. I have Grammie's eyes. Bright and white. Clear and large. I have her eyes. And so does Isaac.

I remember the summers at their camp. A camp some of you have been too. Grammie and Grandpa's Camp, as it has always been called. Of Grandpa making his famous pancakes and Mom and Grammie shucking corn and peas for dinners. Playing cards and going fishing. Sitting by the campfire making smores.

I remember other moments. Lots of them. How they almost missed my wedding, is among the funnier ones. And over the next few days I will share and remember many more that I have forgotten about Grammie.

And then there was that final trip up to see her in June. The one where we took Isaac. There was the time she held him in her arms, sick with cancer, worn and wearied. And he, perfectly at home, perfectly at rest, fell asleep despite the unquietness around. It is an enduring picture in my mind. Her strong arms, her large heart, his little body, his little heart. Rocking silently in the chair by the window overlooking the yard before the house that she lived in.

I see that moment through her eyes sometimes. Because we share the same eyes. And we share the same skin. And I miss my grandmother especially then.

Why I Love October

Alright. I'm going to be the "blogger". I'm going to post immediately. Vowing to not let my thoughts settle.

What a great night of baseball -- thanks in large part to TBS HD finally settling with DISH Network. I'll admit, I had the Indians-Yankees game on over the start of the Red Sox game (though I did have the radio broadcast coming through the computer so as to not be totally in the dark). Give much credit amongst yourselves, readers, to the Indians. That's a good, good ball club. By the way, Yankees, OFF doesn't work on insects other than mosquitoes. And that was a fantastic game.

But Manny steals the show. Gets the game ball. Is the Your-Name-Here-Because-We-Paid-Advertising-Money-To-Have-It-Here Player of the Game. It was an atrocious pitch by K-Rod. Missed location badly. Missed everything, even the ballpark by the time that thing landed.

And that's baseball in October, all apologies to the 'great' Dane Cook here. Every mistake magnified. Every bug. Every pitch. It's all in play. It all means everything. You can't mess up. You can't let up. You can't make it up tomorrow. All you can do is win.

It's late. Pushing 1am. And. It. Is. October.

I Love My Red Sox

October Nights

So I like that idea. The one about Bible-black October nights. About the cold and bound silences of a now early evening darkness. Of the unseen and barely perceptible stirring of a leaf loosed from its moorings. Every noise and silence and motion is different. Nature is preparing for what's coming. For when, it is unsure, but the hatches are being battened down. And a chill sweeps over the land. We are mostly unaware, moved on by the perpetual kinetic energy in our own lives. But October is a cosmic catalyst for a new season. It is the thunderstorm of seasons. The hot summer nights colliding with the cool winter breezes. Some days and nights, the summer wins; it is the winter that emerges victorious. And in the Bible-black cover of night, we feel it most deeply, most religiously.

Now I realize it's a juxtaposition of ideas. A mixing, or, rather, a misuse of metaphor, but October is the perfect month for the baseball playoffs. Of silence and shouts; of loosed screams of joy and, if we're fortunate enough, a Felix Culpa. Every pitch means something different. Every cut fastball, called third strike, ground ball to third, double to right. It's all different. It's all for something that's coming. That's just around the next corner. Victory is sweet. I have tasted it. Felt it cool down my scream-torn throat. Basked in it's warmth, overcome by it's chilling reality: victory.

So listen for that imperceptible sign. That noise or silence that brings it all down in a rush. We will fight sleep and our kinetic lives to sit in quiet on cool couches in warm breezes on these cataclysmic nights. These Bible-black October nights.

May we not go silently into these good nights.

On Starbucks

Let's be clear: I'm not advocating or attempting to justify spending $3.95 for a cup of coffee. I'm really not. I think it's absurd, inane and just plain silly to spend that much. But then again I like doing stupid and silly and absurd things. So this morning, after a late but victorious night, I stopped off for a Venti Caffe Mocha.

Now I know I'm paying way more than I need to. Forget the fact that I've got coffee at home I could've made. Forget the fact that the gas station sells it real cheap or that it's free at work. Forget the fact Tim Horton's Cafe Mocha (only one F for Canandiens) is a buck and a half cheaper (though not as big and lacking a cool, motivating, mind-blowing quote). And I know, especially, above all else, that the coffee isn't really all that good. But I like Starbucks every now and then.

For starters, the service at our local area Starbucks is more than pleasant, more than timely, and tends to lead to conversation with employees. I once spent 10 minutes in the drive-thru at 5:15 in the morning talking about how it's not that bad to have to go into work that early. Secondly, today I got a free music download (Jokerman, Bob Dylan -- already own the CD). And to top it off I got a buy-one-get-one-free coupon too. And every now and then that's a nice thing.

I once read a expose on how Starbucks contributed to the benefits of post-modernism as far as communication goes. I can't quite remember the example and I'm not at home to look it up in the book and offer a summary (but here's the book. It's really quite good and worth the read). But it was a good analogy. Plus, there's the whole free trade issue. And I suppose that's a good thing to support.

But lest you think I'm justifying or disillusioning myself: I spent $3.95 for a cup of coffee that I could have made at home with my coffee maker and some Swiss Miss.

And Here We Go

Had I been a true blogger I would've posted the night the Red Sox clinched their first division title in 12 years. Don't think less of me. I was up, watching the Sox game that night. Then, I flipped over on MLB.tv to watch the end of the Yankee game. Even with 2 outs, the bases loaded and a former Red Sox at the plate, I was hopeful that the Orioles could erase a 3 run deficit. And when they did, I silently screamed so as not to wake the Mrs. or Isaac. With the bases loaded and 1 out and another ex-Sox at the plate in the 10th for the O's, I actually thought of getting Isaac up for this moment. I didn't. It was probably a good thing too, the way I reacted when Mora laid the bunt (BUNT!) down with two outs. That was a fantastic moment.

The Mrs. is out of town for the next couple of days with Isaac. She proffered that I should go golfing today. When I declined the invitation she was shocked. I said I had a paper to write and another book to finish. She replied that she'd be working the next several nights so I would have the evenings, after Isaac was asleep, to myself to get those things done. I still said no. She was shocked and tried to further convince me that I should go golfing this afternoon, that the work I had to get done could wait, saying, "Honestly, you'll have Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday night!" Finally I replied that I didn't have Wednesday night or Friday night.

"Why not?"

"The Red Sox are on."

She smiled and shook her head, not saying anything.

And what can you say? What can you write? How can you capture the anticipation? It's the like the long awaited release of the newest book by your favorite author or your favorite group releasing it's latest CD (Magic releases tomorrow, FYI). And you can't say how it'll turn out because, well, you just can't.

All you can do is curl up with it under a bible-black October night, or close your eyes and just listen.

Here we go.