*This article first appeared in today’s edition of the IBWAA Here’s the Pitch newsletter.*

I visited Tropicana Field last year. And, as a glutton for punishment, I gave into to my son’s wish to visit an equally squalid ballpark: The Oakland Coliseum. This wouldn’t check any stadium off my list, but it did seem like a fun day trip.

I first visited what was then the Oakland-Alameda Coliseum in the late ‘80s. Even back then the park left a lot to be desired, but (a) the team on the field was something to behold (winning the AL West four of five seasons between 1988–1992; Mark McGwire, Jose Canseco, Dave Stewart, Dennis Eckersley, etc.), and (b) we had nothing of great import to compare it to (Fenway hadn’t yet been remodeled; Wrigley had recently installed lights but not clean restrooms; Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, and Philadelphia all played in the exact same multi-purpose cement stadium; a single Giants game was a four-season experience, requiring sunscreen and a parka; etc.). Ignorance, in 1989, was bliss.

Commissioner Rob Manfred has repeatedly stated that MLB will not consider expansion until the stadium issues in Tampa Bay and Oakland are resolved. It seems the Rays have landed on a new park plan and design (here’s to hoping it will be a massive improvement), while the A’s have all but started packing their bags for Vegas. So, before they leave The Town, my son wanted to see The Coliseum in all of its lack of grace and never-present glory.

Now, I will not get into the many and varied ways that a move to Sin City is a horrible idea and is not in keeping with what A’s ownership claims they actually want to do with the team, their ballpark, and the surrounding environs. What I will get into is the current state of where the A’s – for the time being – still call home.

Like I stated, it’s been more than 30 years since I last saw a game in Oakland. Suffice it to say, time has not been kind to the ballpark. We flew up on a Saturday afternoon, and went through the gates as soon as they opened so that we would have plenty of time to observe the stadium from every angle. We circled the park at the lowest and the highest points; we walked the concourse from the 100 to the 300 level. We climbed to the tippy top and got a view of San Francisco and a vertigo-inducing view of the field below. We stood in the bleachers amongst the “Sell the Team” signs and the drums. We found ourselves in dark hallways and bright bleachers. In short, we took it all in.

If there is one word I would use to describe the park, it would have to be: “janky.” The stadium itself is just horrible. Now, here is where I need to state – without equivocation – two undeniable facts:

(1)  The A’s fans are amazing. They are spirited, excited, and into their team. I did not witness any of the deplorable behavior that I have heard tale about at Raiders games. The tailgate, and tailgaters, were epic. The dancing to live music before the game was intoxicating. And the fans’ absolute unity in their love of their team and their antipathy toward the current ownership is impressive. These fans deserve more; they deserve better.

(2)  The field itself is beautiful. From nearly any location inside the park, you can look out and take in the vast expanse of the field itself (but don’t let your eyes wonder), and it is impressive. Maybe the splendor was enhanced by this being a gorgeous afternoon in The Bay, with a blue sky above. But, regardless, the groundskeepers in Oakland deserve a raise.

Now, back to the park. Boy oh boy. Where to start? How about at the beginning? We took the BART to the yard, and walked across the bridge to get in. With the chain link fence on the outside and massive cement exterior walls, it was hard to know whether we were heading into a ballpark or a maximum-security prison.

Once inside, the concourses were narrow but fine. The concessions on offer were actually pretty good (and, when compared to Dodger Stadium, downright plentiful); however, you need to go to the deepest recesses of the outfield to find decent ice cream (but I digress).

When we arrived, the A’s were taking batting practice (this was about 2½ hours before first pitch). Some of the ushers were great (one even gave a ball to my son). But others acted as if we were trying to get onto the floor for the Showtime Lakers. At one point I asked an usher: “If your team is averaging 8,500 fans per game [about 18% of capacity], why do you care where the fans – who actually show up – go or sit?” The answer was less than satisfying. According to a few diehard fans I chatted with, this has been a theme for a while.

As we walked through the aisles, we noticed three things we had never seen in a major league park:

(1)  Duct tape holding various items in place. This includes wires, cables, and seats. Everywhere you looked you caught sight of grey tape in places where cement or bolts or paint would otherwise be.

(2)  Rusted, broken, and discolored seats. And it was not just one or two; it was more like one or two per section. When walking through the aisles, we had to maneuver around seats that could no longer be folded up. The seats lay there, open and faded, as if to say, “We have seen some things, but we are going down with this rusted ship.”

(3) A scoreboard missing signage on one side, and on the other side, a panel wherein the former name (O.co) could still be seen through a bad paint job.

It’s truly hard to square the circle of the Oakland A’s. A team with a storied history in three different cities, potentially on its way to a fourth. The team spent 54 years in Philadelphia, but has now spent 55 in Oakland, and will most likely be there for at least a few more. They won five World Series in Philadelphia and four in Northern California – and whether or not they move, it will be at least a few more years before they win another.

But, regardless, the fans of Oakland have lost their football team (to Las Vegas, natch) and their basketball team (across the bay to San Francisco) – they deserve better. According to reports, only about $30 million separated the team and the City of Oakland when John Fisher abruptly informed the Mayor they accepted a proposal from Las Vegas. While $30 million may seem like a lot, it is only one quarter of one percent of the $12 billion dollar intended project. And the team has already gone back on the deal they originally closed in Las Vegas, opting for a much smaller plot of land and considerably less state money. None of this makes any sense.

It is not too late for Oakland. Commissioner Manfred expects the final owners’ vote to approve the move will happen in November. There is no reason that 22 owners need to assent to the relocation. The owners could hear the rallying cry from the fans who have made themselves heard time and again and reject the move; or they could listen to the admonition of now-retired A’s pitcher Trevor May, who had the following to say as part of his retirement announcement:

“Sell the team, dude. Sell it man. Let someone who actually takes pride in the things they own, own something. There’s actually people who give a shit about the game. Let them do it.”

Here’s to hoping that in Oakland, for years to come, they will be saying:

PLAY BALL!!

Next month marks the nine-year anniversary of my writing about baseball. It started innocently enough. At a work lunch following an incredible Wild Card game, I gave my colleagues a spirited recap. One co-worker said that someone who has so much passion and excitement for the game needs to write about it. Nearly 300 articles later, that is exactly what I have been doing.

One of my goals in writing about the sport is to point out overlooked or under-observed matters. I want people to see the small details that enthrall me, the plays and stories that make me smile. Simply put, I want to convey to readers how much joy I get from the game of baseball.

Shortly after I started writing, I realized that someone was already on my corner – and he had a near monopoly on joyously writing about baseball. In 2015, I found Joe Posnanski on NBCSports.com. From my first read, I knew I had a kindred spirit in the love of the game, but he lapped me in reach, experience, knowledge, and skill. Truth be told, after first reading Joe’s writing, I nearly unplugged my keyboard. For whatever reason, I kept at it. Maybe I did so just so I could ultimately write this article.

If you are a fan of Joe Posnanski, you can probably stop reading now. If you aren’t, know that he is arguably the best sportswriter walking the planet today (he won such an award from the AP Sports Editors in both 2002 and 2005, and the National Sportscasters and Sportswriters Association named him the same in 2012). But that doesn’t tell even half the story. Joe is the best sportswriter because he loves sports, and he loves writing, and both of those sentiments jump off the page/screen.

As a young man, Joe didn’t think he could write, and yet he took a job as a stringer for the Charlotte Observer covering high school sports. While there, he wrote articles in his free time just for himself. But (to his amazement and embarrassment) an editor happened upon these stories and thought they were pretty good. And so it began.

Joe worked at the Cincinnati Post, then the Augusta Chronicle where he started covering golf (rumor has it that there is an important tournament there). In 1996, the Kansas City Star hired Joe, and his career took off. He spent more than a decade at The Star before becoming a senior columnist at Sports Illustrated. From there he went to the USA Today and then Sports on Earth (the long-form website run by MLB Advanced Media). All of which led Joe to NBC Sports, where I first encountered him (how I missed the previous iterations is a mystery to be solved another day). Since that time, Joe has ventured out on his own, writing a daily newsletter called JoeBlogs. The through-line, regardless of where his writing is published, is the simple joy that oozes from his fingers and into his work.

That excitement is never more apparent than when Joe writes about the Negro Leagues. Feel free to disagree, but no writer alive today has written more extensively, more exhaustively, or more reverently about the Negro Leagues than Joe Poz. The Soul of Baseball, written in 2007 after a cross-country trip with the legendary Buck O’Neil, is a must-read for any baseball fan. That book introduced Joe to Bob Kendrick, president of the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum in Kansas City, who Joe now calls his brother from another mother. This past Saturday night, at the “Salute to the Negro Leagues” in Kansas City, Joe – wearing a Monarchs hat – threw out the first pitch of the game to Mr. Kendrick.

In 2009, Joe wrote The Machine: A Hot Team, a Legendary Season, and a Heart-stopping World Series: The Story of the 1975 Cincinnati Reds. This book reached #17 on the New York Times Best Seller list. Venturing outside of baseball, in 2012, he wrote a biography of Joe Paterno (Paterno) that debuted at #1 on the NYT list. Remaining outside of baseball, and drawing on his time in Augusta, Joe wrote The Secret of Golf: The Story of Tom Watson and Jack Nicklaus in 2015. In 2019, Posnanski turned another trick, writing The Life and Afterlife of Harry Houdini. Then came the magnum opus: In 2021, Joe published The Baseball 100. Bookpage summed it up perfectly: “A true masterwork … 880 pages of sheer baseball bliss.”

But Joe was not content. After writing nearly 900 pages counting down the 100 greatest baseball players of all time, injecting his unique perspective and asides into each name on the list, he decided we all needed to learn Why We Love Baseball, which was released earlier this month. Joe has been promoting this book for months, repeatedly saying that this one was the most fun to write, and that he could not wait for readers to dig in. 

For another author, this might have seemed untoward or braggartly; for Joe, it was wholly natural. He was like a kid dragging his dad into the house to show him the Lego he built – he was so excited and proud of what he produced, he could not wait to share it with the world. I can testify (as can nearly every editorial publication) that each story is thoroughly researched, each player lovingly feted, each tangent seemingly unknown and unknowable and yet discovered. You cannot read the book and not feel how much joy Joe took in writing it, and how much joy he takes in having us read it.

Which brings me to last week. As part of the release of WWLB, Joe went on a whirlwind nationwide tour, meeting fans from Charlotte to Los Angeles, and many places in between. When too many people signed up to hear him talk about his book at Chevalier’s Books in L.A., they moved the event to the fabled Wilshire Ebell Theatre. It was only fitting – the venue has hosted artists since 1927, the year that Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs as part of the “Murderer’s Row.” A group of about 50 gathered to listen to Joe (along with Mike Schur, Molly Knight, and Nick Offerman) all talk lovingly about baseball.

When we moved to the Q&A portion of the night, Joe requested that each questioner tell the crowd how they fell in love with the game before asking their question. For Joe, the origin story of baseball is about family; it is about passing along the love from one generation to the next. And true to form, nearly every person who stood up had a tale to tell about a father, a son, or a friend who introduced them to the game, and kept that flame lit when they or their favorite team or player fell on hard times.

It is no less delightful to hear Joe speak about baseball in person than it is to read him on the page or to listen to his wonderful Poscast podcast. And that is because Joe is both a delightful human being and a charming raconteur. He has an encyclopedic knowledge about the history of the game, the players, and their individual stories.

Reading and listening to someone who loves baseball even more than I do is such a rarity, and such a pleasure. But, for my money, it is Joe’s non-baseball, non-sports-related essays that go right to my heart, and tug on the strings. After waiting more than 30 minutes to finally introduce myself to the man, I mentioned to him that my favorite story of his was the one about taking his daughter to see Hamilton in New York (click the link – it’s worth the price of a subscription). I could tell that that was not what he expected. And, for a brief moment, I believe I shocked him – and he seemed quite pleased. It is my sincere hope that in that moment, Joe got the same jolt of excitement, as fleeting as it may have been, that I feel each time I open JoeBlogs or flip the pages of one of his books.

They tell you to never meet your heroes. Well, last week I met one of mine. It lived up to all of my expectations; his stories, his humor, his warmth, didn’t disappoint. He may be the exception that proves the rule. The world needs more Joe Posnanskis; we need more people who are nothing short of delightful; we need more people with passion to spare and who are willing to share; we need people who simply bring a smile to your face. Do yourself a favor, buy one of his books, subscribe to his Substack, delve into the archives and the ephemera. You won’t regret it.

Thanks for having me, Joe.

PLAY BALL!!!

This past weekend, there was a hurricane watch in Southern California. Two weeks ago, people fled rather than vacationed in the paradise that is Hawaii. Soon we will be awash in political ads telling you to believe or disbelieve truths and untruths in equal measure. In short, the world is off kilter. Taylor Swift had it partially right: It’s “weird,” but I’m not too sure it’s “fu*^ing beautiful.”

There are many theories for what is happening today – from global warming to massive income inequality to hyper partisanship. But I have a much simpler explanation: In the space of about four minutes on October 17, 2004, the universe tilted off its axis. Nothing has been the same since.

In the bottom of the ninth inning of Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS, Mariano Rivera – the only unanimous Hall of Fame selection – walked the leadoff batter. In 19 regular seasons, Rivera walked only 286; in 96 playoff games over 32 series, he only walked 21; in over 1,000 career games, he gave a free pass to the first batter a mere 43 times. In short, it basically never happens, and then it did. That was the first glitch.

The second came just two minutes later when pinch-runner Dave Roberts stole second base by a hair’s breath. After days of flatlining, the Red Sox had a heartbeat.

Bill Mueller then singled Roberts home to tie the game. The rest, as they say, is history. But really, it is not. The Red Sox still needed a David Ortiz dinger in the 12^th inning; and then they still needed to win three more games. But, what we didn’t yet know was that the walk + the stolen base + the single were three distinct acts that changed everything … forever.

There was Tony Clark’s ground-rule double that should have been a run-scoring triple. There was Mark Bellhorn’s homer that was first called a double. There was Alex Rodriguez’s “slap heard ‘round the world” that was reversed. There was the Yankees refusing to bunt on the obviously incapacitated Curt Schilling. There was the silence of Yankee Stadium in a Game 7 blowout. All of which was a prelude to the sweep of the Cardinals for the first World Series title in 86 years.

After Bill Buckner, Bucky “Fu*^in’” Dent, and Aaron “Bleeping” Boone, and decades of heartbreak, the Red Sox were on top. And they would be on top three more times over the course of the next 14 seasons. The Yankees tried to square the ledger with a World Series win in 2009. But we are now at 14 years and counting since the Yanks’ last championship, and after this past weekend, they may have hit rock bottom.

To say the Yankees have been listless this year would be an understatement. And yet, prior to their recent nine-game losing streak (which ended with a win on Wednesday over the Nationals), they were four games over .500, on their way – maybe not to the playoffs – but to their 31^st consecutive winning season. So, when the Red Sox rolled into the Bronx last Friday night, I had this nagging fear that all of the old tropes would come back; the Yankees would sweep the BoSox to go back over .500 on their way to a late Wild Card push. And, when the Yankees hoisted the World Series trophy later this fall, we would all point back to this weekend as the turning point. Pre-2004, that is exactly what would have happened.

But on Friday night, the first four batters of the game reached base, culminating with a Masataka Yoshida three-run homer. The Red Sox tacked on three more in the second inning. But – true to form – 17 out of the next 19 Boston batters were retired, as the Yankees chipped away, making the score 7-3. The Red Sox scratched out a run in the top of the ninth to give a little more cushion, but I was still not relaxed.

Gleyber Torres led off the bottom of the ninth with a single. That was followed by Jarren Duran misplaying an Isiah Kiner-Falefa single into a double. In pre-off-kilter times, two runners in scoring position with no outs would have led to a six-run rally, netting the Yankees a series-opening victory and a ton of momentum. But the world no longer spins like that. Rather, Harrison Bader and Anthony Volpe struck out looking and Ben Rortvedt (who?) flew out to end it.

Gerrit Cole took the hill on Saturday to square the series. Cole is the current AL Cy Young front-runner. If anyone could right the ship, it was he. Instead, Cole gave up Luis Urías’ second grand slam in three games. Cole went only four innings on his way to his fourth loss, while the Red Sox pushed his ERA over 3.00 for the first time all season.

Sunday offered the faltering Bombers one last chance at redemption, and they did their level best. The Yankees fell behind on three different occasions, and tied the score each time (much to the consternation of Red Sox Nation). Pre-2004, the Yankees would win this game and thwart a Red Sox sweep. Post-2004, the following happened:

• With the score tied in the bottom of the eighth, IKF led off with a single.
• Somehow, Bader’s 107 mph liner landed in Adam Duvall’s glove.
• There was a lazy fly to right for the second out.
• IKF was running when Volpe singled to left. Rob Refsnyder – just into the game for the injured Duran – fell down fielding the ball, which allowed IKF to come all the way around. Trevor Story’s relay throw was low, but Connor Wong picked it and applied the tag. The call on the field was “safe,” giving the Yankees their first lead of the entire weekend.
• The Red Sox challenged the call, and after an interminable wait, with the NESN announcers predicting the run would count, IKF was called out and the game remained tied.
• But now the Yankees wanted to check to see if Wong illegally blocked the plate. In times of yore, the “safe” may have become “out,” but then the call would go against Wong, allowing IKF to be “safe” again. It’s just that we no longer live in those times.
• Alas, we went to the ninth knotted at 5.

The Red Sox took a 6-5 lead in the top half.

Greg Allen led off the bottom half smacking an 0-2 fastball to within two inches of a game-tying home run. In my day, a next generation Jeffrey Maier reaches over the wall, but no one sees it, and the game would be tied. Today, Allen found himself standing on second base. After plunking DJ LeMahieu, Kenley Jansen had the winning run on base with Aaron Judge coming to the plate. Before Dave Roberts, Judge would have done what he had already done twice in the series. 

But after DR, he struck out looking on three pitches. Torres (then hitting .367 with a 1.221 OPS vs. the Red Sox this season) followed with his own strikeout. But, Jansen still needed to get past Rortvedt. He lined one hard, but right to Duvall who corralled it to complete the sweep.

As of Tuesday night, the Yankees had lost nine straight – doing so for the first time in 41 seasons; were five games under .500; and in last place in the AL East. I will NEVER claim the Yankees are done, but they are getting ever-so-close. Before Rivera walked Kevin Millar, none of this ever could have happened. The Red Sox may not make the playoffs this year, but if they effectively ended the Yankees’ season, well, that is pretty good consolation.

The BoSox swept the Yankees in the Bronx. Multiple New York threats were squelched before they began, and Boston got both clutch pitching and hitting. The Red Sox are alive, and the Bombers are in disarray.

Maybe Taylor Swift had it right after all: “Weird, but fu*^ing beautiful.”

PLAY BALL!!

Today is Father’s Day, which is always a frantic holiday for me as my daughters typically leave for camp this weekend, my sisters live in different directions, and it is nearly impossible to make sure every dad in the family has his day.

Last year on Father’s Day, I flew to Chicago and took in a game with my youngest. It was such a pleasure, but also twinged with guilt, as I wasn’t with the rest of my kids or my dad. If I had my druthers, we all would have been at Wrigley that day.

For context, and as you might recall, towards the end of the classic film Field of Dreams, the reclusive author Terence Mann, played by the grizzled and wizened James Earl Jones, says to Kevin Costner’s Ray Kinsella: “The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball.”

I work in the movie business and deal with writers, directors, and actors all the time. And for my money, for my life, never have truer words been uttered on-screen.

You see, through all my years, baseball has been the one constant. It is my bedrock and my north star, my hobby, and my obsession. But, more importantly, baseball is – if not the foundation, then at least – the backbone upon which my relationships with my father and with my son have been forged and have flourished.

One of my first memories – from around 1977 – is standing in an empty Fenway Park in Boston. Our family was in town to visit more family, and my dad slipped a security guard a finsky to let us into the ballpark hours before that night’s game.

My father, a trained and sometimes paid photographer – a man who would gladly leave home without an American Express card, but not without his camera – found himself alone with his son in one of the nation’s most hallowed stadiums, without his extra photographic appendage!

In the days before cell phones (with cameras) were in every pocket, we had no way to document that moment. To this day, there is no proof that it happened (my kids say “pix or it didn’t happen”). But it most certainly did.

I have dined out on this story for years – especially in contrast to our children, who don’t leave their bedrooms without documenting every step on social media. But since we have no actual evidence of the day, and since memories are an imperfect beast, it is impossible to know all of the details. Which begs the question, does it matter?

The story, my memory, are foundational to me. They are a moment I shared with my father, in a ballpark, more than 40 years ago. Truth – to the extent there is just one or to the extent it has been bent by the ravages of time – is secondary, at best.

And now that I find myself solidly into my sixth decade, with my father strongly – in not a bit more slowly – into his ninth, with my son sprinting through his third, baseball seems to have taken on even greater importance in our collective lives. The sheer number of games we have watched together – on television, in the stands, or on our respective couches texting back and forth – is innumerable. Baseball is our lingua franca. Baseball is our shared love.

My grandfather – that stout man of few words but an iron will – taught my father about baseball, with a brief pit stop at stickball. My father, in turn, taught me the game, refusing to make an analogous pit stop at t-ball. So, upon having a son of my own, I felt it a familial obligation to teach him the game.

Truth be told, he took to it – as both a player and as a fan – considerably more quickly than his forefathers. So now we have three generations who adore the game, who argue about the game, who are fanatical about the game. And who love nothing more than being together, at the game.

A few years back I was fortunate enough to bring my father to his first World Series. The man had lived 77 years, but never attended the Fall Classic. It was Game 3 of the 2018 edition, and we got there early to take in all the pomp and circumstance. Little did we know that we would still be sitting in our seats more than nine hours later. My dad, loving every minute, joked that he got two games in one. We were rooting for the Red Sox, but couldn’t help but cheer when Max Muncy won the game for the Dodgers with a home run in the bottom of the 18^th inning.

Two nights later, I brought my son to Game 5, and we watched our beloved Boston team win the World Series together. Players go full careers without winning the World Series, but they have fame and riches to fall back on. Fathers and sons go generations without watching their favorite team win the World Series, with nothing but sorrow and woe to show for it. For me, to be able to share that moment with my son, after sharing a similar moment with my father, was truly the pinnacle of my being a baseball father and son. 

Since that time, I have attended more games with my father and son (both together and apart). In fact, before my boy left for college, we did a Midwest run from Chicago through Cincinnati and Cleveland, and then finished it off with a game down in Anaheim, just to get our fill before he left the nest.

And while my son has been away, I have taken my dad, and his Dodger-loving wife, to games at Chavez Ravine. My dad used to take me to games, but now I live in the liminal space where I now do the taking – I bring my dad and I bring my son – and I love it! Bringing them to games is one of the pure pleasures in my life.

A few months back I got a wild idea. My dad had never seen my son’s college, and had not been to Wrigley Field in many years. My son never misses an opportunity for me to visit, or to take him to a game. So off we went to Madison, with a drive down to Chicago to visit the Friendly Confines.

For reasons that are too ineffable to articulate, Wrigley Field is my happy place. I have visited well over 30 major league parks and all but one of the current stadiums. And when I want some joy, a relaxing time, and just pure happiness, I find my way to the corner of Clark and Addison on the North Side of Chicago. The people in Wrigleyville, the atmosphere outside the stadium, the fans inside, the 7^th inning stretch, and “Go Cubs Go” after each Cubbies victory, simply make me smile. So, when afforded the opportunity to share that delight with my father and son (and my daughter as well), I couldn’t pass it up.

Unfortunately, the day we chose was unlike any other I have ever experienced at a Cubs game. We encountered snow flurries on our drive into town, and then braved 41 degrees with a light wind out to right. The sun never came out, and Wrigleyville was muted. The Dodgers beat the Cubs, which was good for our hometown rooting, but denied us my and my daughter’s favorite after-game song. We needed to rush out to make sure we didn’t miss our flight home, so we didn’t get to enjoy a 10^th inning libation at the Cubby Bear. It was quick and dirty at Wrigley. And it was spectacular.

Nothing in life – including life itself – is guaranteed. I have learned that lesson the hard way time and again. So it is imperative that we seize the moments, the experiences, that will reside deep in our memories for years to come. Feelings of mortality force you to embrace the now; and I believe it is my obligation to live those words as much as I write them.

Neither my father nor my son are getting any younger (none of us are). That means that one of them cannot do as much with me as he used to, while the other simply may be less willing. So when you have that constant, that glue, that holds relationships together, you preserve it for as long as possible. Those constants create common ground, and help find off-ramps and detours when conversations and relationships could otherwise go off the rails. Baseball is that for me – and for my father and my son.

People who know me know how much I love the game. But with my father and son, it is intrinsic – it is part of who we are, part of what we are. Baseball is a warm blanket in which we wrap each other. For my dad, my son, and me, baseball is, quite simply, home.

I have been a father for more than two decades. My kids make me laugh and make me cry. They swell my heart and fill me with pride, in everything they do. But my true delight is when my son, after all these years, grabs two gloves and a ball, and like Ray Kinsella in the final moments of Field of Dreams asks: “Dad, you wanna have a catch?”

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY and PLAY BALL!!

My son, who in his 20 years orbiting the sun has known essentially nothing but triumph for our beloved Red Sox, remains an eternal optimist. Every year, he views the team through the prism of inevitable success. Pitching woes? Those will be solved when Chris Sale comes back. Hitting woes? Triston Casas will be the next great slugger. Shaky defense? Kiké can play anywhere.

But for me, even with four World Series rings in the last twenty years, I still harken back to 1978, and 1986, and 2003, and 2011, and many years in between. The Red Sox are always the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I try to enjoy the wins and the championships, but I have been burned just too often. Hell, in 2004, I was counting Cardinals batters starting in the fifth inning of Game 4, knowing that their lineup was extremely formidable, and if they won Game 4, why couldn’t the Red Birds run off four straight like the Red Sox did in the previous series? Simply put, I never feel “good” about this team.

Which brings us to the 2023 squad. Coming into this season, there were many unknowns, and many distractions. Losing Xander Bogaerts to the Padres was most decidedly not made better by signing Rafael Devers to a long-term extension (they should have signed both). Having a catching tandem where one guy can catch and throw and the other guy can hit, but neither can do both, didn’t feel like a recipe for success after years of Christian Vázquez’s steady stewardship. And adding the aged (and decaying?) Kenley Jansen to the back of the bullpen for two years and $32 million didn’t seem like a good use of resources nor good for our collective heart health (this, of course, was a wrong assessment).

But the Red Sox have surprised many in the ultra-competitive AL East. We are just under the quarter mark on the season, and the BoSox are winning at a .568 clip, a 92-win pace*. Sure, that is only good for fourth place in this division, but this division may send four teams to the playoffs. So, that will play. But here is the question: Are the Red Sox good?

The answer to that question truly depends on when and where you are looking. If you are judging the team while sitting in the Fenway bleachers in the top of the first inning, you may have an entirely different view than if you are sitting in those same seats in the bottom of the ninth. Your opinion will vary depending on whether the defense is on the field, or batters are at the plate. The Red Sox — in this age of the universal designated hitter — are truly two different teams. Let’s take a look, starting with ugly:

PITCHING:

Runs Allowed/Game	5.19	4th worst
Hits Allowed	330	4th worst
ERA	4.97	4th worst
ERA+	95	Tied for 4th worst
WHIP	1.353	4th worst
HR Allowed	49	5th worst

It’s tough sledding when you are just above the A’s and the Royals, both of whom are vying for record-setting ineptitude this season, and the White Sox, who have been a dumpster fire on the South Side. There is some good news to be found in their arms, as the team has the eighth-best bullpen ERA and is tied for the fifth-most saves in the AL. But 37 games into the season has taught that as currently constructed, the Red Sox pitching may prove to be their downfall.

But now we get to the good:

HITTING:

Runs/Game	5.70	3rd best
Runs	211	3rd best
Hits	344	Tied for 1st place
Doubles	82	1st place
Home Runs	48	3rd best
Batting Avg.	.270	2nd best
OPS	.790	2nd best
OPS+	113	3rd best

It’s pretty solid when you are competing with a Rays team that has won 80 percent of its games and is leading the league in nearly every offensive category, and with the surprising Rangers, who have found a brand new alchemy under manager Bruce Bochy.

DEFENSE:

The Red Sox defense is the perfect love child of their offense and pitching. How else do you get a team that is fourth in the league in assists, but also third worst in the league in errors? They are in fourth place for the most double plays, but have the third-worst fielding percentage. Just to put a button on this bizarre defensive unit, the Red Sox are below league average at catcher, second base, third base, shortstop (where they are in last place), and left field. But they have the best league-wide fielding percentage in center field and in right. They are just plain weird.

TOTAL PACKAGE:

So who is this team? Which version is real? The better question is which side of the ball will revert to the mean? If James Paxton and Garrett Whitlock can come off the IL and stabilize the rotation; if Sale can stop being Jekyll and Hyde and have a run of consistency; if Corey Kluber could even be a shadow of “The Klubot”; if Brayan Bello finally lives up to the hype; then the Red Sox have a chance to play well into October. But, if even one or two of the above-referenced puzzle pieces doesn’t perform up to snuff, it could be another last-place finish, with the AL East getting four teams into the playoffs and the Red Sox on the outside looking in.

You can say this: This team is fun to watch. They already have 14 come-from-behind wins. Alex Verdugo already has three walk-off hits. They came back from a six-run deficit to the Orioles and a four-run deficit to the Angels. This is a team that doesn’t quit; they grind out at-bats and grind down pitchers. And, despite how bad the pitching has been overall, they are 16-0 when leading after six innings, and 18-0 when leading after eight. So maybe something is there.

When watching the Red Sox, my blood pressure will always rise and fall like the team’s win probability chart. But as I have aged, I have adjusted so that my happiness is not predicated on the team’s success. So I will tune in all summer long (and hopefully into the fall). I will never feel “good” about their prospects, and I will always pass along my pessimism to my son, who will refute my misgivings with stats and vibes, and we will continue this lifelong obsession that has taken over at least three generations of our family.

But will we ever truly know: Are the Red Sox good?

PLAY BALL!!

*All statistics current as of May 10, 2023.

As a child of parents who grew up in Boston, the city holds a special place in our ancestral heart. As multi-generation Red Sox fans, the team holds a special place in our familial heart. As a two-decade runner and marathon finisher, the Boston Marathon holds a special place in my beating heart. And as someone who has tragically lost people too young, the 2013 Marathon bombing holds a special place in my broken heart.

For all of the reasons above, Patriots’ Day in Boston is just plain special. So, when I got the message that one of my son’s best friends qualified for this year’s Boston Marathon – the 10-year anniversary of the bombing – the trip was booked post-haste.

Because the family of the boy – er, man – who would be running the race had never been to Fenway Park, I had another opportunity to present my “Billy Crystal Moment.” That is the moment when you see the stadium, in all its grace and glory, for the first time. I presented this moment to my wife and daughters last year. And this year I was given the chance to do it for a whole new group. Few things give me more pleasure than leading people down the concourse on the third base side, walking them out to the main aisle, and then having them start by looking left and then sweeping their gaze to the right to take in the entirety of “America’s Most Beloved Ballpark.”

My buddy said: “Few things in life live up to the hype…this place lives up to the hype.” I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. 

This group of eleven then made our way to Loge Box 102 for the pregame festivities. To begin, the 2013 World Series team was honored. Who doesn’t get a thrill and a chill when post-bombing (“this is our fucking city”), 2004 ALCS, and 2007 & 2013 World Series hero (and now Hall of Famer) David Ortiz takes the field? Who didn’t sing along when “Three Little Birds” played as they introduced “The Flyin’ Hawaiian” Shane Victorino? And who didn’t chuckle when Stephen Drew was met with light applause? For Red Sox fans, this was a lovely jaunt down memory lane.

But after the “Band of Bearded Brothers” – the players who put the city on their back a decade ago – were announced, the real honors were bestowed. The Red Sox brought out special guests to throw out first pitches – all of whom are related to the 2013 bombing:

• Carlos Arredondo, the marathon spectator in the cowboy hat who rushed to the aid of bombing victims, with his wife, Melida.
• A family friend of fallen Boston police Sgt. Dennis “DJ” Simmonds, who died of injuries he suffered during a shootout with the bombers.
• Bill Campbell, the brother of bombing victim Krystle Campbell, and his son, William.
• Henry and Jane Richard, the siblings of bombing victim Martin Richard.

It was the last two people introduced who brought on the waterworks. After the bombing, this photo of 8-year old Martin circulated on the internet:

Martin and his family stood close to the finish line that fateful day, as Martin and his brother loved the race – a race that they vowed to one day run. The Richard family suffered too much that day: Mother Denise lost an eye; Father Bill blew out an eardrum; and Sister Jane lost a leg. Brother Henry, with just scrapes and bruises, lost his best friend.  

Last year, Henry ran the marathon wearing an “MR8” singlet, representing the Martin Richard Foundation that his family founded after the horror of 2013. But Henry was not done. This year, he led a team of Martin’s friends – all of whom are now 18 and thus eligible to run the marathon – as a tribute to the boy they all loved. 

On the field on Sunday, Henry threw out a first pitch to Jane. The Red Sox beat the Angels. Our friends made it on the jumbotron in the 5^th inning, and my kids and I did the same during “Sweet Caroline.” And Rafael Devers tossed a ball to my son. What a day at The Fens. 

The visit to Fenway, the 2013 celebration, the game and the hot dogs, were all just a prelude to the main event: Patriots’ Day.

At 7am our runner boarded his shuttle in Boston Common to the start line in Hopkinton. A group of us followed a few hours later, catching him in Framingham – but not before we were treated to an Eliud Kipchoge sighting (if you don’t know, look him up). At first there was a smattering of runners; but then there were thousands pounding their way through this tiny hamlet in the rain. Craning our necks to find our guy amongst the horde of runners was an exercise in stress and excitement the likes of which I have never experienced. And then he appeared – right in the middle of the street. We saw him, he saw us, and then I cried. And then I ran a few hundred yards alongside him because, well, I have no idea why. 

We got back in the car, drove through Wellesley, Newton, Brookline, and back to Copley Square where we waited in the drizzle and then rain. The police wouldn’t let us near the finish line, so we watched the television feed on our phones, and screamed as he ran right through the camera at the finish line, a giant smile on his face. A few minutes later we all hooked up. It was considerably more emotional than I ever imagined.

Before this little redhead – who I have known since he was two – crushed the Boston Marathon in 2:45, he was the ever-reliable leadoff hitter and second baseman on a travel team that I managed for years. I coached this boy from the time he was Martin Richard’s age, and never did I have a more coachable kid; maybe never did I have a better kid. He is not my son, but standing in the rain in the heart of Boston, I could not have been more proud if he was. I thought of Martin, and his friends running for him, and my son hugging his buddy after 26.2 arduous miles, and I thought: But for the grace of G-d… And then I cried.

Baseball is and has been my bedrock, my foundation. It’s what I can talk to my father and son about, whenever and wherever. It’s where I can bring friends and family and allow them to revel in the beauty of a game that I never take for granted. It’s when, as a coach, I was able to build lasting friendships and maybe, just for a moment – or for a lifetime – have a positive impact of someone’s life.

Truth be told, I wasn’t thinking these deep thoughts as I sat in the airport ready to head home to work and bills and more quotidian matters. But I was thinking about how terrific the weekend had been. I was thinking about how special it was to introduce this group to Fenway Park, and to be there with my son and daughter, and how we cheered uncontrollably on the streets as our runner passed us by and met us afterwards, and how it was through baseball that I truly forged my relationship with this kid, and his father, and his entire family (grandparents included). And then I received a text from the marathoner. Amongst the many amazing words he wrote, he said the following: “Don’t think I would be crossing the finish line today if it wasn’t for you.”

And then I cried.

PLAY BALL!!