The Relative Importance of Baseball
Saturday, April 9th, 2005Baseball is something very important to me. I have lived and died and finally ascended to nirvana with the Red Sox, and was looking forward to their new season as Champions with great anticipation (and some dread, but that’s another story), until a few weeks ago, when something happened.
My Dad, who turned 83 on the same day as the Victory Parade, has been in just miserable health all winter. No energy, joint pain, sleepless nights, trouble breathing. He went to a new doctor, the old one being far too fond of just prescribing nasty pills, and we discovered that my poor Dad was suffering with a really shockingly bad case of congestive heart failure. He was immediately admitted to the best nearby hospital and underwent open heart surgery to install a new aortic valve this past Thursday.
So what does this have to do with baseball?
Well, for one thing, it dropped baseball back to its proper place, that of mere entertainment, not a matter of “life or death.” But at the same time…
Baseball, and the anticipation of baseball, got Dad through many days this spring training season when he would otherwise have just laid in bed all day. He really got into the meaningless and hard-to-follow games, where the starters were replaced after the 5th inning, and it was during these games when he seemed energized and either happy (when the Sox were winnning) or disgusted (when they were losing), and we got into some really animated conversations on how we thought the team would fare this year.
April 3rd was Opening Night, and Dad just about counted the hours until game time. He got his dish of snacks ready, and fresh popcorn, and poured a drink, and for the fist six innings he was energetic, cheering and groaning (unfortunately, the latter more than the former) until his shallow pool of energy ran out and he snoozed through the last few innings. When we woke him after the game was over, he scowled. “Did the damn Yankees win?” he asked.
On Monday the 4th, he met the cardiologist and was admitted to the hospital, and underwent some tests the next day. He told me not to bother coming to visit that day, as in the first place, he wouldn’t be available to visit much, being hauled around between the catheterization lab and other examinations, and secondly, there was game that day and he wanted me to watch it for him and tell him what was happening. He was very disappointed to hear of the Sox’s second straight loss to New York, but soon moved on to the issue of his failing heart valve.
Wednesday he was also hauled around from pillar to post in preparation for Thursday’s surgery, so once again asked me to keep tabs on the Sox for him, which I did, very distractedly. I spoke with him in the evening, after Mariano Rivera had blown the save and the Sox had won handily, and he was delighted to hear the news. Then he asked me to bring Mom up to the hospital while he was undergoing surgery then next day.
We arrived at his bedside the next morning, and when I told him about Rivera’s troubles and A-Rod’s juggling act at 3rd base, how he laughed, and rubbed his hands together. “Well good!” he said, delighted. He scowled and shook his head when I told him how the NY fans had booed their brilliant closer off the field, and even as we waited in the “induction room”, with anesthesiologists running around and lots of technicians and nurses and doctors dashing to and fro, and IV lines attached, and the prospect of a horrifically frightening surgery ahead… Dad still asked if there was a game, and would I please record all the games for him to watch when he got home.
While Mom and I waited in the surgery waiting room (a room full of bad vibes if there ever was one), I thought of how Dad and I had watched the playoffs and the World Series together, and all the other games of previous years — the dull wins and shrugging losses, the come-from-behind wins in extra innings that had us both laughing and cheering, and the blown saves, and the terrible crushing defeats that left us feeling miserable for days. How he had laughed and cheered when Big Papi had brought home the wins in Games 4 and 5, the unkind things he had to say about The Slap in Game 6, and the big grin on his grizzled face when the Sox blew the doors off the Yanks in Game 7. Then the World Series, and how Dad had hugged me when the Sox had finally, finally won it all…
I was thinking of these things as I waited in that dark, tense room, and thought of the dreadful “what if’s” that everyone thinks when they sit there, surrounded by other terrified people, facing terrible situations.
The news that came to my family was all good. Dad came through the surgery with flying colors, and today, 2 days later, is sitting up, walking, having good meals… and watching baseball. He scowled at the TV today and asked aloud just why Wells was still in there, and why they let Lowe go in the first place.
Baseball is important. Not even faintly as important as my Dad, of course, but it’s there. It’s part of his daily routine, and is something he cares about. He knows the world does not revolve around the Red Sox; he knows it’s just a game. But it is not insignificant to him, and to us as a family.
Baseball is not life. It is not “do or die.” We know that now more than ever. But there is a deeper connection to The Game that we all feel, one of the many common threads running through our family, binding us together. It is like a landmark we can look to, even in a dire and scary situation like Dad’s illness. Dad looked to it himself even as he was staring surgery in the face, and is looking forward to seeing the rest of this season, and lots more after it. It has meaning for him, and for all of us, and so I know that baseball is not trivial, or insignificant, or “only a game.”
Here’s to my Dad, and to the team and The Game which he loves.