Beyond the bases. A father and daughter unbreakable bond.

Growing up in New England it is probably not surprising to anyone that I was exposed to baseball. As I look back now, I realize baseball in New England has always been a sort of religious experience. Every year New Englanders pray to the baseball gods to let this be the year that the curse is lifted and we can celebrate a World Series championship. The shining beacon of light in our dismal winters has been waiting for the week in February when pitchers and catchers report to spring training. Opening day at Fenway is almost a city holiday. Everyone from CEO's to garbage workers thinks of excuses to miss work in order to personally wish our boys good luck for the season. I cannot deny that baseball is ingrained in my psyche. In fact, I will never forget the first year that I was fully engulfed in baseball and the Red Sox tradition=-it was 1986 and the Sox were going to win it all.

The summer of 1986 marked a transitional period in my life. In the fall, for the very first time, I would be attending a new school. I would be leaving the cozy confines of elementary school and would be entering junior high. Always being a worrisome child, I dreaded the idea of change. How was I possibly going to enjoy my summer break when thoughts of uncertainty for the upcoming school year would constantly run through my head? I was well aware that people were judged differently in junior high. No longer did it matter if you had friends or not. Suddenly, the emphasis changed to who your friends were, and what you would represent. This idea horrified me. What would I be known for? I had this inner desire to be known for something other than academic excellence. I figured just being nerd would not make for happy junior high days, but what else could I possibly represent? I had already tried to expand my abilities to include music. For my eleventh birthday my parents bought me a piano. They hoped I would continue that family tradition of piano-playing. I took lessons for a year, but I was too restless. I did not have the patience to practice my chords while everyone around me was playing beautiful sonatas. I became discouraged and eventually gave up practicing for good. Needless to say my chances of being known for musical as well as academic excellence were pretty much impossible. It sounds ridiculous to admit now in the era of the women but, at that time I did not know I had other avenues to try. What could a girl succeed in except academics and music? I figured I would just be living my life in the grand tradition of nerds before me. Then one day at supper my world changed. My father came home from work and said he had Red Sox tickets for Sunday's game. I was intrigued to go on a new adventure in the city, but I did not know the world it would open for me.

When my Dad and I arrived at the ballpark, I had limited knowledge of baseball. I played baseball during gym class, but the rules always eluded me. When we played pretty much everyone got to stay at the plate until he hit the ball. We did not have to concern ourselves with balls, or strikes, or even outs. When everyone on one team had the opportunity to have everyone hit, the teams would switch sides. At the end of the period the game was over and everyone was equal. Imagine my surprise and confusion as I began to watch my first professional baseball game. I was totally transfixed into a new world. My eyes darted from pitcher to catcher to the infield. My attention was then fixed on the scoreboard of the famed "green monster." The monster contained a section for recording balls, strikes, and outs. I pestered my father why each section got lit in a different manner. Sometimes after the pitcher threw the ball the lights would illuminate under strike, and other times it would illuminate under balls. When the pitcher threw a ball it was a mystery to me as to which section would illuminate. Would it be a ball or strike? My Dad then explained the concept of balls and strikes. Until this explanation I had been watching being only aware of how we played in gym class. The game suddenly took on a new dimension. It piqued my interest because for the first time I realized that there was a strategy to

the game. I continued to ask my Dad questions at a rapid pace. How do you get an out? How did the players always know how to catch the ball? Why did certain batters stand on different sides of the plate? Why did the runners on the base sometime run before the next batter had hit the ball? The questions kept coming. A whole new world had been opened for me that day. I was in love with baseball. It was no longer just a way to pass time in gym class, but rather it became an exercise in skill and strategy.

The next day my father began to teach me how to really play ball. I distinctly remember my first lesson was on what hand to wear the glove. I am a leftie, so I assumed my glove would go on my left hand. This was my first mistake. My dad said, "Well Ami, if you catch with your left hand then you would have to throw with your right hand. Do you think that would be comfortable?" I agreed with his logic and put the glove on my right hand. My father and I then had our first of thousands of games of catch in the yard. With the patience of a saint, my father spent hours with me everyday playing catch and teaching me how to properly throw a ball. I have never had a more enjoyable time in my life.

My father then introduced the art of hitting. He spent hours drilling in the simple fact that I had to watch the ball all the way onto the bat. Ifl didn't, and moved my head I would m all likelihood miss the ball. I even learned the physics of baseball. I knew that the angle of impact would be the equal and opposite angle of retreat. If I had an uppercut swing, I would forever hit pop-ups. If however, I constantly hit on top of the ball, I would forever be hitting grounders. Therefore, I spent hours trying to perfect a level, even swing. Although I could rationalize the need for a level swing, I never realized how hard it is to actually attain. I never minded practicing though. I was in love. I was learning the necessary skills to play the strategic game of baseball.

From here, my father taught me the responsibilities of each fielder. My mind went racing again as more subtleties to the game were revealed. I said, "Well I know the pitcher obviously controls the tempo of the game." Dad shook his head and began, "The pitcher is following the directions of the catcher. The catcher is following signals by the coach. So in reality, the coach controls the tempo of the game." I was amazed at Dad's knowledge. I wanted to learn more and more about this secret society of baseball. I learned the importance of defensive positioning. I learned the subtleties of covering a base. I learned the importance of backing each other up on every play. I learned about cut off men and the relay game. I could not get enough information about this game. Yes, I was madly in love,

Almost as equally as I enjoyed practicing, I enjoyed watching the game. My evenings were reserved for watching the Red Sox. I would study the game and see if players really employed all the nuances I had learned. I would create my own game plans for the Red Sox. I would research the team and in particular the pitcher the Red Sox would be facing that evening.

I would then make my line up accordingly. When for example, the team would be facing a left handed pitcher I would debate whether to keep left handed batter Mike Greenwell in the clean up spot. I would research his statistics against the left handed pitcher and usually decide I would push Greenwell further down in the batting order to sixth. This research would also lead me to decide who would play in certain games. I loved to have a strategy and loved to explain my strategy to anyone who would listen. This was enjoyment. This was good. This was the love of my life.

My passion for the game was quickly matched by my passion for the Red Sox. Not only did my life revolve around practicing and strategizing baseball, but I had to read every news article I could about the Sox. I would make my way to the breakfast table every morning, but really I would just be waiting for the paper to be delivered. I wondered what Bob Ryan or Dan Shaughnessy would write about the team. Would their predictions match mine? Many days they would discuss a topic that I had never even considered. It didn't matter though. I had to read about the Sox daily.

My obsession grew even a bit more fanatic as the summer passed. I would cut out Red Sox articles and keep them in a folder. I felt compelled to have a written record of the most glorious team in the most glorious sport. I would pin inspirational or awe-inspiring pictures on my cork board. My brother would often ask me why I was wasting my time thinking about baseball. He thought my article collection was a bit too obsessive. He couldn't understand how I could put all that energy into a game. He insisted it was not going to help me to succeed. For the first time however, I realized baseball was going to help me succeed. I realized that in the fall, when I entered my new school I would not just be a nerd, but rather I would be an educated lover of baseball. I decided I could and would help people succeed in baseball. I realized baseball was much more than the simple gym game we had played. I could teach proper technique. I could set up defensive alignments. I could use my new found knowledge of all the subtleties of the game to teach others. Suddenly, my fears over junior high and what I would represent faded. I would be known as a baseball player that plays with heart. Indeed, I would learn to love junior high by spreading my love of baseball.

It really was easier than I thought to spread my love of the game because the Red Sox had made it to the divisional finals. From the administration, to the teachers, down to the students an overwhelming sense of baseball gripped the halls. Everyone was in agreement that this year the Sox would win it all. The Red Sox faced Oakland in the series which meant some games did not end until very late. I wanted to watch every play, but finally I made a deal with

my parents that I would go to bed, but if anything exciting happened they had to wake me up. We both held our promises. One night I was awakened by my mother shouting, "Dave Henderson's home run won the series." My insides were flipping and doing dances of joy.

Electricity swept through the school as well. During English class we wrote letters to our favorite player. I remember writing Marty Barrett and telling him what an honor is must be to play baseball. I was involved in every baseball debate raging in school. I was in my glory. Students, who would normally have not stopped to talk to me, stopped and asked my opinion. Unfortunately though, I am tortured to admit I found more success in junior high than the Red Sox found on the playing field. I don't think I have to remind any New Englander that this was the year the Red Sox were one out away from winning the series when Billy Buckner let a slow rolling grounder pass through his legs. With this error, the Mets won game six and eventually won the World Series.

The series was my initiation into the heartache of the Red Sox fan. It did not squelch my love for the game though. I played softball from that spring until my freshman year in college. The game was in my blood. I certainly did not have the most talent on the field, but I always had the most heart. In all my summers of softball I only lost two games. I was the best defensive player in the league because I had committed to memory all the subtleties of the game. My coach would watch in awe as I slightly changed position on the field according to the batter at the plate. I knew where they were likely to hit and situated myself to get a better chance at making a play. I also understood what was needed of me when I went to bat. I understood if my goal should be to try to lift a pop fly to the outfield to move a runner along, or if it should be to try to shoot a grounder to an open spot on the field. I also understood that I could cause more confusion for the opposing team by simply bunting the ball. Everyone in the league tried to hit the ball hard therefore, I would always catch the team off guard by bunting a ball up the first baseline. I had a different strategy for different situations. My father would always smile, because he knew I was doing something I loved.

My freshman year of high school I attended a baseball camp. I had the opportunity to meet Marty Barrett, the player I had written years earlier. He did not remember my letter, but appreciated my enthusiasm for the sport. He told me to continue to pursue things in life that bring me happiness. I have never forgotten that advice and I have never wavered in my love for baseball.