A Connecticut Yankee in David Ortiz’s Court

I found my first Boston apartment the day the Red Sox won the 2013 World Series.*

The previous days had been a clinic in urban logistics. A combination of cars, buses, trains, subways, new Boston connections, and future in-laws led me to finding the perfect apartment to start my life as a Massachusetts resident.

I never anticipated an apartment hunt would include this.

I ended up having dinner with the future Mrs. Hardball Heart’s mother and grandparents after her father ending up scoring tickets to the game. Truth be told, I helped hire my girlfriend two years ago at my previous job, so neither one of us would have envisioned me having a beer with her Nana Shirley on my own.

I didn’t see the Red Sox clinch their first World Series at home in more than 90 years. I fell asleep on the couch opposite my girlfriend’s mother during the game. I woke up sometime in the seventh inning, and decided my darkened guest room at the far end of the house would be a much more suitable place for a Yankees fan to endure the inevitable. My girlfriend, bless her heart, didn’t wake me up after celebrating as close to the field without being on it until the early morning hours.

Boston’s victory wasn’t nearly as painful as their championships in 2004 and 2007. The next morning, I traded texts back and forth with my mother on how our despair was eased with the knowledge that my late Uncle Pit was in his glory somewhere. Uncle Pit also left behind his brother Bee, a man who gladly took over his duty of calling my mother after every Red Sox win. I heard a lot of teasing in French during the four months I lived at home, and heard more than a few curses with every wager my mother lost. As expected, Bee didn’t waste any time in needling her. However, because of the love we have for those two men, my mother and I were celebrating on the inside more than we’ll ever admit.


My girlfriend and I at Fenway Park for the team's Mariano Rivera tribute.

My father, who had resigned himself to the fact it was the Red Sox were a team of destiny far earlier than the rest of us, said that the team had “stepped in shit” all season.

“They don’t go on long losing streaks, they figure out ways to win close games, and they don’t make any mistakes,” He said on more than on occasion. “Basically, the opposite of what the Yankees do.”

Despite the agony of watching the Red Sox celebration, my family admires and upholds the values the team triumphed with: hard work, perseverance, and an unshakable faith in the people around them. I despaired for humanity when David Ortiz finished third in Boston’s recent mayoral race, but couldn’t suppress a grin seeing Ortiz and his teammates ride duck boats around the city during the World Series parade. I do love me some duck boats.


Of all the places I thought I'd say goodbye to Mo in person...

Now that I call Boston home, I’ll have to live with the public exuberance that comes with winning a major sports championship. The hot stove may come with plenty of issues for the Red Sox brass, but nothing eases tense player negotiations like winning. I won’t even be able to take solace in the coming of spring because of the inevitable raising of championship banners and distribution of World Series rings. I also now work on the side of the Prudential Building that overlooks Fenway Park. It ruins a perfectly good view of the sunset that is getting earlier each day. I can’t help but think of my Uncle Pit chuckling every time I’m confronted with the green walls that I’ve despised for all my years.

What I can rejoice in is that I chose to live in a city where I walked the Freedom Trail with my father in the sixth grade, enjoyed beers and Bob Dylan with the Brothers Ford, and spent the summer falling in love with.

I hope to enjoy Boston Commons again when the weather warms up in August.

My father is concerned I’ll turn colors, in large part to maintain my personal safety. Despite the fact my beautiful girlfriend can be pretty persuasive, that will never happen. The Yankees have meant too much to me and my family that to abandon them after one bad year would mean I’d be turning my back on everything I’ve built and believe in. My twenties were a war; it’s time for peace.

I started watching Cheers roughly a year before I ended up moving to Boston. I finished the series not long after this picture was taken. Best tourist trap ever. 

I moved to New York City a year after September 11th. I had the honor and privilege of witnessing, and contributing to, a city rebuilding itself without losing any of the qualities that made it special and strong. Bill Maher got into trouble recently for saying “your city wasn’t leveled by Godzilla” in response to Red Sox players placing their World Series trophy at the starting line of the Boston Marathon as a tribute to the bombing victims. Setting aside for a moment that Anthony Weiner appeared more human than Mr. Maher, I couldn’t have been more disappointed by comments from a New Yorker. As I found myself once again a transplant in a city shrugging off the aftermath of violent extremism, I could think of only one thing when I saw that Red Sox jersey draped over a World Series trophy on a hallowed stretch of asphalt:

This is my city. I love it here.

* Watching the Red Sox win up close was such a traumatic experience that I’m just now able to write about it.

Wednesday Morning Breakfast: Black Coffee and Glazed Doughnuts

I hear crying from the driver’s seat as I get into the car. 

Before I can ask what’s wrong, my Aunt Catherine stops her fake wailing and smiles. “I’m going to miss you so much,” she says hugging me. “It’s been so good having you home.”

She’s giving me yet another ride to the Hartford bus station. I’m making my way to Boston again, but this time it isn’t for a weekend visit with my girlfriend Stephanie. This time, I’m headed to my adopted city to find an apartment so I can start my new job the following Monday. Sooner rather than later, I’ll be making a one-way trip, once again leaving my home state.

She does what she always does on these car rides. She argues about politics, talks about how much she misses my cousin Caryn and her family in Florida, and questions when I’m going to be putting a ring on Stephanie’s finger. By the time we get to Union Station, I don’t want our time to end.

“Get me updated on everything,” she says while giving me another long hug. “Text me details. I love you!”

I lean back in my seat on the bus. It’s been a stressful, cathartic, inspiring, and, ultimately, triumphant four months. Every good moment that’s occurred up to this point is made that much sweeter because of the good people I had supporting me since early August. I smile as the bus departs and I think back to how this story began. It started by me walking into Riverside Diner in Bristol, Conn., to meet my Aunt Catherine for our first Wednesday morning breakfast.

The Wednesday Morning Breakfast crew: Ken Ford, Tante Peewee, Aunt Catherine, and me

Okay, that’s the romantic version of how all this process began.

In reality, it started with me getting laid off from my job in New York City. The news came as Stephanie and I were deciding how we would make our relationship work when she moved back to Boston and I was still in Queens. Would I eventually move to Boston? Would we alternate weekends in Boston and New York? Would we meet in the middle? Did we really want to endure a long distance relationship?

All those questions became mute when I found out I wasn’t going to be the web editor for JCKonline for much longer. The final verdict: I would move home to Connecticut and work remotely for JCK while they transitioned to a new digital team. I’d hunt for jobs and apartments in the meantime.

“Did you ever think when you hired me that you’d be driving your stuff out of New York with me in a UHaul?” Stephanie asked as I navigated through Saturday morning traffic in the Bronx.

“No, I can’t say that I wrote the script up that way,” I replied.

Stephanie went home that Sunday and I found myself alone in my boyhood room that night after both of my roommates (ahem, parents) went to bed. A thought occurred to me and I rifled through my contact list on my phone. I sent a quick text to my Aunt Catherine.

You want to do breakfast one day this week? 

She said yes, and we made plans to meet at a diner not far from my house on Wednesday. It was the best idea I had all summer.

It was just she and I that morning and we acted like we had been meeting for breakfast like this forever. I updated her on everything that had happened to me in New York City the last couple of years and the plans I was making to get to Boston. She filled me in on her new Bible study class, how her house was quieter since Caryn and her four kids left for Florida, and how her health had improved recently.

“We’re lucky that something so good came out of what was an awful situation,” She told me that morning. She was referring to her sister—my older brother Tom’s mother—who died of cancer at a young age. My father then met and married my mother and the rest, as they say, is history. She gives me credit for bringing the two families together, but really, it’s because both sides had hearts so big it would have happened with or without me. My brother Patrick and I were just lucky to be the end results of all that love.

She also told me for the 50th time that she wanted me to write her eulogy (which never fails to make my older brother start complaining). I finished what felt like my fifth cup of coffee. As the hot black liquid made it’s way down my throat, I realized our breakfast tradition was older than that morning.

Growing up, Friday nights were more often than not spent at my Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dennis’ house. Our cousin Judy used to babysit for Patrick and I every afternoon after school, so we became really close. We never wanted to leave that house when one of my parents came to pick us up.

The best part of the sleepover was spending the morning with my Aunt Catherine. My cousins always slept late, but Patrick and I would be awake as soon as we heard her walk in the front door. We knew she’d be carrying delicious glazed doughnuts from the local bakery. The two of us would pig out while she enjoyed a doughnut of her own with her steaming black coffee. After that, she’d put the leash on their dog Fred and head out to the front porch for a cigarette. Patrick and I would sit right next to her on the bench, or on the front porch steps and watch the neighborhood. Occasionally, there would be a thunderstorm or snowstorm to enjoy. After that, Judy would be awake, and we jumped right into whatever adventures the three of us thought up. I remember thinking then that black coffee and glazed donuts with my Aunt Catherine were a great way to kick start a Saturday.

"Live for today," Aunt Cathy said, snapping me out of my memory. "Family is everything."

That’s when I asked her if she wanted to make this a weekly tradition.

The cast of characters that joined us changed throughout the summer and fall. My father usually had Wednesdays off, so he quickly became a permanent Wednesday Morning Breakfaster. My Tante Peewee made more than one appearance, and we moved our date to Sunday once so my mother and Stephanie could join us. My Uncle Dennis made a guest appearance at what turned out to be our last breakfast. I found out I landed a job in Boston a few hours after we forked the last helping of eggs into our mouths.

My Aunt Catherine was one of my first texts and while she was happy for me, she clearly had mixed feelings about it. Emotions that she had no trouble expressing as I hopped into her car this past Tuesday.

Add Aunt Cathy and me
Christmas Eve 2010

I’m nearing Boston. I can see the city skyline in the distance. It’s not long before the bus is driving by Fenway Park, which is preparing for Game 6 of the World Series.

As I make my way out of the station and to the first apartment appointment, I can’t help but chuckle over something my Aunt Catherine said before my job interview several weeks ago.

“If you need a reference, you can send them to your 63-year-old aunt and she’ll set them straight.” 

The spirit of her message and love gets me over the finish line. I’m writing this in a Starbucks and I’m raising a hot, black coffee in her honor.

I can’t wait for our next breakfast so I can tell her all about it.

A Look Back: The Life of Daniel F. FordChapter 4: My Early School Years

I combed through my personal archives to get a sense of the person I was in order to understand the person I am. I unearthed an autobiography I was assigned to write in the 8th grade. For the next several weeks, I’ll be publishing each chapter of the book. 

As I started school, I found out that life was not always easy.

As I told you in the last chapter , it was hard to leave the home I hadn’t left for any extended period of time since I was born. 

Entering the age of five, times had changed. My Mémère had died and her house sold. I myself moved into a house and started my second year of nursery school. But not all the times were bad. The best times were when we went to Frenchville, Maine. The car ride there is 12 hours, but it’s worth it. 

Kindergarten yearbook picture
1990

There were of course obstacles that life threw out, but I somehow conquered them all. After first and second grade, I entered into third grade hoping that my life would settle down. I had had a girlfriend, but we broke up because of a misunderstanding and still to this day I don’t know the reason (editorial note: good grief). 

About halfway through the school year, I started to go out with a girl—we weren’t really going out, but you know what I mean. One day, she approached me and asked if I would marry her. I thought it was a joke, so I played along. The next day, someone made fake invitations. I started to think the joke was going to far, but I still played along. In art class the next day, the art teacher asked the girl who her bridesmaids were going to be. I spun around and asked, “How do you know about all this?” My third grade teacher walked in the room and said, “We all know.” So needless to say, I was humiliated. 

Ivy Drive School
This was my elementary school from kindergarten through third grade.

That was just the beginning. Toward the end of the year, I made another obstacle seem harder than it seemed. We had to write birthday cards to people on their birthday. On this occasion, it was Kevin Gesner’s birthday. I wrote him a card that had an insult in it (editorial note: I learned how to swear in third grade. I called him an asshole). His mother found out and told the principal. He came down to my classroom and gave me a lecture on how to write a proper birthday card. 

It wasn’t until around this time that my younger brother Patrick could play Wiffle ball with me, and I found out baseball was the meaning of life. The first year playing with him, I won the World Series but hit only one homerun. In fourth grade, I pounded out 120 homeruns to double Babe Ruth’s record. The next year I hit 125 homeruns to break my old record. This year, I won the World Series and blasted 200 homeruns during the season (editorial note: these numbers are actually entirely accurate). My brother is a great player, but takes losing kind of hard.

The boys in 1990
Tom, 14; Daniel, 7; Patrick 2

It was in second grade that I decided I wanted to be a writer. We were writing short stories and I got caught up in the thrill of books. I had written one before about a boy who found this magical make-believe land, but I never thought anything of it. I had an idea to write a story about a guy taking over the world, but I didn’t like the plot. I ended up doing a story about a lost bunny rabbit that saves his family. I have written so many more, but have not finished one. 

There has never been a time that I can recall when I have been really sick. I did have my share of colds and stomachaches, but never was really sick enough to be hospitalized. I guess I’m lucky (editorial note: depressing that my memory was crappy even back then. I was hospitalized when I was around one because of the flu and dehydration). 

I never had many secret spots or secrets. There is one thing though. One summer, my cousin Judy had a brilliant idea to create a time capsule. Judy, Patrick, and I—along with Judy’s next door neighbor Stacy (editorial note: who I naturally was in love with)—put things that were popular in 1994. We planned to bury the capsule in Stacy’s backyard and leave a map in my cousin’s house, so the next person who lived there would be able to find it. We also started a secret club that I could tell you about, but then I’d have to kill you! 

Badass (read: nerd-tastic) photo from fifth grade.

I was deathly afraid of anything loud. If a truck—or a fire truck in a parade—went by, I would cover my ears. My favorite comic book hero will always be Superman. I had a cape and used to pretend I was Superman. My favorite television shows were all the shows on Disney Afternoon (editorial note: Duck Tales, Talespin, and Rescue Rangers, bitches). My favorite book is still Where the Red Fern Grows, which was recommended to me by a close friend. 

Up next, my family.

Also check out:

• Chapter 1: Before I Was Born
• Chapter 2 & 3: Starting Out

Baseball Beginnings: On Derek Jeter

I still remember how good it felt to notch my first base hit.

It was a couple of games into my second season in my hometown’s summer recreational Pony League. Up to that point, I only had strikeouts and two weak ground ball outs to show for all my effort.

I’m pretty sure I made an error in the field the half inning before because I ran in from the outfield angry. I led off the inning and I remember being angry standing in the batter’s box. I angrily lined the first pitch I saw into left field where I saw it drop in front of the outfielder. I stopped being angry when I reached first base.

I remember how good it felt to be standing there. I hadn’t made an out. I hadn’t walked. I had an honest-to-God hit. I didn’t know then that I’d have that feeling only 12 more times.

I have no way of processing how good it would feel to do that 3,000 times.

However, the most important Yankee of my generation is about to find out. As I write this, Derek Jeter is two hits away from 3,000 with three more games before the All-Star break.

Much has been made of Jeter’s decline in recent years. Fine, I get it. As you know by now, I’m a homer for the New York Yankees. I’ve been that way my whole life. I’ve never thought about rooting for another team (except for when I would root for the Mets when they were doing well before I moved to New York and actually met a Mets fan). I could tell you that I’m a Yankees fan because my dad was born in New York and has been a Yankees fan his whole life, but that wouldn’t be telling the whole story. I’m a Yankees fan in large part because of Derek Jeter.

Before 1996, I didn’t follow baseball religiously. I would watch the game with my older brother and my dad, but I had no connection to players like Pat Kelly and Melido Perez. I couldn’t steal Don Mattingly away from my older brother because I was in diapers when Donnie Baseball was tearing up the league during his prime. Besides, I was too young and having too much fun playing Wiffle ball with my younger brother in our backyard. What kid wants to waste three hours watching a bad team when he could be outside arguing with his brother about who is going to be the Yankees that day?

Derek Jeter and the 1996 Yankees turned me into a true baseball junkie.

Here’s a player I could connect with. He was young. He wore a single digit number. He played the coolest position on the field. He had an inside out swing that I would grow to emulate. He was fast. He was always smiling. And he loved his parents, who frequently went to the games to see their son play.

I can’t lie—winning the World Series that year helped endear me to Jeter. I vividly remember watching my father’s reaction to Charlie Hayes catching the last out. I think he jumped higher off the couch and cheered louder than either of the two sons he had be his side. I remember watching a smiling Jeter drenched in champagne, smiling broadly, and thinking that anything in this world was possible.

The Yankees kept winning during the late 1990s and my family and I became even more intertwined with our team. As much as my younger brother and I admired the Yankees shortstop, no one became more ensorcelled by Jeter than my mother. She has a shrine to Jeter at her office at work, as well in her computer room at home. Her nickname for him is “Jeter-Butt” because of the way he gets out of the way of an inside fastball (and for a host of other reasons, I’m sure). My older brother made her life when he bought her a picture of Jeter shaking hands with her other favorite baseball hunk, Cal Ripken, who was playing at Yankee Stadium for the last time in his career. No one is allowed to criticize anything Jeter does in her presence…ever. The few times anything negative about Jeter slipped out of my mouth were quickly followed by a backhand to the head.

Maybe my mom is a big reason it makes me feel good to cheer for Jeter. Maybe it’s he hasn’t been connected to steroids. Maybe it’s because I admire his charity work. Maybe it’s because he wouldn’t validate parking for two women he had at his apartment. Maybe it’s because he stayed out of trouble in baseball because he was afraid of letting his parents down (and for people like Bill Simmons who have poked fun at this, it’s not the worst way to go about your life).

Former major leaguer Doug Glanville wrote an excellent opinion piece that ran in The New York Times. Glanville says that “numbers tell a story,” and that Jeter’s numbers were hard earned. To get to 3,000 hits, you not only have to be good, you have to be lucky too. Jeter has been relatively injury-free and consistent for so many years, allowing him to “ooze [his] way to greatness.”

Like Glanville, I’ve enjoyed counting Jeter’s hits along the way. I liked watching him collect them when I was smacking Wiffle balls in my backyard, when I was amassing 13 hits in my recreational baseball career, and now, when I’m drinking a beer alone in my apartment in New York.

Jeter will be the player I’ll tell my kids I saw play his whole career. I’ll tell them about the November night he became a hero to my hero.

For the next three games, I’ll live every one of his at-bats like I did when my younger brother was in Little League. Every ball he fouls off, every swing and miss, every groundout will make me jump and sigh with a mix of relief and anticipation for the next at-bat.

Three thousand is a special number. Derek Jeter is a special player, and will remain that way to me even if his batting average drops below the Mendoza line.

He’s earned that incredible feeling that’s going to wash over him when he stands at first base for the 3,000th time.

I hope I get to keep counting with him to 4,000.

The Lord's Prayer

Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...

Most Americans will be hard pressed to remember a more trying time in our history than the fall of 2001. The World Trade Center was in ruins, a Pennsylvania field was scarred with the aftermath of a heroic plane crash and smoke was pouring out of a hole in the Pentagon. The Western world looked toward the East with anger and revenge in its eyes. I remember my mother coming home from work that otherwise beautiful September day and staring at the television for hours with tears continually pouring down her cheeks. Firefighters, police officers and nameless volunteers became our heroes who did their best to put the pieces of a broken city back together again. Even during our bleakest hour, we held onto hope.

Day by day, moving forward required constant adjusting to a new normalcy while at the same time mourning the loss of close to 3,000 of our brethren. Six days after the attacks, Major League Baseball returned to action and helped us to find the strength to carry on. Baseball teams in every city in the country honored the men and women taken for granted before but now were symbols of everything we hoped and believed in. When the games got under way, Americans were able to temporarily put aside everything that was going on around them and indulge in the calming rituals of our nation’s pastime. People could cheer on a game-winning hit, boo an opposing pitcher, or question a manager’s decision. Like times past, such as during the Great Depression and World War II, baseball was right there when we needed it.

Since the season had been delayed because of 9/11, the baseball playoffs were still in progress during the last week of October. In fact, the Yankees were returning home to New York after losing the first two games of the World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks. Little did any of us know, but it was going to be an October that New York and my family wouldn’t soon forget.



Days before the Series moved back to New York, my dad’s brother, Uncle Stephen, passed away. He was mentally handicapped and had been fighting an illness. He was a big guy, with a deep voice who always displayed a keen interest my schooling. He was eager to give out hugs to his nieces and nephews, loved ripping into his presents before anyone at Christmas and could often be found sprawled out on the couch watching an Elvis concert.

Maybe what I remember most is how much my father loved his brother. He lit up whenever he was around him. For some time my dad worked at a grocery store in Deep River not far from my uncle’s home. At least once a week, they would go out to lunch where they would debate whether the Red Sox or Yankees were the better team. (My uncle strayed from the family pack a little when it came to baseball.) Whenever my dad mentions those times now, a smile never fails to crease his face.

Game Three of the World Series offered us a glimpse into the drama that was going to unfold in the next couple of days. President Bush (in what to me was the high water mark of his presidency) stood on the mound defiantly and fired a strike to the Yankees’ backup catcher to start the game. We could almost feel Yankee Stadium shaking from our living room in Connecticut. The cheers and cries of “USA! USA! USA!” not only buoyed the spirit of a nation, but gave my parents, who had spent much of the day planning my uncle’s wake and funeral, a much needed spiritual boost. The game itself was a close one, but we hoorayed loudly as Mariano Rivera nailed down the final out of the 2-1 victory.

The Yankees hopes were still alive and so were ours.



Thy kingdom come; thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...

I remember sitting quietly in the pale light of the viewing room in the funeral home when residents of my uncle’s long term care facility walked through the door. The family’s sadness lifted slightly. We couldn’t help but be encouraged by this group of extraordinary individuals. Despite their handicap, they did their best to sit respectfully with solemn faces. Their true light shined through however and we were all the better for it.

I’ll never forget one resident as long I live.

He had been helped up to my uncle’s casket by one of the facility’s aides. He had continued to carry on a conversation as if the two were sitting across a lunch table. He suddenly got a serious look on his face and seemed to notice my uncle for the first time. He got very quiet.

“Okay, I’m going to pray for Stephen now,” he said out loud getting everyone’s attention. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...”

He continued to recite the Lord’s Prayer loudly. His voice was steady, clear and without the slightest hint of disability. There was not a dry eye in the place. Everyone seemed to be smiling and crying at the same time.

“The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” he said crossing himself. He bent down close to my uncle and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Good bye Stephen.”

Toward the end of calling hours, everyone from the home came up and gave their condolences to my grandmother, my father and my aunts. One resident in particular made a lasting impression.

“I’m so sad about Stephen,” he told my dad.

“I am too, but it’s okay to be sad right now,” he replied.

“I still look good though, don’t I?” the resident said showing off his suit and shined shoes.

My dad couldn’t help but start laughing. I’ve only seen my father upset a handful of times in my life and this was certainly one of them, but this is the story that he mentions the most when he talks about my uncle’s wake.

My family got home from the funeral home mentally and emotionally exhausted. We took up positions in the family room and watched the Yankees as they went into the ninth inning down by two runs and facing a three games to one deficit in the Series. We got bummed out even more when they went down to their final out with a slumping Tino Martinez coming to the plate. With a man on first, he slammed the first pitch he saw from Diamondbacks’ closer Byung-Hyun Kim out of the park to tie the game. My father bounded out of his seat and yelled out in celebration. The rest of us quickly followed suit.

All of the tire and emotional strain miraculously vanished from our bodies. We hung on to each other with nervous anticipation after Rivera quickly put down the Diamondbacks in top of the 10th and the first two batters for the Yankees in the bottom half of the inning flew out. Again with two outs, Derek Jeter, who had just one hit in 15 at-bats thus far in the Series, came to the plate. After falling behind early, Jeter battled back to a full count. Kim’s next slider was right in Jeter’s wheelhouse and he didn’t miss it. Just minutes after the stroke of midnight, the ball cleared the right field fence and the Yankees were back in the Series.

That night, we could feel the entire city of New York shaking; this time it was in celebration instead of mourning.



Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us...

The next day, my younger brother and I stood next to our mother in the rear of the viewing room. My grandmother, my father and my aunts were saying their final goodbyes to their son and brother. My father never looked stronger than he did on that fall morning. It seemed like he was holding the rest of his family together with his bare hands. I can’t think of any other moment where I was more proud of my dad and proud to be his son.

After a moving funeral service, during which Tom and I delivered readings from the Bible, my brothers and I helped the other pallbearers carry him to his finally resting place next to my grandfather. Knowing how much that meant to my father and my family, it will remain one of the most important things I’ve ever done in my life.

Game Five was waiting for us when we got home. I didn’t think it possible that any of us would be able to survive another Yankee nail biter. Win or lose, we were all rooting for a quick decision. As always, the baseball gods had other plans.

Mike Mussina, who had been shellacked in Game One, only gave up two solo homeruns in his eight innings of work. Miguel Batista matched him pitch for pitch and left the game in the eighth with his 2-run lead intact. Once again, the Yankees found themselves facing their final out and a near insurmountable hole in the Series. Byung-Hyun Kim gave up a double to Jorge Posada to start the inning, but then quickly retired the next two batters. The Yanks’ hopes rested with third baseman Scott Brosius, a past postseason hero. It didn’t take long for him to further cement his reputation as a clutch performer. Brosius launched a long fly ball to left and immediately raised his hands up in celebration. Kim crumpled on the mound like he had been shot. Yankee Stadium, as well as my living room, went indiscriminately crazy. Two nights of miracles in the House that Ruth Built washed away a month’s worth of pent up frustration, sorrow and distress and unleashed unadulterated exuberance, relief and spirit. Even though the game went into extra innings, Yankee fans everywhere felt the end result was now preordained. Sure enough, Alfonso Soriano laced a base hit to score the winning run in the 12th inning giving the Yankees a 3-2 advantage headed back to Arizona.

The Diamondbacks ended up winning the Series in Game Seven by staging a comeback of their own in the bottom of the ninth. At that point, it didn’t matter. The Yankees had won every game on New York soil and did much to fortify the resilience of the city. They had also given the Ford family a few hours of peace and even more reason to believe that miracles were possible.



Whenever somebody asks me why I love a simple game so much, I think of my Uncle Stephen and that incredible week in October. Baseball wasn’t just a game when Derek Jeter hit the walk-off and turned the calendar over to November. It wasn’t just a game for all the people at the Stadium, and throughout a wounded New York, who cried out in celebration when Brosius cracked his homerun. They hadn’t just breathed life into the Yankees’ World Series hopes; they had reminded a beleaguered city and a family it was okay to smile and to hope.

I go back and forth on whether or not there is a God watching over our lives. What I have come to believe is that there are indeed angels, many of them among us everyday, including all the residents of my uncle's former long term care facility.

Whoever is up there, it seems like some of them are baseball fans, just like me.

And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.

To donate to The Arc, an organization devoted to promoting and improving supports and services for all people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, click here.

Go Daniel Go!

“Go Daniel Go!”

Are you %$&*-ing kidding me?

That was the only thought going through my head as I started to sprint toward second base. I put my head down and pumped my arms as fast as I could. I could feel the dirt kicking up under my cleats and hitting the back of my legs. I heard the ball hit the catcher’s mitt. The umpire barked a call I couldn’t make out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the catcher stand up and heave the ball to the shortstop who was covering the bag. I accelerated again the best I could and then pushed my legs out from under me. My outstretched foot hit the white bag before the fielder swiped his glove across it.

“Safe!” the umpire bellowed.

I raised my hand up to call timeout. I stood up and shook off the brown earth off my black T-shirt and gray baseball pants. I took my helmet off and wiped the sweat from my forehead. While the pitcher readied for his next pitch, I glared at Coach Tim who was cracking up along the first base line. I hadn’t reached first base all that often in the last couple of years, never mind steal a base.

“Daniel, the pitcher was in his windup, I had to send you,” he explained as I trotted in after the inning had ended. “Your wheels still made it a close play.”

I grabbed my glove without saying anything and ran back out to my position in left field. I was able to pick up my heart that had fallen out of my chest around first base on my way there.

I was in my third, and as it would turn out my final, year playing organized baseball with the Bristol Park and Recreation Pony League. I was a member of the Phantoms in the Scott Division. I had been drafted by my older brother out of pity and necessity after a horrendous tryout which I will go into more detail at some point (let’s just say it was the last time I ever played an infield position). I went hitless my first season, going an impressive 0-17 with 15 strikeouts. My last two at-bats were ground outs and you would have thought from the fans’ reaction that I had laced a hit to win the World Series. The next year I improved to 2-17, with only 5 strikeouts. No one, including myself, expected the year I was about to have under Coach Tim (my cousin-in-law who had taken over the team after my older brother became a league director).

The first practice pretty much set the tone for the kind of summer we were in for.

I was the first player to arrive and Coach Tim’s buddy and assistant coach Scott asked if I had a hose once he found out I was an outfielder. I stood there like a dead fish with its mouth gaping open for several minutes not having any idea what the hell he was talking about.

“Your arm, man,” he replied. “Do you have a good arm?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” I lied.

Unlike my older brother, who went over basic fielding/throwing/running drills the first practice, Coach Tim had everyone take their positions right away and started smacking balls off his fungo bat. It seemed like the extended infield/outfield routine went on for hours with none of the drudgery that usually defined a first practice. Despite my weaker arm, I had turned into a decent outfielder and had no trouble making plays and getting the ball into the infield. There really is no better feeling then tracking a white baseball sailing through bright blue summer sky and feeling it settle abruptly into the leather webbing of your glove.

The highlight though came when we started to do base running drills to finish off the day. All the players lined up behind home plate. Instead of just barking directions on the sideline, Coach Tim went to the front of the line to run with us.

“Alright guys, we’re going to run out a base hit. Give the guy in front of you a minute before you start,” He instructed us. I watched him get into a running stance and then heard Scott yell out “Go!”

I was one of the first people in line, so I got a great view of our new head coach trip over his own two feet, fall to the ground in a heap and then roll violently away to avoid being stampeded by the rest of the team. Needless to say, it wasn’t the best omen for how our season was going to start. I don’t remember Coach Tim running with us after that either.

The Phantoms started 0-4. And it was an ugly 0-4.

It didn’t take long to realize we had some real characters on the team. Our shortstop thought he was God’s gift to creation even after making error after error. We had two brother outfielders, one who got tossed from a game early on for calling an umpire a “bitch” and the other who cried if you looked at him wrong. We had one of the most talented players in the league playing at second base, but he wasn’t hitting a lick. We had several players who were playing their first season of baseball ever and it showed.

The real gem was an outfielder named David who had barely seen a baseball field, never mind set foot on one. At our first game, he strode up to the plate for his first at-bat in the tightest baseball pants Connecticut has ever seen. To complete the mental image, he wasn’t wearing a cup. My cousin, also Coach Tim’s girlfriend and future wife, tried her best to point all this out to him.

Caryn: “David, there are bigger pants available.”

David: “Naw, I like these, they feel good.”

Caryn: “David, you’re not wearing a cup!”

David: “Huh?”

It was hard to push the subject any further than that with his entire family sitting at the end of our bench cheering him on. Eventually, to the relief of everyone, he started to wear baggier pants, but unfortunately for the team, that didn’t help him hit the baseball any better.

Coach Tim actually made some pretty good coaching moves to get us out of our funk. Our best player on the team, the third baseman Joe, asked if he could pitch and he was given a shot. It saved our season. He ended up being our best pitcher down the stretch. Coach Tim also moved our shortstop to centerfield after getting fed up over his awful play the first four games. He turned into a different player and started running down deep fly balls and throwing runners out at home on a consistent basis.

There was also something very strange happening. I was hitting. Not only that, but I was hitting in bunches. The game that really stands out is a four hit game I had against the Cardinals. I had a shot up the middle and then three balls through the hole between the first and second basemen. The last one was bobbled by the outfield and I was raced toward second base to take advantage. I felt euphoric as I approached the bag and started into my slide. My foot didn’t hit anything. I realized that I had slid too early and was still a couple feet away from the base. Before I could get up and do anything about it, the second baseman tagged me on top of my head with the ball in his glove. The good news is I was credited with the RBI. I don’t think that helped with the embarrassment at the time.

I was also finding my voice on the field. I was one of the “veterans” on the team and did my best to keep everyone pumped up and focused. I never shut up in the outfield. I was constantly giving the pitcher support and yelling out directions after the ball was hit. All the excitement and passion I had for the game just came pouring out. I was the first one to high-five a teammate after scoring a run or making a good play in the field, I always stayed positive even when we were losing and I worked as hard as I could to have as much fun as possible. I must have known somewhere in my mind that this was it and I wanted to get as much out of it as possible.

Of course, it was hard not to have a good time when you’re head coach was providing unintentional comedy on a consistent basis. We were all over him one practice, cracking jokes left and right about anything and everything.

“Coach, what do you do for a living?” our second baseman asked him.

“I’m a baker.”

“You’re a what?”

“I’m a baker.”

“Coach, isn’t that, you know ‘women’s work’?”

“Hey, how about you run some laps and ask me that again.”

“I want to be a baker when I grow up!”

(Ironically enough, he ended up becoming a chef).

Not so funny was the tirade Coach Tim had during our last practice before the playoffs. After a pretty spirited water fight after a good workout, the emotional brother outfielder started to whine and complain about playing time and how disrespected he had been the whole year. I have never seen a face turn the shed of red that Coach Tim’s did. A season worth of anger and frustration came pouring out. He must have used every curse word ever uttered in the history of mankind. The rest of the players and I stood wordlessly at our positions as we watched our crying comrade take it. After a good five minutes, Coach Tim grabbed his trusty fungo.

“Daniel, the plays at second base,” he yelled.

I started running before he hit the ball. I heard the ping of the bat and looked up. Sure enough, the ball was traveling miles over my head. I was out of breath when I finally caught up with it. I’ve never seen a longer cut off line to the infield when I turned and threw the ball. Each outfielder had the same experience and Coach Tim swore until practice ended. At least we were finishing like we started.

My last game in a baseball uniform came against the Eagles in the first round of the playoffs. It was a pitcher’s duel between Joe and a good buddy of mine Tony. I actually helped Joe out of a jam early in the game when I made a diving catch on a weak fly ball. I remember getting up, flipping the ball to my older brother who was umpiring the game and shouting at my teammates to get something going.

We were down by one run headed into the last inning. Tony had kept our hitters off balance all day with his ungodly curveball. He was still in there and showing no signs of getting tired. I came to the realization that I was up third in the order. I could be the potential last out of the game.....again.

Sure enough, the first two batters made quick outs and I strode to the plate. In baseball, the rule is to take a strike late in the game when you’re losing, so that’s what I did. The second pitch was a curveball that Jesus himself couldn’t have touched. I had a flash back to a game during my first year when I struck out to end the game looking and ended up crying my eyes out. I stepped out of the batter’s box and took a deep breath. I stepped back in and accepted my destiny. I swung weakly at another nasty curveball. The season was over, as was my short-lived career.

I got quite the send off however. On a cool, clear night at venerable Muzzy Field, I stood with the best players in the league, waiting to receive the Sportsmanship/Most Improved Player Award. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the loudspeaker about me because I was too busy concentrating on not tripping over myself on the way to the presentation table. Finally, I heard them announce my name and I trotted over easily. The best part was that my older brother was the one to hand me the award. He’d been my coach and mentor, not only the previous two years, but throughout my life. Sharing the moment with him was special and made winning the award even sweeter.

As I was leaving the stadium later that night, I received one of the best compliments of my life. Spec Monico, a great coach at my high school and who had just won the league championship managing the Eagles, told me the award was well deserved and I had earned it.

“You don’t forget awards like this one,” he told me. “These are special.”

He was right.