Heading Home

Chad and I went to game 3 of the ALDS Red Sox v. Cleveland Indians.  Turned out to be the final game for Big Papi, David Ortiz.  Cleveland won, but all wasn't lost.  Some winning moments: time with Chad, the gift of seats close to home plate, Papi's arm draped around one of the younger players on the steps of the dugout, then, after being walked in his last at bat(Boo!), waving his arms to get the crowd cheering for the next batter.  He went out encouraging and we, like thousands, stayed after the game ended to chant, "Thank you, Papi."

In this political season when so much said and reported makes one cringe and  fear for our future, it felt good to take time-out to just scream and yell about a ballgame. To simply linger to express gratitude,  shed tears with  a fan, who looked to be around the age of my grandson, Luke, almost 13.  Decked out in Big Papi paraphernalia: #34 shirt, hat, jacket, pins, he stood across the aisle, wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his new jacket, lapping up the dregs of more than this season.  No more heroic moments when #34 would step to the plate and something magical could happen. Big Papi sensed it,too, as he tipped his cap, tapped his heart,  wiped his face, then forced his aching heart and feet to move, just one more time, across the field to home.

For athletes, it happens sooner than for many of us, but the time comes for all, to cease  doing what we're known for, to find out who we are when nobody's looking or listening and to cheer on the next batter, then, haul our aching heart and feet across the field to Home.