Or Baseball's Opening Day as a Metaphor for Life
This may actually be news to some of you, but I'm a HUGE baseball fan. Today is Opening Day and every year for the past 12 years, I'm reminded of this day in 2002 when I flew home from Germany and that same evening, went to the Oakland Athletics' Opening Day game. So today, as I wait to go out to the ballpark, perhaps even sit in the rain (!), I feel compelled to post my story about that day, April 1, 2002. I hope you enjoy it.
It’s another
miserably cold Opening Night at O.Co Coliseum in Oakland. I’m sitting with my
German born husband in our outfield seats, layered in thermal underwear,
jacket, hat, scarf, covered in a blanket and I’m still cold. But I’m extremely
excited because baseball season has finally arrived. My husband, however, is
slightly less enthusiastic. Unlike me, he was not born into the love of The
Game. He has come to it through me, and I have to say, has become an educated
fan, understanding most of the nuances and general managerial strategies.
However, don’t ask him to explain the infield fly rule, or expect him to sit
happily through a nine-inning blowout or pitchers’ duel. He’s usually ready to
leave the park by the end of the 7th inning (which, not
coincidentally, is when they stop pouring the beer). He also appreciates
baseball more at day games in the summer months when he can sit in his
shirtsleeves in the warm sunshine, down a cold one and savor a Saag’s sausage.
I, on the other
hand, was born in the Steel City of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, home of the three
time World Series Champion Pittsburgh Pirates (1960, 1971, 1979). My dad was a
huge baseball fan. He always listened to the Pirates when he wasn’t at work,
only turning the radio off in disgust if the Pirates were losing in a complete
rout. My earliest memories of The Game are as a five-year old waiting for my
dad to join us from his downtown office and go to a glorious Saturday afternoon
double header at Forbes Field (two games for the price of one – heaven!) When
he would suggest we leave at the end of the 7th inning of the second
game, I was the one who would say, “But daddy, we don’t know who won yet!”
During the more difficult adult years when I was estranged from my parents, the
only way I could have a civil conversation with my father was if we talked
baseball. The season after my dad died, I often went to the A’s ballpark alone
two hours before the game started, just to be able to sit quietly in the
stands, take in the evocative smell of the freshly mown greener-than-green
field, listen to the crack of the ball off the bats during batting practice and
feel the excitement build as game time approached. At times I’d feel closer to
my dad in those moments than I did when he was alive.
Tonight, dressed
in his well-worn down parka with an $8 beer in his hand, my husband turns to me
and says, “You know the only reason I’m here with you tonight is because I
remember the look on your face the Opening Night we were here after your breast
cancer surgery. The look, those tears welling up in your eyes . . . well, how
could I refuse?”
“I know,” I
answer, so softly I’m not sure he even hears me over the din of the baseball
announcer booming, “LET’S HEAR IT FOR YOUR 2012 OAKLAND ATHLETICS!” as the team
takes the field.
It was ten years
ago on April 1, 2002, baseball’s Opening Day, when I arrived back home from my
six-week journey of mastectomy/reconstruction surgery and healing in Germany.
Was it the height of optimism or a stupid April Fool’s joke that made me buy my
A’s tickets weeks in advance of the surgery – optimistic not only that all
would go well but that I would be up for a night at the ballpark on the same
day as the flight home from Europe?
During most of
the 11 hour flight from Frankfurt to San Francisco I was sitting with a pillow
between my stomach and the seatbelt to protect the still tender scar which
traversed from hip bone to hip bone where the surgeon took my perforator
vessels and stomach fat to create my new breast. But mostly, I was thinking
about finally being home in our wonderful light-filled house in the Oakland
hills with our dear dog O’Keeffe, and yes, soon to be cheering for my Oakland
A’s.
When my husband
helped me through our front door I was still walking gingerly so as not to make
any unexpected moves that might aggravate any of my freshly healed scars.
O’Keeffe came bounding over, wiggling and whining excitedly. He expected I
would bend down and give him more than the usual huge hugs and endless tummy
rubs all over his happily shivering furry body to make up for all the ones he
missed over the long month and a half I was away. But try as I might, all I
could manage were soft loving pats on his head. When I looked up from a
slightly disappointed O’Keeffe, I wasn’t sure WHAT I was seeing. As I finally
focused, I saw Kim and Jennifer from my husband’s office in the kitchen
arranging platters of food, other friends milling about in the dining room and
living room, flowers in vases everywhere – a party was happening and I was the
guest of honor!
I was completely
overwhelmed! No one had ever given me a surprise party, and here, my sweet
husband had arranged it all while he was with me in Germany. I was at once
flabbergasted, amazed, touched, overjoyed, and thrilled – all mixed together
with the pent up emotions of being “done” with breast cancer, being truly
healed, being whole in my body again, being able to start living my “real life”
with the heavy burden of breast cancer left behind in Germany along with the
suspect breast tissue.
It was 5:30 PM,
the house was full of well-wishers all enjoying the food, drink, each other and
seeing me home, healthy and happy albeit a bit tired from the trip, when I made
the announcement:
“I’m sorry, but
we have to leave in a couple of minutes to catch BART to the Coliseum. I have
tickets to the A’s Opener tonight,” I said in an almost apologetic tone.
I don’t think
there was anyone in the room who could believe what they had heard. But also, I
don’t think there was anyone there who really knew me who was truly surprised.
My closest and dearest know my passion for The Game, how every spring I am
energized by getting to know about all the new players; sinking into the
familiar sounds, sights and smells of being at the ballpark; enthused by the
possibilities of a new season and the thought that “anything can happen”
really. Anything is possible from a young team with good pitching and good
hitting.
“But, hey, if
you want to continue partying, please feel free. Just lock up when the last one
leaves,” I added with a smile.
On that note, my
husband and I layered on our warmest clothing, put the bag of peanuts in the
backpack and headed on out to the ballpark. I may have walked a little slower
than normal up the stadium steps to our seats right behind home plate in the
Plaza level, but I couldn’t remember when I felt more alive, or more grateful
to be just another fan supporting her “2002 Oakland Athletics”. The tears came
a moment later, when, settled in, with the blanket over us both, we watched the
first pitch thrown by then A’s starting pitcher, Mark Mulder.
“Steee – rike!”
The umpire‘s call rose above the cheering crowd.
Yes, a new
season of possibilities, the perfect start to my “real life”.
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| A's Opening Day Festivities at the O.Co Coliseum |
Ten years later,
I turn to my husband, put my hand on his leg and squeeze. It’s another A’s
Opener. We’re freezing our butts off, but its baseball! And yet, I’m feeling warm down to my
bones, knowing, like this time every year, anything is possible . . . even
being cancer free.
“Steee – rike!”
Brandon
McCarthy, Oakland’s new “ace” just drilled one over the plate.
