I Try To See Rocco, But All I Think Is Nomar

I remember meeting Nomar at a local mall back in 1998, and while he wasn’t the most laid back and pleasant of people, it’s still a moment I will never forget. (I recall as I place my Nomar picture down in front of him he asked me “do you want me to sign this?” I have to admit I was a little taken aback, even at age nine. I thought “well, I sure as shit don’t want you to eat it.”)

I’d have to say the day I got that autograph was probably one of the best days of my life. My idols signature on my favorite picture of him; can’t get much better than that.

By around 2000, I couldn’t look at the No. 5 without thinking about Nomar. A lot of people were drawn to the Red Sox by him, but I wasn’t only drawn to the Sox, I was dedicated to the Sox and Nomar was by God.

It seemed every day Nomar would amaze me more and more. Pitchers simply could not find a place in the strike zone in which Nomar couldn’t stick the bat out and hit a solid line drive. To put it simply, Nomar (1997-2000) was the greatest hitter I’ve ever had the privilege to watch.

Above anything else, I remember when he flirted with .400 in 2000 and just how incredible it was to follow. It was like being able to witness something unthinkable and still find satisfaction when he fell short. It was the baseball version of 18-1 to me. However, shortly after the 2000 season, Nomar was hit in the wrist and never again was the same hitter.

Watching Nomar’s career decline and watching his abilities weaken was like watching a close friend struggle with a life-threatening sickness. There was always hope that he’d return to form, but more likely than not his better days were behind him.

Even so, I remember being glued to ESPN.com during the Nomar for Magglio and A-Rod rumors. I remember being extremely upset and excited at the same time. It had gotten to the point where, while I was still very loyal to Nomar, I was more dedicated to the Red Sox.

The breakdown of that trade was without a doubt the turning point in Nomar’s career. In came all the talk about how Nomar disliked Boston and was upset with the Red Sox for exploring trades involving him. I remember being ecstatic when Nomar returned from injury to a standing ovation in 2004, yet there was something missing. It wasn’t the same Nomar that first got me to love baseball.

This was the version of Nomar that I had met in the mall a half a decade ago. The Nomar that hated all the attention, that hated all the press, that hated all the talk, and who just wanted to play baseball.

About a month later, Nomar was packing his bags and leaving for Chicago. I remember waiting in the driveway for my family to return from wherever they were so I could tell them the news. I was angry, happy, and sad all at the same time. I was very, very confused about how I felt about the situation. I’m talking 11-or-12-year-old-boy-who-ejaculates-for-the-first-time-wondering-what-in-the-hell-is-this-white-shit type of confused.

On one hand, my icon, my God, the reason I got into baseball in the first place was leaving my favorite team. On the other hand, Nomar got to get out of the Boston spotlight and got to get back to just playing baseball again.

Even after these four years, it pains me thinking about how Nomar left Boston, and it pains me further to see what a mess his career has become. In a span of just a few years, Nomar went from the best hitter I’ve seen to a fragile, glass case of emotion.

So there I was, staring at Rocco Baldelli. All the emotions I had when Nomar first got traded came rushing back, all the memories returned as well. I honestly felt sick to my stomach.

To see something as simple as Rocco Baldelli holding up No. 5, Nomar Garcipaparra’s jersey, made me want to throw up. And yet, it’s completely justified. Nomar isn’t going to get his number retired by the Red Sox. Nomar isn’t going to the Hall of Fame. Nomar isn’t even appreciated for what he did in his first four years in Boston any more, but appreciated for leaving and causing the Red Sox to win their first World Series in 86 years.

I came to realize that Nomar doesn’t mean shit anymore, and that Baldelli wearing his No. 5 wouldn’t hurt anyone, nor should anyone take it the wrong way.

I’m starting to wish I didn’t wake up early this morning.

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