Born and Bred Red Sox Red, Part Two

I can't help but marvel at the outpouring of comments and nice sentiments after my recent story, "Born and Bred Red Sox Red." Oh sure, I'm proud of it. It has been read by almost 500 and has gotten 83 comments (well, around 41, since half were responses from me).

That's how us Bleacher Report writers gauge whether or not we are better than average, via reads and comments. I thank you for both.

As a 40-something who just got knocked off my perch as a logistics and warehouse manager, I often wonder if I still got it. Am I washed up at 47? Will you respect me in the morning? Will my wife and five kids still love me?

Well, the comments from this story have truly touched me in a wonderful way. As I wrote this story, I really had no idea what I was going to write about. I normally plan my stories ahead like a chef plans a menu. A pinch of humor, a dash of of knowledge, a skosh of sarcasm, a good night's sleep on it, and Voila! A story!

But not this time. "Born and Bred" snuck up on me. It flowed from my heart and soul like no other story ever has. I actually cried a bit as I wrote it. It made me think about my brother, Dyno, and how we have grown apart over the years.

As I told you, Dyno and I were inseparable. We played ball from sunup to sundown and then played with baseball cards in our bedroom 'til Mom made us go to bed.

It made me think about my Dad, Marty, who took me to my first game and who coached me through Little League, despite the fact he throws kinda like a girl. My dad is getting a bit older now but is in great health. I hope to take him to Fenway this year and the next and for many years to come.

I think about my mom, who washed many a dirty uniform and walked to many a Little League game because she didn't drive at the time. She shouted like the other moms even though she didn't really know the sport and yelled at the umpire on every call that went against her boy. I still love my mom.

I even thought about my big sister, Melanie, and the time I chased her around the house with a wiffle ball bat. And about the time she busted my finger in the closet door (nothing to do with baseball, but I still thought about it). She just sent her son Max off to college. Her daughter Tori is a coxswain on an all-boys crew team.

And I thought about my kid, Corey, who has lived with just me since he was 10 and has grown up into a wonderful young man who will be graduating in May from Umass. He had his bar mitzvah in Jerusalem in January at age 22, because we were really busy with life when he was 13. I guess he always wanted to do it, but we still seemed to be busy.

I thought about my daughters, Erika and Julia, who are college age now. They went to live with Mom in 1997 when we divorced. They used to come watch Corey play ball and watch me coach him on Wednesday night and every other weekend. Good sports, those little girls-turned young, beautiful women.

And I thought about my newish wife, Katie, and her two kids, Kaitlyn and Dakota. They have accepted me into their family and now give up the TV quite often to watch Sox baseball, NESN, and Sportscenter. Katie even encouraged me to write more when I got laid off in November. She refuses to let me feel down despite the daily economic news.

I sense that many of you thought about your family, too, when you read my story. Our story. Your story.

See, my story became your story. The Sox were replaced by the Yankees when "Heartbeat of the Bronx" read it. And, I assume my Yaz jelly glasses were replaced by Yogi Berra's of the same. Heartbeat and I have become friends thanks to that story and I suspect we'll share a beer in Fenway and new Yankee Stadium before too long.

And Lawrence, the Orioles guy read it and replaced my infield with Boog, Davey, Mark, and Brooks. He thought of Palmer, McNally, Cuellar, and Dobson instead of Rocket, Tiant, Hurst, and Lee.

And Michael, the Yankees fan in the Red Sox house, read it, and he and his family took sides. He loves the Yankees with the passion that I love the Sox. I suspect he loves his wife with the same passion that I love mine. He thinks Fisk was at fault when Munson knocked him on his ass and I think Munson was. I love Bill Lee and he probably loves Mickey Rivers. I'm sure he hates Varitek and Papi and I used to love Johnny Damon.

And even Sara commented on the story. She replaced my dad with hers and she too wants her dad to last forever.

See, baseball is deeper than the rivalries. It transcends time and it makes big guys cry. Baseball is the vehicle that instantly makes us forget about the economy and unemployment. It is so perfect. So pure. So right.

That's why many of us are really mad about the current state of the sport. It really isn't because they are stealing our records. It's because they are hurting our dads and our kids and us.

But this isn't about that. It's to encourage you to call your dad or your kid or your wife and tell 'em that you love 'em. And now every time you think about Ted or Mickey or Willie or The Yankee Clipper, don't think about the averages or the championships. They go away.

Think about the memories that this wonderful sport has brought to you.

And thanks. You made a 40-something realize that he coulda been a contender.