Great email from my Dad

I received the following email from my dad entitled "Sometimes God has an unusual sense of humor."





OK: So I am telling everyone for weeks that I will not watch or listen to a single moment of a Red Sox game until there is a public execution of a player or coach for unrepentant stupidity, and I have intimated in my understated way that one Dale Sveum, third base coach, is a favored candidate. I envisioned a Dante-esque ending in which his arms would be hacked off, thus putting to an end his penchant for waiving runners home from third only to be greeted by the catcher who had nonchalantly been rocking in an easy chair waiting for the belated arrival of one of the Hometown Team.

My bride thereupon importunes my taking nine year old baseballaholic nephew to a game. I employ blandishments sufficient to elicit two tickets, the season long property of Mr. Coffey, mein sponsor at Vesper and all around great guy. I rationalize that going in person is an exception to my resolve not inconsistent with the spirit thereof. On the roof of the Red Sox dugout appear the words, appropriately enough, "Boston Red Sox." Paul's seats are in the first row, directly lined up behind the "T" in Boston. It is a location so favored that the greatest hazard is that the players will sweat on you on their way to the dugout, their conversations, facial tics, and otherwise secrets en plein air for the field box-favored to ponder.

I have, of course, guaranteed Auntie Les that young Alex will get a game ball, not the product of unseemly scrimmaging in the organic mass thriving under Fenway's seats but rather the generous gift of a player suitably impressed by the boy's good looks, his attention to the nuances of the game, and his eschewing earthy, albeit heartfelt comments such as "Francona, your mama was a dope too," or "Millar, shave your face," or "Damon, you are Charlie Manson's twin."

Well the innings mounted quickly as Mr. Wakefield had an unhittable (with two exceptions, one of which managed to climb into the Monster seats) knuckler flitting, fluttering, and dancing like the Mayor of Provincetown. I began a subtle campaign to increase the odds: I whined, pleaded, cajoled, begged for a ball for the kid. As if as punishment, less deserving punks on either side of us were favored with a broken Ortiz bat and Cabrera's batting gloves. Alex began to point out that he didn't have a ball while all around us patrons were stocking their memorabilia shelves. Do you know the desperation associated with abject failure in the eyes of a nine year old?

The game ends. I am prepared to buy Alex the contents of the Twins' Souvenir Shop on Yawkey Way, knowing they will be a pale substitute for an $8 ball with a Fenway skuff mark.Here is where it gets scary. It seems that the players have all departed the dugout for the womb-like comfort of the clubhouse and its air-conditioned relief on a 90 degree day. I am searching for words which will comfort poor Alex, knowing the same do not exist. As if by magic, a head appears above the dugout roof and rolls (well, to be accurate, a connected hand rolls) a game ball to Alex. His entire body lights up like ET's finger. His eyes roll in his head, he thinks of nothing but the sheer pleasure of holding such an object in his hand.

Dale Sveum smiles, says nothing, and ducks into the clubhouse. I swear I do not make this up. It happened. I love Dale Sveum and pray he will keep sending 'em from third without regard to the likelihood of success for so long as he chooses. Alex thinks I rock. I know better: God hangs around Kenmore Square.

KB
President and Organizer
Dale Sveum Fan Club