Jim Rice and the Hall of Fame

Andre Dawson was elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame today, which is great. Really, though, it marks the one year since Boston's own Jim Rice made it into the Hall of Fame. In the past 16 months, it marks one of the truly joyous moments of what has become a rather dismal life of regret, uncertainty, and the general feeling of impending doom. I was not only thrilled for Rice and for the Red Sox in general, but for myself, as it meant that I'd be able to get up to Cooperstown in July with Bouras; a trip we'd planned to make since we met each other back in 2005.

Unfortunately, when then time game in July, James was unable to make it due to work (which I don't blame him for, and am honestly a bit envious that he has a career he loves), which left me without anyone to head to Cooperstown with. Without hesitation, my father stepped in, volunteering the morning of the induction to leave the house at quarter of 7 in the morning, driving all the way out to Cooperstown (4 hours), sit in the sun to see Rice get elected, and then drive back.

The day was marked by a nearly 3 mile walk each way, to and from, the parking lot we chose to the field, on-and-off rain, and high humidity. Without complaint, he sat ther ewith me, even though his interest in baseball is minimal. After leaving, we headed out to Ommegang brewery, one of my top 5 in the nation. We got a bit lost and took an extra 30 minutes to get there and we didn't even get a tour, but no complaints from either of us.

Why am I mentioning this? Well, for the last week I've been trying to think of a nice year end blog that would have a list of my favorite moments of 2009. Truth is, I couldn't find 10 worth talking about. But the election today reminded me of how selfless my father has always been to me, how he's done everything in his power to make me happy without question. Sometimes it makes me a little ashamed of myself and my failures, but mainly, it makes me hope that some day I can be that selfless. I got to see one of my heroes take his rightful place in baseball history, and while it didn't mean much to my dad, I know he took pleasure from my happiness. That act alone was enough to make the Cooperstown 2009 experience my top of 2009. Thanks Bud.

Hail Caesar

For the 27th time in their existence, the New York Yankees, baseball's version of the Roman Empire, were crowned the World Series Champion. Like the crowning of many Roman emperors, the championship will be celebrated in the streets of the homeland, with confetti replacing the blood of slaughtered chattel. And like the leaders of Rome, those who helped to build this Yankee empire come replete with stories of lavish spending, unchecked megalomania, scandalous personal indiscretions, and a list of enemies as long as the list of victories.

Just as Rome was not built in a day, the Yankee empire was one that could only be built through exorbitant spending and manipulation, but most of all, hard work and ruthless perseverance in the face of its enemies. Now the triumphant empire stands proud over its fallen enemies, holding trophies the of their conquest. Their enemies, not dressed in blood-stained armor like the soldiers of Carthage, Palmyra, and so many, but in dirt-smeared uniforms and battered cleats, are left to watch, in both awe and envy of their pinstriped conquerors.

As a member of one of those conquered nations, left battered and beaten by the conquering force, I am left alive and defeated, resentful of success won at the hands of my own dominion's failure. Even more painful than the defeat itself, though, is the thought that for the following days, I must be forced to live by the saying "when in Rome..." Thus, like the Roman gladiators, many of who were slaves from a defeated rival, I can only turn towards the Steinbrenners, Brian Cashman, and the Yankee players, and bitterly address them; "Hail Caesar, we who are about to die, salute you!"