The Girl Who Had Two Teams

11 Oct

All the Red Sox and Phillies gear – the t-shirts, the hats, the jerseys, the beach towels – has been washed and put away for the year.  I’m not happy about it.

A number of Phillies magazines and Sports Illustrated articles on Chooch and Cliff Lee and Pedroia are still on my coffee table. Pictures of Utley and Ellsbury homering are still on my fridge.

The grieving process takes time.  And I’m not quite ready to let go.

The irony is that I have two teams!  When I was in Russia, I had a translator who wore two watches.  He told me “This way, when one dies, I will still be able to tell the time!”  It sounded like a reasonable and logical approach.  The next year, when I returned to Russia, he had no watches.  When I enquired as to what happened, he laughed and said “They both died at the same time!”

That’s how I feel.  I had two teams.  If one was doing poorly, I could pat the other team, tucked safely into my back pocket, and know that I was going to be okay.   Except that it didn’t work out that way.

I had two teams.  No, wait, I have two teams.  And although I’m not there yet – not ready for the talk of rising from the ashes next year and I can’t contemplate a team without Francona and Epstein or a team without baseball’s 4 Aces – I will be by the time the spring training bats are warmed up.

I have two teams.  They are still my two teams even now while their stadiums are empty and my ESPN ScoreCenter is quiet. I have two teams and they will be back.  And I will hope and moan and cheer and grimace all over again – in the stands, on the treadmill, in front of the tv.  Because they’re my teams.  We’re a package deal.


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