Faith Rewarded. Again.

Game Five of the 2008 American League Championship Series. With the Red Sox having lost 3 in a row and trailing 3 games to 1 to a white-hot Rays team, there could be no margin for error.

I watched the first inning at my 2nd job; the game hardly started the way I figured with Dice-K giving up a 2-run HR before an out had even been recorded. On the way home I put on WTIC out of Connecticut, opting to listen to the game through the static with the regular Red Sox announcing crew of Joe Castiglione and Dale Arnold instead of putting up with the painful experience of listening to the ESPN radio feed with Jon Miller and Joe Morgan. More TB home runs; more Red Sox runners left on base. F-bombs were flying through the car at lightning speed.

As I pulled into my neighborhood at 9:30 PM, my oldest daughter called me from her college dorm on my cell phone. "Dad, this is disgusting. What's happening here?" We talked of the fun we'd had on a couple of Fenway road trips we'd taken from NJ this year, lamented some key injuries to important players, and just figured we'd start counting the days until pitchers and catchers. When I walked in the door, my wife had turned the game off in the living room. The look of disgust on her face echoed my own sentiments. Our 7-year old son came downstairs when he heard me come in and asked me what the score was. "Well, maybe we'll get them in the next game," he offered, until I reminded him that this would likely be Tampa Bay's 4th win. I sent him back off to bed with a Manny-like "there's always next year" and headed down to the family room to check in on the game thread on the SoSH website and see what had developed. That was right about the time that Red Sox relief pitcher Manny Delcarmen left and closer Jonathan Papelbon came in. Like some others, I turned the game off when it got to 7-0. I figured that I wake up for job #1 at 4 AM; it's probably best to not torture myself any longer, so I went upstairs, kissed my wife goodnight, and headed to bed.

"Jim...I don't want to wake you...but I don't think you should miss this."

My wife was gently shaking my shoulder and had this edge of excitement to her voice. Big Papi had already hit his 3-run shot and Papelbon had shut the door in the 8th. J.D. Drew was up. I struggled to focus on the TV in the bedroom just as Drew's shot left his bat. I bolted upright and threw my arms in the air. Somehow I managed to blurt out, "DON'T LET US WIN ONE!" - echoes of Kevin Millar from the 2004 ALCS. Our 9-year old daughter heard the commotion and poked her head out her door. "Get in here!" I exclaimed. My wife mentioned something about it being late and a school night and I just gave her that look that said, "You're kidding, right?"

When Mark Kotsay doubled off the glove of Tampa center fielder B.J. Upton with two out in the bottom of the 8th inning, the phone rang. It was our oldest daughter calling from school. She and her roommate were making so much noise as Fenway was becoming unglued (to steal a phrase from Francona) that one of her dorm RA's came in to see what the problem was. That RA and another ended up watching the game with the two of them. So with my 9-year old talking on the phone with her big sister while wrapped in my arms in bed, and my wife clutching my shoulder, the four of us hung on for dear life during Coco's AB.

By the time the game ended with J.D.'s line drive, we were all screaming - my daughter in her dorm and the three of us in my bedroom...while our 7-year old somehow slept through the entire thing.

We flipped back and forth between ESPN and the TBS postgame show, not entirely believing what we had seen. I'm still not entirely sure that what I saw really happened.

Faith Rewarded.

Again.

John Farrell - Take A Look At This!

If Clay Buchholz and Manny Delcarmen had this kind of form, the Red Sox pitching might be in MUCH better shape! By the way, he's not even 7 and a half yet!

Vacation!?!?!

So let's see if I have the head count correct.

Five adults, four teenagers, two smaller children, and a kennel's worth of dogs. All packed into one house for the better part of a week.

What have I gotten myself into?

Congratulations, Daughter #1!

Softball Dreams Do Come True!

She was three years old when that picture was taken. Her 7-year old brother likes to tease her that she didn't get her hips to the ball and she was swinging underneath the ball (he's right, btw).

This past Monday, my now-18-year old completed her scholastic softball career. Though she was a four-year varsity player, this was the first time that Courtney actually got some serious playing time.

Freshman year, she felt lucky to just make the team. There were a some starts at DH, and some pinch-running assignments, and with a bunch of other freshmen on the team, there was a sense that this team was going to be good in a couple of years.

Sophomore year brought a new coach and some new challenges. Playing time was reduced a bit, but when her team beat our local town high school for the first time in at least four years, it was Courtney who pitched the first two innings, holding her opponents to a single run until the regular starting pitcher could get to the field. I will never forget the look on my daughter's face at the end of the game - "We won...and I had something to do with it!" The team's record was awful, but they played hard every game for this new coach, and the feeling from freshman year about how good this team was going to be was looking like a reality.

Junior year was almost a complete waste of time. Yet another new coach, and that meant having to prove herself all over again. Playing time was very scarce and limited to an occasional late-inning replacement in right field or second base. One disastrous pitching outing doomed her from ever getting back into the circle for the remainder of the year. One bad practice (a practice for goodness' sake!) and her playing time went down to almost nothing. She was hurt. She was angry. And she was determined to prove EVERYONE wrong.

Heading into her senior year, Courtney started going to a local gym. She ran. She lifted weights. And every Sunday for the better part of six months, she had me train her. As we got later into the winter, she upped the workouts to twice a week. We played long toss until I thought my arm would fall off. She did ground ball drills on her knees until they ached. I can't begin to count the number of swings she took. I told her again and again, "Hard work pays off." The last Sunday before tryouts, I looked her in the eye and told her, "You're ready." I don't think I've ever been more sure of anything in my life.

Trouble was, the one person whose opinion really mattered - her coach - wasn't convinced. Despite being named a co-captain by the coach, and showing VAST improvement in pre-season practices (she was the only infielder to reach 1st base from 3rd on the first day of throwing drills), she started the season on the bench. We continued to work out. We would go to outdoor fields and I would hit her ground balls over and over. I started to doubt my own ability to teach the game and evaluate talent. After one particularly strong workout in which she made play after play, I threw my arms out in desperation and pleaded, "What am I missing here? I don't understand why you aren't playing." Was it personal between her and the coach? Was I biased because this was my daughter?

Shortly after that day she got a start at second base. By Courtney's own standards, she had just an OK day. One routine ground ball out, a miscue on another ground ball, and a loss to the big local rival. Convinced she wouldn't play the next day, we were all stunned the next morning to find her back at second base in the opening game of an annual tournament at one of the local Catholic high schools.

Her team fell behind early (the coach chose this game to start one of the younger pitchers and by the time she made a change to the regular starter, it was 8-1). But something odd happened. The other team stopped playing well, Courtney's team scored a few runs, and all of a sudden the score was 8-6 and this game was actually within reach.

Enter the defining moment of her season.

Leading off an inning, the coach noticed a look on my daughter's face and asked her what was wrong. Ticked off by what had happened her junior year and frustrated at having already struck out in this game, she looked the coach straight in the eye and told her, "I'm frustrated by striking out and I am afraid you'll take it out on me and sit me." She then went out and drilled a single past the pitcher's head into center field to ignite what would be the tying rally. She also made two brilliant plays at second base and when she was injured on another play covering first, she waved off her coach - "I wasn't giving her the chance to take me out," she would later relate. Her team ended up losing by a run in extra innings, but the die was cast.

In the second game, she made a couple more great defensive plays and beat out an infield hit that drove in the go-ahead (and ultimately winning) run. All that work...those hours of ground balls...those stupid drills...all of it was finally paying off! "Are you crying, Dad?" she said to me after the second game. "Maybe a little bit," I responded. Shortly after that in the post-tournament award ceremony, she was named to the All-Tournament Team.

Vindication.

Courtney started almost every game the rest of the season. In another tournament, she once again sparkled with both her bat and her glove. Over the course of the rest of her season she made the great plays...she made the routine plays. She was NEVER out of position. She got some hits. She played. She had fun! Parents of her teammates raved about how she was the defensive glue of the infield. This past Tuesday night, her school held its annual spring sports dinner. She positively glowed when she was handed her varsity certificate and pin. When we came home, she threw her arms around me and said, "Thank you, Daddy."

No, Courtney. Thank you.

Trading Places

Have you ever wished you could be someone else for just a little while? Welcome to my world.

During the 2007 baseball season, the Red Sox called up a kid from the minor leagues who in no time managed to capture the collective interest of Red Sox Nation (and especially that segment of the fandom somewhat derisively referred to as the Pink Hats) with his positively electric playing style.

Jacoby Ellsbury started the 2007 season in Double-A ball in Portland, moving to Triple-A Pawtucket before making his Major League debut over 3 stints with Boston. His Major League resume - even now only a few months old - is already pretty impressive. He hit safely in 27 of his first 32 major league games with an at-bat, including a 13-game hitting streak from September 1-15, during which he hit .426 (20-47) with 3 doubles, a triple, 3 home runs, 13 RBI, 11 runs, 4 stolen bases and 2 walks. The night in Fenway he scored from second base on a passed ball has already reached a kind of legendary status among Red Sox fans.

In the post-season, if he was even the slightest bit fazed by playing on baseball's biggest stage, he certainly didn't show it. In 11 post-season games, including the start in each of Boston's final 6 contests, Ellsbury batted .360 (9-25) with 4 doubles, 4 RBI, 8 runs, 3 walks and 2 stolen bases. His 4 doubles all came in the World Series. Say it with me - this kid is an absolute STUD.

Probably one of the fastest players to ever wear a Red Sox uniform, Jacoby Ellsbury is literally everything I ever wanted to be in my baseball career. He's currently rotating as the Red Sox' fourth outfielder pending either an injury to a teammate, or a trade of Coco Crisp.

If the opportunity to trade places with someone for just 24 hours ever were to happen, I wonder how Jacoby Ellsbury would handle waking up at 4 AM?

Happy St. Patrick's Day From the Monaghans!