After the Ball
October 31, 2005

Steve described the void created by the end of baseball as Christmas night. Even if it was the best Christmas ever, there is a moment that you despair that it is gone. I think that is a pretty good way of interpreting the muddle of feelings we are sharing at the Dahl house.

Being a mom, I had likened my blues to post-pregnancy sadness. I had extended the metaphor to post-wedding funk. I have to tell you, after all the Sox gave to my family this season, I feel ungrateful and spoiled. But my gloom persists.

Last March, Pat criss-crossed the Western states to check out the pre-season Sox. He took pictures, sent them to fan sites, and kindled the family attachment to the team. He predicted a great season, and the entire male portion of the Dahl clan happily concurred. Though in April we were spread from Chicago to Champaign to California, there were daily discussions. All the boys had scores sent to their cell phones. They never doubted that this was the team of destiny, and they were poised to bask in the reflected glory.

On Friday, they merged in the sea of rapturous fans to close the circle of the season. Steve, Pat, Mike and Matt are aware that this was a precious gift. I pray that they will not have to wait 50 years to witness such joy again, but I think that even one World Series Championship, seen up close and united is enough. They were all healthy, and unburdened by personal difficulty. These were good days. We will remember.

Now Pat is winging back to his life in LA. He has no job, as NBC has shuttered his show, but he has friends- and hell- he has us. We celebrated our week of World Series bliss at a going away dinner, and no fights broke out. Just when we learn to co-exist, it is time to scatter. The Bears took center stage on this last Sunday, and the men seemed content to munch smoky links and curse Detroit. But it was not pinstriped magic.

As I have made clear, I am not the sports nut type. I DO, however, enjoy the unity it brings to my men. The pace of baseball, its gentle rhythm, its inter-generational appeal- these are the reasons I like it best. A man can take his family to the park for a game without going into debt. There are 3.2 million seats available for purchase at the Cell each year, and there are discounts on Mondays and Tuesdays. (Bummer that more than a million tickets went unsold this year) Baseball parks are not the playgrounds of the rich and powerful; every one can go. Baseball is a game of art and physics. One hot-dogging athlete will never guarantee success. The success of a team is the coalescence of luck, teamwork, momentum, determination and skill. It’s pretty close to the recipe for success in life.

I have been on the sidelines for this amazing journey- by choice. I saw 4 or 5 games, celebrated my birthday at the Cell, and sucked in the aura of the 2005 Sox. I admired Tim Raines’ fine thighs (as I did when he was a player) and marveled at Aaron Rowand’s bizarre stance. I was close enough to peep at Ozzie as he checked out the crowd. My attachment did not equal the boys’ affection, and so I stayed home most nights so they could live larger in Sox-world. I did not make it to a series game, for had I attended, one of them would have missed out. It’s ok, because it was nice and quiet at home. Quiet is a nice commodity in an all male household.

Friday I was alone, too. Matt went to the parade from school, Mike zigzagged from work, and Steve and Pat set out early. No one asked me if I wanted to go, and I did not want to chill anyone’s post parade plans. So I sat in the family room and watched the celebration in solitude. I have to say that I caught myself shedding a few tears. I am not from Chicago, but I am a Chicagoan. I know what this means to so many people, and I know what it means to my men.