Waking up the Babe
Last Friday, Pedro Martinez pitched eight innings of one hit baseball against the Royals, which gave gave him a sense of redemption. But, did he really need it?
I'm not going to exhale because I was never holding my breath.
I remember when Pedro Martinez came to Boston in 1997. The crowds, the fervor of this town so deeply ensconced in baseball tradition, overwhelmed him. Not geographically far from Montreal, it was a lifetime away in terms of baseball passion and adrenaline.
This is for the Pedro that adjusted. The Pedro that struck out 251 batters in 233 innings his first season with the Sox. And for the Pedro that gave up eight runs during the first three innings on opening day this year.
Yes, this one is for Pedro. The whole 5'11", wiry pitching anomaly of him.
This is for the Pedro that left the game against the Yankees after just three innings last season in September, (and, consequently, his team had to finish the season without him), and for the Pedro who pitched eight innings of one hit baseball last Friday against the Royals.
It's for the Pedro who resisted Dan Duquette telling the fans he was healthy enough to pitch last season when he was hurting and listened to his own body. For the one with enough grit and machismo to say, "Wake up the Babe, maybe I'll drill him in the ass."
For the Pedro who preached to us as that he struggled in Spring Training, that he was human, and the one with just enough cockiness in the gleam of his eye, the stare down of batters, to make us believe that he's something just a little more.
This is for Pedro the tenacious, Pedro the winner, Pedro the loser, Pedro the human being. This is for the Pedro that looks like he's back, and for the Pedro who could surprise us all by faltering next time out.
It's for a boy who grew up poor, sometimes making baseballs out of the heads of his sister's dolls and was discovered by a Dodgers scout throwing an 88-mile an hour fastball at the age of fifteen.
It's for the man that said of pitching, "It means something inside me -- a feeling I get. It's in my blood, my body. It's not the money. ... It's my price, my name. My family's name. My reputation. That's worth more than the $75 million they're paying me."
It's for the Pedro we seem to believe when he says it, because when you're that good, its got to be about more than the money.
This is for the Pedro that had eulogies written of him after opening day this year. The one that shrugged it off, chalked it up to a bad day, and reminded us all again that he was only human. The one that doesn't believe in curses and wears oven mitt-like mittens and parkas when the rest of us would be comfortable watching the game in a sweatshirt.
It's Spring. The season of thawing, of rebirth, the season of baseball.
Somewhere people are exhaling, the Babe is stirring, the Red Sox are hitting, Pedro is pitching, and there's resurrection in the air.
I remember when Pedro Martinez came to Boston in 1997. The crowds, the fervor of this town so deeply ensconced in baseball tradition, overwhelmed him. Not geographically far from Montreal, it was a lifetime away in terms of baseball passion and adrenaline.
This is for the Pedro that adjusted. The Pedro that struck out 251 batters in 233 innings his first season with the Sox. And for the Pedro that gave up eight runs during the first three innings on opening day this year.
Yes, this one is for Pedro. The whole 5'11", wiry pitching anomaly of him.
This is for the Pedro that left the game against the Yankees after just three innings last season in September, (and, consequently, his team had to finish the season without him), and for the Pedro who pitched eight innings of one hit baseball last Friday against the Royals.
It's for the Pedro who resisted Dan Duquette telling the fans he was healthy enough to pitch last season when he was hurting and listened to his own body. For the one with enough grit and machismo to say, "Wake up the Babe, maybe I'll drill him in the ass."
For the Pedro who preached to us as that he struggled in Spring Training, that he was human, and the one with just enough cockiness in the gleam of his eye, the stare down of batters, to make us believe that he's something just a little more.
This is for Pedro the tenacious, Pedro the winner, Pedro the loser, Pedro the human being. This is for the Pedro that looks like he's back, and for the Pedro who could surprise us all by faltering next time out.
It's for a boy who grew up poor, sometimes making baseballs out of the heads of his sister's dolls and was discovered by a Dodgers scout throwing an 88-mile an hour fastball at the age of fifteen.
It's for the man that said of pitching, "It means something inside me -- a feeling I get. It's in my blood, my body. It's not the money. ... It's my price, my name. My family's name. My reputation. That's worth more than the $75 million they're paying me."
It's for the Pedro we seem to believe when he says it, because when you're that good, its got to be about more than the money.
This is for the Pedro that had eulogies written of him after opening day this year. The one that shrugged it off, chalked it up to a bad day, and reminded us all again that he was only human. The one that doesn't believe in curses and wears oven mitt-like mittens and parkas when the rest of us would be comfortable watching the game in a sweatshirt.
It's Spring. The season of thawing, of rebirth, the season of baseball.
Somewhere people are exhaling, the Babe is stirring, the Red Sox are hitting, Pedro is pitching, and there's resurrection in the air.
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