i don't care if i ever get back
Tony Gwynn's nickname is Mr. San Diego. When we built the new park everyone said that the name of the street it sits on, which was not there before, should be Tony Gwynn Drive. So it is. We put a statue of him in the entryway, without asking. Tony Gwynn spent his entire career with the Padres, his entire career. That does not happen, ever. Does it, Jorge Posada. But in all the years he spent with the Padres, he only made more than four million dollars in a single season seven times. If you know anything about sports then you know that this number is retch-inducingly low. If you know anything about baseball then you know about Tony Gwynn, and why that number is even lower than it sounds. In his twenty years in San Diego, he was the NL batting champion 8 times, an All-Star 15 times, earned five Gold Gloves, retired with more than 3100 hits, and with the exception of his first year in baseball he never batted below .309 in any season. Never once. What this means is that Tony Gwynn was also one of the greatest players in baseball. At four million or less per season. His induction into the Hall of Fame was 13 votes short of unanimous, which is insane. In-Sane. He is also a philanthropist and coach that has been married to the same woman for a hundred years, and who now coaches his son's college team in a stadium named after him. Mr. San Diego.
I have three bats with Tony Gwynn's signature on them. One is from the game in which he earned his 3oooth hit (at which time, as he rounded the base, he received a hug from the first base umpire. An umpire, hugging a player, during a game. Unheard of, before or since.). I don't even remember which games the other two are from, but they sit all in a row in my room, daring an intruder to mess with me or Tony. I have two gloves with his name on them, and I have an entire bookshelf of memorabilia with his name and face and accolades all over it. Tony Gwynn, a constant presence in a life I no longer live, waving to me from a place I can no longer even see in my memory. But together for years, walking leisurely toward events that may or may not be life-changing, may or may not be record-breaking, may or may not be edited all to hell in the books years down the road. He's one of the great heroes of my life, and it has nothing to do with what a phenomenal athlete he is.
When I lived in San Diego, and the Padres were the worst team in baseball (and they always were), I would go to a game at the stadium two or three times a week. They played in a stadium, not a ballpark, because they borrowed the Chargers field in the absence of their own. Why would they have their own park; they're the worst team in baseball. So we went to games at the stadium, until after the 1998 season that saw them swept majestically by the Yankees (fuck you, Scott Brosius) in a disastrous World Series that cost them not one single fan. That year was amazing. That run was...wrenching. People actually had heart attacks, watching those games, it was that riveting. But before that, there was nothing good coming out of that team. We didn't win. We didn't gloat. We barely even showed up. But at least it was sunny.
It was always sunny, and always baseball. There was a game, though, that was not sunny, and was not good. We had been trounced upon for six disgusting innings, we had the stretch, then came back out to get slapped around some more, when it started to rain. At this time in their history, the Padres did not have many fans. We would pay five dollars for a nosebleed ticket and then go sit behind home plate, because there was just no one else there. Seventy thousand seats for three thousand fans. We couldn't do anything right. And then it started raining. Of course it did not rain enough to stop the game, because it rarely rains that much in San Diego and when it does, it's during the off-season. So, empty stadium, in the rain, having our hearts handed to us in a bag once again, and Tony Gwynn was batting. He walked up and hit a triple, which was fumbled by the opposing outfielder, which allowed Tony to turn it into a run. As he rounded third base, on his way to score this meaningless run in this stupid game in front of almost no one, as he came around the base, he high-fived the third base coach. I'm headed home, Tim, high-five this run cause we're still playing baseball. High five. Celebrate this hit, and this run, even though no one is watching and we're all soaking wet and I'm forty years old and I'm the greatest player in the history of this team and I still live in the house I grew up in, because if I played for the money I'd be playing somewhere else. I just hit a fucking home run, and I'm going to be happy.
How awesome is Tony Gwynn. Nothing gets him down, even though I'm sure things get him down. He does his best and plays his hardest, even when no one is watching. He celebrates each victory, even when that victory comes in the middle of a loss that is just one more speedbump to the other team. I remember thinking that this was the difference between me and my husband, right there on the field. My husband was a Yankee fan, and the Yankees always win. They always, always win. They don't know how to lose, and they don't know how to win with grace. They do not care about the things that get you where you are, they only care that you end up on top. They don't care where you came from or what it took to scratch your way to the starting lineup, they care only that when you are in stripes, you are winning. Win, win, win. And only win.
I don't care about winning. I don't care about applause. I do not care if we ever figure this shit out in the end, because I don't care about the end. When the end comes, it will mean only that things have ended. I don't want the end to come, ever. I want to take practice swings and field grounders and run full-tilt at a wall that I know is fifteen feet in front of me and absolutely, under no circumstances, give myself enough room to stop. I want to smash into the wall and come up with the ball in my glove, hat on the ground, in the middle of a game I know I can't win, but that I am going to give my best to anyway. I want to not hold my starting pitcher to three innings in the hope that three games from now it will make a difference. I don't want to do any of that. I want to celebrate the things that are going on now, right now, this minute. I was really happy when we were wandering around looking for TVs. I really, really enjoyed that midnight milkshake trip. I loved that moment where we were trying to get around the bus and the horse truck was there, that was a very good moment. Every single moment that I can appreciate, I want to know it at the time and not put it in a box labeled Something Bigger, Something More. This is, of course, how you end up being the losingest team in baseball, but it is also how you end up, years later, when the end does come, not caring so much that the end has come because it was never about the end, it was only about the time. At the time. With the time we have. And the hell of it for me has always been that I am looking at this alone, even with someone else I am having this experience by myself, because for whoever it has ever been, it is always about something else, the bigger, the more. I think I have come to a point where that doesn't matter to me. Currently, he does not care about these things, but I do. He does not catalogue our efforts, only our wins. He does not look back on the at-bats, only at the season and that, right there, is where we lose each other. But when the end does come, I will end up ahead anyway, because I will have had a thousand victories, and he will have one loss. In an age where everything is falling apart, it is incomprehensible to me that we would not hold on to the things that are given to us, and appreciate them for the treasures they are. People, and feelings, and experiences and thoughts and realizations that can't come from anywhere else, they are a gift. And even when I'm losing in the freezing rain, high fucking five.
I have three bats with Tony Gwynn's signature on them. One is from the game in which he earned his 3oooth hit (at which time, as he rounded the base, he received a hug from the first base umpire. An umpire, hugging a player, during a game. Unheard of, before or since.). I don't even remember which games the other two are from, but they sit all in a row in my room, daring an intruder to mess with me or Tony. I have two gloves with his name on them, and I have an entire bookshelf of memorabilia with his name and face and accolades all over it. Tony Gwynn, a constant presence in a life I no longer live, waving to me from a place I can no longer even see in my memory. But together for years, walking leisurely toward events that may or may not be life-changing, may or may not be record-breaking, may or may not be edited all to hell in the books years down the road. He's one of the great heroes of my life, and it has nothing to do with what a phenomenal athlete he is.
When I lived in San Diego, and the Padres were the worst team in baseball (and they always were), I would go to a game at the stadium two or three times a week. They played in a stadium, not a ballpark, because they borrowed the Chargers field in the absence of their own. Why would they have their own park; they're the worst team in baseball. So we went to games at the stadium, until after the 1998 season that saw them swept majestically by the Yankees (fuck you, Scott Brosius) in a disastrous World Series that cost them not one single fan. That year was amazing. That run was...wrenching. People actually had heart attacks, watching those games, it was that riveting. But before that, there was nothing good coming out of that team. We didn't win. We didn't gloat. We barely even showed up. But at least it was sunny.
It was always sunny, and always baseball. There was a game, though, that was not sunny, and was not good. We had been trounced upon for six disgusting innings, we had the stretch, then came back out to get slapped around some more, when it started to rain. At this time in their history, the Padres did not have many fans. We would pay five dollars for a nosebleed ticket and then go sit behind home plate, because there was just no one else there. Seventy thousand seats for three thousand fans. We couldn't do anything right. And then it started raining. Of course it did not rain enough to stop the game, because it rarely rains that much in San Diego and when it does, it's during the off-season. So, empty stadium, in the rain, having our hearts handed to us in a bag once again, and Tony Gwynn was batting. He walked up and hit a triple, which was fumbled by the opposing outfielder, which allowed Tony to turn it into a run. As he rounded third base, on his way to score this meaningless run in this stupid game in front of almost no one, as he came around the base, he high-fived the third base coach. I'm headed home, Tim, high-five this run cause we're still playing baseball. High five. Celebrate this hit, and this run, even though no one is watching and we're all soaking wet and I'm forty years old and I'm the greatest player in the history of this team and I still live in the house I grew up in, because if I played for the money I'd be playing somewhere else. I just hit a fucking home run, and I'm going to be happy.
How awesome is Tony Gwynn. Nothing gets him down, even though I'm sure things get him down. He does his best and plays his hardest, even when no one is watching. He celebrates each victory, even when that victory comes in the middle of a loss that is just one more speedbump to the other team. I remember thinking that this was the difference between me and my husband, right there on the field. My husband was a Yankee fan, and the Yankees always win. They always, always win. They don't know how to lose, and they don't know how to win with grace. They do not care about the things that get you where you are, they only care that you end up on top. They don't care where you came from or what it took to scratch your way to the starting lineup, they care only that when you are in stripes, you are winning. Win, win, win. And only win.
I don't care about winning. I don't care about applause. I do not care if we ever figure this shit out in the end, because I don't care about the end. When the end comes, it will mean only that things have ended. I don't want the end to come, ever. I want to take practice swings and field grounders and run full-tilt at a wall that I know is fifteen feet in front of me and absolutely, under no circumstances, give myself enough room to stop. I want to smash into the wall and come up with the ball in my glove, hat on the ground, in the middle of a game I know I can't win, but that I am going to give my best to anyway. I want to not hold my starting pitcher to three innings in the hope that three games from now it will make a difference. I don't want to do any of that. I want to celebrate the things that are going on now, right now, this minute. I was really happy when we were wandering around looking for TVs. I really, really enjoyed that midnight milkshake trip. I loved that moment where we were trying to get around the bus and the horse truck was there, that was a very good moment. Every single moment that I can appreciate, I want to know it at the time and not put it in a box labeled Something Bigger, Something More. This is, of course, how you end up being the losingest team in baseball, but it is also how you end up, years later, when the end does come, not caring so much that the end has come because it was never about the end, it was only about the time. At the time. With the time we have. And the hell of it for me has always been that I am looking at this alone, even with someone else I am having this experience by myself, because for whoever it has ever been, it is always about something else, the bigger, the more. I think I have come to a point where that doesn't matter to me. Currently, he does not care about these things, but I do. He does not catalogue our efforts, only our wins. He does not look back on the at-bats, only at the season and that, right there, is where we lose each other. But when the end does come, I will end up ahead anyway, because I will have had a thousand victories, and he will have one loss. In an age where everything is falling apart, it is incomprehensible to me that we would not hold on to the things that are given to us, and appreciate them for the treasures they are. People, and feelings, and experiences and thoughts and realizations that can't come from anywhere else, they are a gift. And even when I'm losing in the freezing rain, high fucking five.
posted by machine central at 9:43 AM
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