David Ortiz’s final gift to Red Sox fans is one last October to watch him
COMMENTARY
We’re not here to discuss the details of how the Red Sox came to clinch the 2016 American League East title. Instead, this is about the scene in Wednesday night’s postgame locker room, where 40-year-old David Ortiz stood drenched in champagne, wearing a big old pair of goggles and celebrating one last trip to the playoffs.
Watching it live on TV, with Ortiz throwing around eff bombs like, well David Ortiz, this was clearly a special moment. This was Big Papi celebrating only his third division title in Boston — and in his last year. This was a scene that will feature in the highlight reels that will play in Boston forever. This was a moment that will be immortalized with all the other memories Ortiz leaves us. The walk-offs. The streaks. The occasional slumps. That smile. That temper. That passion. Those chains. Ultimately, the most impactful play of Ortiz’s career is what happened on the field in 2013 after the Boston Marathon bombing, when he grabbed the microphone and transcended sports. But while “This is our [expletive] city” may go down as his boldest, most heroic moment, those words were only so impactful because of who David Ortiz already was and everything he accomplished between the lines.
And it all started on October 17, 2004 — in Game 4 of the ALCS.
My memory of that night begins in the bottom of the eighth inning, sitting in the upper deck on the third-base line at Fenway, wondering if this was even worth it anymore, if I had it in me to keep caring when the light at the end of every tunnel ended up illuminating the ledge of a massive cliff. That sounds dramatic and pathetic. Make no mistake — it was. This was rock bottom. I wasn’t even over Aaron Boone yet and here were the Sox, a year later, suddenly six outs from an embarrassing sweep and another painful twist in the same old story.
Down 4-3, with Yankees closer Mariano Rivera on the mound, Manny Ramirez led off the eighth with a single and briefly reminded Boston what it was all about. Crazier things had happened. In that moment, more than 35,000 fans stood and screamed like never before with whatever they had left. For one pathetically ignorant moment we convinced ourselves to believe — that anything was possible — and then choked on our tongues as Rivera retired Ortiz, Jason Varitek and Trot Nixon in order. They didn’t hit a ball out of the infield. The threat was over before it started and this whole thing, this whole stupid Red Sox existence, was again so demoralizing.
“OK, I’m out of here.”
That was my dad and he’d seen enough. He also lived 45 minutes away, and had to work early that next morning. Normally, I’d have tried to talk him out of it, but not this time. Sitting here today, it’s hard to reconnect with that level of despair, but it was real then. It was torture. My dad wanted out and who was I to deny that? Was I supposed to give him a pep talk?
Come on . . . don’t leave . . . don’t give up!
I had given up.
I don’t remember if we hugged or even said goodbye when he left. I just remember sitting there by myself, pouting in the upper deck as Keith Foulke shut down the meat of the Yankees’ order in the top of the ninth. I remember standing slowly in disbelief that next half inning, still completely silent as Kevin Millar drew the walk, Dave Roberts stole the base and Bill Mueller singled up the middle.
Even as Roberts came around to score, with Fenway so loud it might collapse, I didn’t say a word. I stood there with my hands on my head processing what happened and convincing myself it was OK to care. Finally, I whipped out the trusty flip phone and dialed my dad. It had been at least 20 minutes and I figured he was driving home and listening on the radio; or, maybe, he was too depressed to listen. Maybe, he was still in that horrible world where another season was down the toilet and I could deliver the good news.
The phone started to ring but when my dad picked up he wasn’t in the car. He was in the middle of chaos. Somehow it was as loud as it was inside Fenway. I could barely hear him.
“I’m here!” he yelled. “I couldn’t leave!”
He was down by the field boxes on the first-base line, where he’d stopped on his way out of the park. You know, just to watch one more batter, and then one more, and then just long enough to be the first one out after Rivera retired the side, and then to witness history. He saw the whole thing. I hung up and ran down there like Rachel McAdams in the final scene of some rom-com, but come on, it wasn’t really like that. This was my dad. Don’t make it weird. When I finally found him, we went nuts. We belatedly celebrated the whole mess and snuck our way down to a field box. Or maybe we didn’t have to sneak. I don’t know. I don’t think normal rules applied anymore after Mueller’s single. No one had seats. No one was using them. We just stood for what felt like forever on the edge of something stupidly unbelievable, until Ortiz turned on a fastball and changed baseball forever.
This time I know we hugged. My dad didn’t care about his early wake up call. I never cared about Aaron Boone again. As Ortiz’s bomb shot past our eyes and into the bullpen we surrendered to the giant Fenway mosh pit that only got louder and stronger as Ortiz made his way around the bases and his teammates sprinted to meet him at home plate. The party started and it didn’t stop for months. After everything we’d been through with the Red Sox, after the ridiculous reunion in extra innings, as time goes on and everyone gets older, celebrating that win with my dad will go down as one of the greatest memories of my life.
David Ortiz did that.
And, yeah, I know, he wasn’t alone. What was that home run without Mueller’s single, what was Mueller’s single without Roberts’ steal, what was Roberts’ steal without Millar’s walk. It’s a team game. But when we look at the big picture and start to calculate which athletes are responsible for the most life-lasting Boston sports memories — well, Ortiz still isn’t alone but he’s close. In the 25 years since Larry Bird, it’s only Ortiz and Tom Brady. Before Bird, it’s only Bobby Orr, Bill Russell and Ted Williams. With all do respect to so many other great athletes — so many I won’t even start to name them because I won’t know where to stop — that’s the list: Williams, Russell, Orr, Bird, Brady and Ortiz. And when you consider the impact of that first World Series, and then the role he played after the marathon, you can argue Ortiz has done more for Boston than any athlete ever. I’ll say it right now. He has.
For that reason, there were no real expectations when Ortiz announced his retirement last November. With all he’d done for Boston on the whole and for each fan on a deep personal level, it was unfair, almost dangerous to set the bar beyond two very basic standards:
- Health
We hoped that Ortiz would survive the long season and walk off on his terms instead of limping into the dugout on some random Tuesday in July.
- Dignity
We wanted him to produce to the point where there was never a question about his spot in the lineup. Basically, that meant he would need to play just well enough to avoid a summer filled with arguments about whether Ortiz was selfish for playing or somehow screwing with the development of Boston’s potentially historic young core.
Of course, everyone still wanted the Red Sox to do well this year. It was fun to think about what it might be like if Ortiz got one real last October hurrah. But it was unfair to tie the team’s success to Ortiz’s final season, as if his farewell tour would be some kind of failure without a trip to the playoffs. It’s hard enough for any one guy to affect a baseball game, never mind an entire season, never mind doing any of that as the designated hitter. Ortiz averaged 36 homers and 106 RBI the previous two years and the Sox finished dead last. Why would this season be different?
Sure, they added David Price, but they still had that overpaid garbage man Rick Porcello. They got rid of Pablo Sandoval (at least physically) but Hanley Ramirez, that apathetic slug, was still there. So was Dustin Pedroia — over the hill at 32. So was Jackie Bradley Jr. — oh, cool, they made a center field version of Jose Iglesias. And who was the catcher? Sandy Leon? Ha! Forget the playoffs, the Sox were more likely to spend September letting Yoan Moncada get his feet wet and trotting out Andrew Benintendi every night in left.
But for all the side stories and how anything else played out, this season was always about David Ortiz. He’d earned it. From the start, this farewell tour existed in the present with a spotlight on the past. That’s hard to pull off in an era when all we care about is what happens next, but with Ortiz it wasn’t supposed to matter. That was the point. Nothing mattered. He had nothing left to prove.
Old Man Ortiz just wanted to make his rounds, keep smiling and pick up a few parting gifts along the way.
And that he did.
He received an MVP-caliber season from Mookie Betts. He received a Cy Young-worthy campaign from Rick Porcello. He received a healthy Dustin Pedroia, an inspired Hanley Ramirez and a first-class major league closer.
Ortiz was gifted the support to transform the season that was supposed to celebrate his legacy into one that might help define it. He took that gift and whittled away for six months on a supernatural plane. Then Wednesday night in New York, he presented Boston sports fans with a gift of their own. The greatest gift Ortiz can give.
Himself.
Goggles on his head.
Champagne streaming down his face.
Staring down the potential for one more memory that brings a smile to your face for a lifetime.
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