The Boston Red Sox are no more. The third game was the only one I saw. Games one and two occurred while I was writing about high school football games. Monday night was excruciating, as games tend to be when one’s favorite team is eliminated. On Tuesday, I watched the remaining baseball. The Dodgers and Nationals are playing the only Game 5 Thursday night.
I got up this morning and said to myself, “Self, I might as well write.” I deposited some money in the bank then went with most of it to the post office Tuesday. I bought some groceries with the remainder of new-found wealth.
The schedule was clear, and now I’m proud of myself. It was barely afternoon Wednesday, and Chapter 15 of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was on a virtual page elsewhere in the quicksilver of this laptop. It’s called “The New Deal” and is one of the crucial spins of this yarn, which is, in rough form, about 35,000 words now.
I’m so proud that it might be admissible to read a while. Or play guitar. Or watch an old movie if a good one’s on.
But, first, a blog. I reckon I still feel like writing, even if it’s nothing.
Baseball is always good if you love it, and that sounds exactly like something I’ve heard watching games, because anything is good if you love it. Harold Reynolds is apparently rubbing off on me, and that’s a bad sign for a man attempting to write well.
Even as I watched the Dodgers combust upon the Nationals and the Cubs feast on the Giants’ bullpen, I can’t help but ponder the Red Sox, because this was one of my favorite of Boston teams. Their memory will blur, though, because this team won merely the American League East, not “it all.” The teams of 2004, 2007, and 2013 remain indelible.
With a little luck, many more memories will be in store from Mookie Betts, Xander Bogaerts, Jackie Bradley Jr., and Andrew Benintendi. I’ll miss David Ortiz, but I’m glad he’s retiring because he went out as no one ever has. I’ve got plenty of memories of Big Papi.
Handing out candy to kids on the road while waiting to bat in the fourth inning, then walking up to the plate and belting a homer. Kneeling in tribute to the fans before his last regular-season game at Fenway Park. Being restrained by John Farrell after being called out on a pitch he thought was errant. Big smiles. Bear hugs. Leading the league in doubles, which meant, if he wasn’t slow and forty, he would have been leading the league in triples.
Still, the farewell is fond. I feel great that he’s retiring. It was a two-hearted team this year. Next year they’ll still have Dustin Pedroia.
Baseball minutiae filled my mind, and I thought of names long forgotten by most but remembered by those of us who grew up reading box scores. Frank Quilici. Tony Horton. Diego Segui. Angel Mangual. Ron Herbel.
I’m a whiz at so many things that don’t make money.
I’ve written four novels and a collection of short stories. I’ve also written a number of books about sports, mostly about NASCAR. You can find most of them here.
The Kindle versions of my books, where available, can be found above. Links below are to print editions.
I’ve written a crime novel about the corrosive effects of patronage and the rise and fall of a powerful politician and his dysfunctional family, Forgive Us Our Trespasses.
I’ve written about what happens to a football coach when he loses everything, Crazy of Natural Causes.
I’ve written a tale of the Sixties in the South, centered on school integration and a high school football team, The Intangibles.
I’ve written a rollicking yarn about the feds trying to track down and manipulate a national hero who just happens to be a pot-smoking songwriter, The Audacity of Dope.
I’ve written a collection of 11 short stories, all derived from songs I wrote, Longer Songs.
Most of my sports columns are at montedutton.com.
Follow me on Twitter @montedutton, @hmdutton (about writing), and/or @wastedpilgrim (more opinionated and irreverent). I’m on Facebook (Monte.Dutton), Instagram (TUG50), and Google-Plus (MonteDuttonWriter).