Jayme's Mind, Making All Local Stops

DRIZZLE

I was greeted by a light rain and a steady wind upon leaving work one day last week. I kept my umbrella in my backpack upon deciding the wind was too stiff and the mist was refreshing to walk through after a long day indoors. Halfway to South Station, a gentleman walked towards me struggling with his umbrella. He had a raincoat on, no briefcase or newspaper to protect, only his (likely involuntary) desire to not get wet. Ten feet away from me, a Harbor breeze rushed up behind him, and turned his umbrella inside out. The distance between us was just enough for me to soak in his priceless look of shear defeat, stirred with a dash of lamentation for the five dollars he'd invested in avoiding this very situation.

Two men, equally as wet. Yet, their moods are polar opposites, as are the potential effects on the moods of the next 10 people they meet, based on a single decision. One man decided to bask in his surroundings while the other attempted to deny them.

FIFTEEN FOR TWO

I decided a long time ago that I would spend at least a few days of my "Golden Years" playing chess in a park. Even as a child, I remember being struck by the thought that two people could know nothing about each other save for their mutual respect for a board game-- and that that's enough for them to spend time together.

Last week, my intentions carried me onto the third car to the back of the 4:58 Express. I intended to put a sizable dent in a book I'm reading for work. But I was distracted by the pleasure sight of four men playing cribbage at the table next to mine. I envied their child-like (not childish) comradeship, their playful jabbing, the shear fact that they were holding playing cards and I was not. Plus, the silent, brewing stares of every other passenger with which I had nothing in common seemed to push me closer to the table. I said hello.

It turns out the loudest player, Randy, started the cribbage game 18 months ago, seemingly as an alternative to thinking about the 30 years he's spent converting spreadsheets to pdfs for a bank he doesn't respect. He'd rather talk about it and, since it's not overly negative, I'm honored to listen. The latest of Randy's rosters includes Dougie, Ray, and-- for the past 6 business days-- myself.
Now each weekday, on the third car to the back of the 4:58, I play out a fantasy of my Golden Years. And most of my life is still presumably ahead of me. It's a very satisfying thought.

COFFEE

When I graduated from Syracuse, I shipped off almost immediately to Las Cruces. A friend of mine soon headed out to Klamath Falls, Oregon. Over the next year or so, we both became wiser, more self-sufficient and, I think, much closer together. We didn't talk as often as I'd like, but each conversation refilled my confidence (and hers, I hope) as well as strengthened another connection I had with Home.
Two and a half years and 3,000 miles later, we work 3 buildings away from each other. She had a bad day Wednesday and called me at 3:30 for a Starbucks trip to break it up.

The words "this too shall pass" are so much better said face-to-face over a lunch wrap and a warm frappa- whatever the heck she ordered than said over the phone in the glow of a muted tv and a dinner for one.

BEING MANNY

When a reporter asked Manny what would happen if the Sox lose the ALCS, Manny replied: "If it doesn't happen, so who cares? There's always next year. It's not like it's the end of the world."

Cue: Red Sox Nation erupting with anger. For 24 straight hours after Manny's quote hit the web, strangers were grabbing each other on the streets screaming: "Manny doesn't care! Manny doesn't care!"

I felt like (and may well be) the only soul in Beantown defending him. I actually liked that Manny said that for two reasons. 1) I knew he'd be relaxed during Game 5 (in which he went 2-for-4 with an RBI) and 2) Manny proved to me once again that he's a true professional who understands that all you can do is your best. Sometimes it'll pan, other times not. We fans want players to think like us, never admitting that those who do can't win. If we want to feel closer with our players, maybe we should think more like them-- take in the moments, appreciate the fact that we're enjoying October baseball, revel in the drama, accept that defeat can make us feel just as alive as victory.

Consider the last time the Sox came back from 3-1 down in an ALCS. 1986. Don Baylor and Dave Henderson both hit 2-run homers off the Angels' Donnie Moore. Donnie Moore "cared." For Donnie Moore, it was "the end of the world." Donnie Moore killed himself three years after that game. Baring this in mind, I'm glad Manny's got a level head. I hope the rest of our team has put the next two games in a similar perspective. And it couldn't hurt if we all did the same.