Curiosity can masquerade as a sneaky byproduct of procrastination. Inertia can then be intellectually rationalized.

I have not written about the baseball season of two years ago nearly as much as I wish I had. Sometimes I think that’s holding me back from being truly present and productive. A life long deep-seated need to document all good experiences and capture them forever has met its match.

2016 is the greatest year in which I have ever been close to baseball.

That was a difficult sentence to phrase, because the feelings and experiences I desperately need to package and file away are about the year. The whole thing. And like a young hitter’s progress, they’re not necessarily linear.

For starters, I am not “in” baseball. I have been “around” baseball, and therefore “close to” baseball a great deal. I have spent time in the dugouts and press boxes of Fenway, Wrigley, Comiskey 2, Dodger, and several more.

I have seen games in all of those, plus old Yankee, old Shea, Baltimore’s old Memorial Stadium, Milwaukee’s old County Stadium, The Vet in Philly, and others….19 in all. I recently wrote about ballpark collecting.

Funny. Here I am, trying to write about 2016 in so completist and perfect a fashion that I have started with the history of my baseball everything. Such is the power of that season.

The history of my baseball everything begins with Dad. And he was part of 2016. It continued with brother Bob. And he was part of 2016. It is felt deeply in my son, and he was there. It is revitalized by my fiery Latina, and she was there.

The history of my baseball everything was dominated by a love of the Red Sox for my first 21 years, then control was wrestled slowly, achingly away via new long-lasting proximity to the intense character and history of the Chicago Cubs and White Sox. For 26 years I have worked here, lived with these teams, covered them, and felt the fans’ roller coaster with as much sports empathy as I could muster.

The Red Sox finally broke their curse 12 years into my Chicago immersion, and I felt an odd, wistful distance from that title in 2004. 7 years later, the Red Sox’ mastermind came to me.

Theo Epstein brought hope and credibility to Wrigley, and an inconceivable 5 years culminated with a title in 2016.

My baseball everything had found me and smacked me in the present, bringing levels of satisfaction, understanding, and access that will never be topped. I was on the field after the Cubs beat the Dodgers to go their first World Series since 1945. I went to 4 games of that Fall Classic as media, and 3 as a fan. I have stories of postgame interactions I can never tell.

It’s not going to get better. I have to admit that.

This, I think, is my fear of the writing; that the writing will be letting it go.

But I have to trust that by writing it, I am doing the opposite of letting it go. I am strengthening the experience. I am setting myself up for the kind of legible refresher I’ll need for however long I live. And this is me sharing stories that my son will need in order to truly know his dad. These are stories maybe you will someday need. They might be stories we need right now.

You’ve been there with me, as I’ve tried to write the truth.

I took you to Mesa, as the future started to take shape.
I took you to the playoffs, when they vanquished the cardinals in 2015.
I took you to “the big bed” in my home during the Giants series in 2016, when my son so obviously cemented himself as a Cubs fan that all I could do was lean back and grin.
I took you to Game 7.

So, where else have we not gone?

*******

I was there, 5 years ago last night, high above the “new” Boston Garden rink.  The very top level of the place is one single row of adjustable office chairs behind a small continuous table, circling all the way around.  You’re way above the action, and good views are not guaranteed. I’d made a loop a few times throughout the game, talking with random media, watching from different angles, not knowing an all-time sports moment was imminent.

We had a lot going on that week.  The Mac and Spiegs show was broadcasting from a bar right there in the West End.  That morning, Doc Emrick had offered to grab me a Dunkin coffee as he waited to do a live interview with us.  He got the order right, of course, and shuffleboarded the beverage right to me.

Sometime that week, the jamokes who hosted our brother/rival radio show on WEEI had sent us an erotic cake to “welcome” us to town.  All class, that Mutt and Merloni. No wonder that station went in the shitter.

I was back in old college stomping grounds, and had made time for a predictably spiritual visit to the Boston Public Garden, one of my most beloved spots on Earth.

Oh, and the Chicago Blackhawks were in a serious fight with the Boston Bruins to try and win a 2nd Stanley Cup in 3 seasons.  You remember they won, and how.  But do you remember:

• How Andrew Shaw screamed “I Love Shin Pads” after his triple OT deflection game 1 winner?
• What a dirty, mean, admirable bastard Milan Lucic was all series?
• The unrivaled maddening tension when three of the first four games went to Overtime?
• How much Tuukka Rask really did look like a young Erin Moran in the role of Joanie Cunningham on Happy Days?
• How Patrice Bergeron showed us he absolutely deserved to be mentioned along with Jonathan Toews as a great two way center?
• How Corey Crawford allowed FIVE, count them, FIVE goals to the glove side in game 4?  And how Pat Foley admitted on our show that the whole league had known it was a weakness?
• How ridiculously tall, scary, and solid Zeno “Lurch” Chara was?  No one could topple Big Bird in yellow.
• How Joel Quenneville finally, after I and so many others had been pleading for weeks, Put Patrick Kane and Toews together with Bryan Bickell on the top line?  And how immediately it worked, with 2 Kane goals in game 5?

Maybe you remember all of that.  I sure do.  It was a hell of a series, well before what happened in the final 1:16 of Game Six.

There are amazing stories from fans as to where they were for those 2 Blackhawks goals.  Hell, they made a whole movie about those 17 Seconds, full of great inside stuff.

For me, what will linger forever is the sound and energy at the top of that building.

The Boston crowd had been explosive all night, and was frantically on its feet trying to carry their team to a deciding game 7.  The juju would have belonged to the Bruins, with insane pressure on the Hawks.  The loudness and intensity ratcheted up higher when Crawford was pulled for an extra attacker.  Then, immediately, Kane leads a charge into the corner, and Toews gets it to an open Bickell to tie the game.

The volume shifts from frenzied Bruins fans, to the thrilled smaller Hawks contingent.  There’s still a buzz, but it’s an odd one. And as the surprise wears off, it gets quieter.

17 seconds later, it’s Dave Bolland, on a rebound.  That small Hawks contingent is losing their minds.  But the dominant vibe in the building is shock.  Shocked silence, in the faces of the fans.  Media who had seemed so jaded hours before (“Lobster, again?!?” I’d overheard near the pre-game dinner spread) now sat with mouths agape.

Watch the whole sequence again, because what better way could you possibly spend 2:05 of your time?

I thought Sports Illustrated used the picture of the year on their cover days later.  See the puck?

Let me tell you, the collective shock lasted for a long, long time.  I don’t remember moving much.  I remember seeing lots of fans stuck to their chairs, begrudgingly watching the Hawks celebrate.

I captured the rafters view of The Captain delivering another cup to his mates.

And then somehow, we were downstairs, and on the ice. Again.

I had been there in Philly in 2011, and I’d felt awkward, out of place.  I’d always liked hockey, and had grown slowly more knowledgeable as we covered that run.  But that was Mac’s dream, Mac’s moment…to be there with the franchise he’d loved forever.  I was mentally lost somewhere between acting professional, pretending I belonged, and trying to support him.

But now in 2013 with my name on the radio show officially, comfort with hockey conversation raised, and my place among the media more secure, I enjoyed the hell out of that special access.  Barry Rozner and I compared Cup runs, and made fun of a few fools.  I congratulated Rocky Wirtz, John McDonough, and Jay Blunk.  I took pictures for posterity both personal and professional.  The player I’d grown to enjoy the most, despite and maybe because of his tenuous hold on self control, was bloodied but beaming.  I snapped a selfie.

And I looked around for a keepsake.

The benches were full of people. The penalty box was locked.  But in the distance, one of the goals stood off to the side along the boards.  I made my way there.  On top of the net was a water bottle, and 2 long weird plastic tube-looking things that I could not identify.  They seemed interesting, and were bright Bruin yellow.  Each one fit into a deep pants pocket.

Yes, it’s stealing.  No, I don’t feel bad; I never did.  It was the last game of the year, pro sports teams and leagues make plenty of money, and I was gaining both a memento and what I figured would be great show content.  It was a rationalization that made sense to me then, and still does now.  Judge me as you wish.

As we broadcast the show the next day, the yellow tubes sat on the table.  A listener snapped this.

With Google power, we learned they were Marsh Pegs.

The goal no longer gets knocked “off of its moorings.”  Fred Marsh changed the game for the better, made it safer, and made a few bucks from almost every hockey arena in the world along the way.

“After looking at what was available and not being satisfied with anything on the market at the time, Fred began working on a better system.  Thus he developed the Marsh Flexible Goal Peg, a deceptively simple but amazingly effective system.  The design and material of the Marsh Pegs give them a flexibility that allows the net to move when jostled but remain on the pegs during regular play.  The pegs will bend when the net is bumped, then return to their original position.  Upon strong impact, such as a player crashing into the net, the net will pop off the pegs and prevent injury to the player.  The nets can be replaced in seconds.”

A week or so later, we did a delightful phoner with Fred Marsh, and he didn’t judge me for stealing 2 of his yellow ones from Boston.  Or at least he didn’t say so.

We came home, with the Pegs now explained and excitedly in the studio for the first shows back in Chicago.  The parade was tomorrow, and I had the day scheduled off.  So I left it in the show’s hands, for sub host Ben Finfer and Mac to have in front of them at the parade.  What a conversation piece for the live audience.

But tech issues forced them back in studio, and when I returned the next day, my Marsh Peg was gone.

What I’d stolen had been stolen!  Oh, the injustice or cruel irony or deserved “hot crime on crime action,” depending on your perspective!  Oh, the genuine anger I felt as I thought Finfer actually pilfered the thing and wouldn’t tell me!  Oh, the misery that crept in as I imagined a clueless cleaning crew throwing it in the trash!  Oh, the Ebay hunt I went on, as I wondered whether Les Grobstein would try and sell it along with some old media guides!

Oh, the ancient Score mystery that went unsolved.  Until now.

More on that in a later post, promise.  I’ll tell my own story here.  That story has a placebo Marsh Peg that became more meaningful than the original could have been.  That story has a perpetrator, whose life has evolved since then. And that story has a happy ending.

Maybe there’s even a moral.

In those magical 17 seconds, 5 years ago last night, are layers of meaning.  There’s a hockey team and storied franchise performing at its very best. There’s my absurd personal good fortune to be in the building and on the ice afterwards.  And there is our often misplaced value of memory versus memento.

The feelings of that crazy finish on June 24th, 2013 were the thing.  And if you can hold onto those, not much else matters.

1-10-16, On an airplane.

You make time for a solo visit to your sacred ground.
The Boston Public Garden is spiritually comforting to me. It always has been. But this time I realized why.
I think of the 10 or 15 long late nights with the best of college age friends spent there; tripping, exploring, and communing with nature as urban Thoreau’s. One night, as we circled the duck pond as closely as possible, we saw something in the water. It was a school of what seemed like thousands of tiny fish, traveling together slowly, unified in motion. We guessed they were babies, spawned en masse within hours of our arrival, and learning to make their way in the world as we stood above them.
True or not, that explanation held. Probably because we were doing the same.
This past August I did the kind of self-analysis I had not been ready for in previous years. Hard core exploration of why I was unhappy, how those feelings were manifesting in damaging behaviors, and what could be done about it. I learned so much, at age 45. It’s always possible to better one’s self. Always.
What I divined deeply were my values. Inner Peace, Connection, Passion, Curiosity, Fun, Aesthetic Beauty; these are the bedrocks for a healthy Matthew.
I later added a physical one I feel deeply now, but wish I had decades earlier: Maintaining a Healthy Vessel. My body deserves love, attention, and respect, so it can help facilitate a long stay on the terrestrial plane. My son deserves my most rapt attention to this value.
So here’s what I realized. The reason those nights felt magical then, and seem to grow more resonant every year, is that those nights were spent chasing those same values. I didn’t realize it, mostly. I just knew I was on to something, and that an intellectual and/or emotional moment of perfect understanding felt achievable. I hunted those moments, and still do…when a lifetime of learning coalesces into what feels like grand clarity. Only an optimist believes those moments are right around the corner, as I do every day.
Those nights, we merry men were connecting so deeply. We were passionately following our curiosity around the city. We had uproarious fun. The Garden, along with the Esplanade along the Charles river, provided so much natural beauty. The early American architecture brought so much aesthetic pleasure, especially when juxtaposed with modern life.
And I did feel some peace then. The peace of friendly love, the peace of knowing I was in the right place. I was with my people.
I feel more peace now. I have defined how I attain it.
I am at peace when I am self aware, accepting what my issues are, and trying to lessen their damage. That’s it. That’s doable. I will not lie to myself any more. I accept who I am, admire my goodness, and gently acknowledge my weakness.
So there I was, for an hour alone in the Boston Public Garden. A monk approached me, slipped a green beaded bracelet on to my wrist, asked me to sign his contribution book, and said “Peace to you.” I happily gave him ten dollars.
I was mindful. Quiet. Thoughtful. And so grateful. I am alive at 45, vibrantly active in pursuits I love, financially solid thanks to those pursuits, and the father of a beautiful boy. Yes, I aspire to more wealth, achievement, knowledge, insight, and pleasure. But right now, right here, I am a happy man.
Whatever forces brought me here were with me in the Garden. And they know of my thanks.
Sacred ground.