one last plea

Dear Tito,

I’m not sure you realize what is at stake here.

Personally, I don’t care about winning the World Series again this year. I don’t care about capturing the division. I just want us to make the playoffs. I want to make it to October. I want you boys to play like you give a shit – because my Nana needs you to.

Tito, an oxygen machine pumps highly concentrated O2 into her lungs 24 hours a day. The machine is programmed as high as it will go. She rarely has the energy to get out of her bathrobe anymore. She no longer cooks. She has less than 5 percent healthy lung tissue – they are scarred from years of exposure to asbestos and cigarette smoke. Her doctors have no explanation for why she is still alive. She was not supposed to make it to my sister’s wedding last May.

But she is here. And I suspect the reason is the Boston Red Sox. She watches every game – even the replays from the day before. She fights every minute of every day to breathe. And she smiles doing it.

My Nana loves Big Papi – potential drug user and all. She is a fighter and could teach all you boys something about playing with heart. She could tell you a thing or two about hard work –she cooked clams in restaurants, pulled ribbon candy in local factories, and stuffed inserts into newspapers in the press room at The Patriot Ledger almost her entire life.

Now Tito, I don’t care how bad you boys have looked the past month. I don’t care what the odds say. I don’t care what doomsday the scribes back in Boston are predicting. Neither does Nana – and neither should you. So no more excuses. Please do your jobs and give my Nana a reason to keep her faith.



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