We'll miss Number 5
By Steve Marsi
It has been a tumultuous week in Boston. When I received the news Saturday that the Red Sox had parted ways with Nomar Garciaparra, I was nearly in tears. I was also at a friend’s wedding and very inebriated, but Nomar’s trade to the Chicago Cubs was (and is) tough to stomach. The emotion and speculation lingering in the aftermath of the shortstop’s departure has made it difficult to reflect upon. Nothing about the situation is easily explained, and no one party is responsible for its breakdown.
Should Nomar have agreed to the team’s initial contract extension offer in the spring of 2003, and swallowed a little pride in an effort to put the Alex Rodriguez drama from last winter behind him? Probably. Should the team have been more open with Garciaparra regarding its pursuit of A-Rod? Yes. Should the team’s management and the Boston media at least refrain from ripping him on his way out the door? Definitely. Regardless of whether the deal makes sense from a baseball standpoint, it’s sad that he had to go. I never imagined this day coming, and would have given anything to see Nomar, a local fixture since 1996, retire a one-team guy. The team’s most iconic player in a generation – a star who achieved the one-name status granted Ted and Yaz – should be immortalized alongside the greats on Fenway’s row of retired numbers. He was the face of baseball in Boston. It’s just not right.
Regardless of what stories you believe, who you think is to blame for his exit, and whether you are happy about it, Garciaparra is a player whose contributions to the franchise for seven and a half years were legendary. I will always have the memories of the All-Star who played such a huge part in my becoming a Red Sox fan, and not even the harsh realities of modern professional sports can take them away.
I remember watching Boston’s playoff appearances in 1998 and 1999, and wondering how this wiry, seemingly unimposing kid from California could not only carry an entire team on his shoulders, but build himself into the toughest out in baseball.
I’ll remember his fearless approach to the game – swinging at the first pitch more often than not, trying to make plays in the field that probably weren’t possible, always running out routine grounders and pop-ups. As if he is programmed to play the game only one way – hard.
I’ll remember the slow, emphatic way his five-syllable name was annunciated over the Fenway PA system, and the roar from the crowd that always followed. And who can forget the toe-tapping, glove-tugging, helmet-adjusting nonsense that preceded his every plate appearance? A delightfully bizarre ritual, one that many scheduled their trips to the concession stand around.
I’ll remember Garciaparra’s devotion to charitable work, how appreciative he was of fan support, and how little he liked to discuss his personal achievements. The kind of humility rarely seen from a superstar.
I’ll remember that Nomar was the one member of the Red Sox who even my best friend, a devout Yankees fan, respected and rooted for.
I remember how that same friend took me to Fenway on May 21, 2003, with Roger Clemens on the mound for Yankees seeking career win 299. In the bottom of the first, Garciaparra took Clemens out of the park with a blast that appeared to still be on an upward trajectory as it sailed over the wall and toward Landsdowne Street. The fans’ crazed reaction to the home run, and the “Ro-ger!” chants that followed, provided perhaps the most electric moment in all my trips to Fenway.
I remember Game 6 of last year’s American League Championship Series, with the Sox trailing 6-4 in the top of the seventh. Nomar, who had been mired in a slump, tripled to the deepest part of Yankee Stadium and scored on a throwing error, starting the rally that led to Boston’s 9-6 victory. It was one of Boston’s greatest wins in recent memory, but was all but forgotten after the team’s epic collapse the following night in Game 7.
I remember being in the stands this June during his second game back from the mysterious Achilles injury. After an intentional walk to Manny Ramirez and a standing ovation announcing his entry, Garciaparra laced a bases-clearing double off the Green Monster for his first big hit of 2004.
I remember the recurring Saturday Night Live sketch featuring Jimmy Fallon as an obnoxious Boston-area teen, who declares his native Massachusetts “the home of Paul Revere, John Hancock… and Nomahhhhhhhhh!!”
I remember a few weeks ago at the beach, playing wiffleball with a seven-year old in a Garciaparra t-shirt, and how the boy’s face lit up when his uncle referred to him not as Patrick, but by the name on his back of his shirt. When it was my turn to pitch, the little guy performed his interpretation of Garciaparra’s practice swing routine before stepping up to the plate. It made me want to get out my identical Nomar shirt and do the same.
We’ll miss him.
