I don't really know what to say about what
happened on Sept. 11. I still can't even begin to allow myself to comprehend the magnitude of everything that happened; the magnitude of everything that was taken away from us. So rather than try to confine my outrage to words on a page; rather than try to eulogize a lost friend (I'm better being cynical; when I get sentimental it always comes out drivel), I'll take the easy way out. Forgive me if my heart's not in it. Here's a column I wrote a few days before the attacks.
There are certain things that make this country great. Some people might even call it the greatest country in the world. I'm not really one to judge, since I've never spent any time outside of America (except for occasional jaunts to Montreal, and boy do they put America to shame). All in all, I guess America really is a pretty good place. I mean, we've got apple pie, a huge infrastructure, and a democratic political system where every person gets to vote, and every vote counts (insert your own example of bitingly sardonic wit here). But, hands down, the best part about America is our national pastime: baseball. And I'm not talking about professional baseball, where big money and bigger egos obscure the true poetry of the game. I'm talking about Little League baseball, where hope springs eternal and doe-faced boys and girls run around, joyfully, in the fresh American air, under the brightly shining American sun and dream big American dreams.
Needless to say, like a lot of people across this great land, I was a little upset by the controversy surrounding the Little League World Series this summer. The fact that adults would falsify documents and lie about a child's age just to win a few ballgames and get some face-time on national television appalled millions of Americans. But Danny Almonte, the (not so) young pitcher (kind of) from the Bronx at the center of all the hullabaloo, did more than just enrage me. He made me sick. Literally.
You see, my friends and I, being the creative geniuses that we are, decided not to merely watch the Little League World Series, but to turn it into a kind of spectator sport. During the Eastern Finals, we invented the Danny Almonte Drinking Game (Alas, it seems appropriate that I mention here that I spent my summer at home in suburban New Jersey, and it also seems equally appropriate that I remind you that suburban New Jersey, despite what you might have heard otherwise, is not the bacchanalian wonderland you might imagine it to be). The rules to the game were simple: drink a beer every time Almonte strikes someone out (I told you: we are creative geniuses). Anyway, six innings and sixteen strikeouts later, the rosebushes in my friend's backyard had a nice new layer of fertilizer, consisting mostly of briefly-ingested beer and whatever it was we ate for breakfast (sure, in retrospect it doesn't seem like a great idea, but again, I'm talking about a summer in Jersey here, so it was either that or hanging out in mall parking lots, blasting Springsteen on the boombox while wearing muscle-tees and primping our big hair and polishing our I-Rocs and Camaros).
While my friends and I booted and the Bronx Baby Bombers rallied, we felt an intangible connection with the team of innocent young warriors. We felt as though what we were doing was important, even crucial, to the team's success. Danny's left arm got a little stronger, his fastball a little livelier, with every can of golden brew we consumed. As we pounded beer after countless cheap beer, oftentimes at an alarmingly unhealthy pace (the kid didn't waste a whole lot of pitches), we felt as though we were a part of something grander than our own humble existences. We, too, were heroes! We were America! Surely there would be a place for us in the numerous victory parades that would follow. We would be given keys to the city, every city; we would drape the American flag over our collective shoulders and smile and wave and wink at the cameras and say endearingly self-deprecating things like, "Oh, it was nothing. Sure, we drank a lot of beer, but those kids out on the diamond deserve a lot of the credit, too." People would let us into their hearts, their homes, their imaginations. We would be idolized, lionized, canonized. Most importantly, we would make millions off the subsequent board-game version of the Danny Almonte Drinking Game.
Then the truth reared its ugly little head and the Baby Bombers' success was forever tarnished with the dark stain of controversy. When the news broke about Danny Almonte's real age, we quickly came to the harsh realization that his team's success had nothing to do with our binge drinking and everything to do with the fact that he was playing on a field he'd outgrown years ago.
But hey, that's life, right? And can you really blame the kid? I mean, it's not his fault; all he wanted to do was play ball all day long and never have to go to school. Some days, I still feel the same way, and I'm much older and more jaded. Ten years older, in fact. Well, eight, at least. I think.
