Why the Red Sox Can't Trade Jon Lester

I did say that from time to time, I'd post about topics that weren't related to film.
I'm having a hard time with my latest review (Hannah and Her Sisters), so I decided to read some other things I've written to unlock my creativity. As many of you know, my father was diagnosed with throat cancer in April. My mother and brother started a blog of their own, but then my mother resorted to monthly emails to keep everyone in the loop about my father's health. I added my own thoughts to her early-November update, and several people had nice things to say. I tried to expand that email to a length appropriate for a Newsweek essay, but apparently my employer has beaten an ability to be wordy out of me! Concise really is better.
Nevertheless, here's the longer version of that November email. Now, back to movie thinking ...

Many commentators said the Boston Red Sox’ 2007 World Series title doesn't mean as much as the curse-breaking 2004 one. But for me, this year’s win was personal.

On April 10, my father was diagnosed with Stage IV laryngeal cancer, and baseball’s regular season was a week old. That spring, I repeatedly told my friends I hoped the Red Sox would do well this year, so my baseball-loving father - OK, family - would have something to enjoy. My father worried for my safety when I went to a Boston-New York matchup at Yankee Stadium at the end of that month, but of course he wanted to hear every detail about the fights … and, oh, the game itself, which the Red Sox won 11-4. Three days later, he giddily listened to the hoopla surrounding a David Ortiz book signing in New York; in fact, it was the most excited I’d heard him since his diagnosis. A week later, he called to squawk about Roger Clemens’ high-priced return to the Evil Empire, and we argued over whether the Red Sox really even needed him.

The Red Sox and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, where my father received his treatment, have had a partnership dating back to the 1950s, a history detailed in a photo gallery in Dana-Farber‘s basement. Even as the seven weeks of radiation - which included three weeks of twice-a-day treatment - progressively weakened my father, he still made sure to encourage people to see the display. After all, my parents had to find something to like about being at Dana-Farber! We spent Father’s Day there, my father with an IV through his arm to receive hydration. He sent me to learn Red Sox history.

During my visits to Boston in July and August, my father was at his sickest. The radiation had fried the vocal cords of this garrulous bear, leaving him able to communicate only via paper and hand gestures. Still, he managed to muster up some strength to watch at least parts of the Red Sox games. At this point, after its blistering run during the first two months of the season, the team was playing .500 ball, so sometimes he may have been better off sleeping. In August, despite his best efforts, my father was unable to attend the Futures at Fenway minor-league doubleheader or a card giveaway for the Pawtucket Red Sox, Boston’s AAA affiliate. Both are usually the high points of his summer, and he was so sad I wondered if baseball no longer would serve as a refuge from the cancer and its aftermath.

Then my father started to talk more and to read again, so we chatted about articles in the sports section of the Boston Herald, ruminating on Manny Ramirez's latest hairdos and happenings. A month later, my father had his first nighttime outing, a Toronto-Boston game at Fenway Park. We stayed until the seventh-inning stretch, as a trip my mother and I anticipated would last an hour somehow became three. (The Red Sox were winning at the time but ultimately lost. My father chooses to believe the game ended with Boston winning 4-3, just as he saw it.) By the playoffs, my father was watching at least parts of all the games, and we were dissecting them during and after.

Perhaps the most important thing in the Red Sox season was the return of cancer survivor Jon Lester in late July - and, more importantly, the game he pitched in mid-September against the Orioles that prompted manager Terry Francona to say, "So, this is the stuff I've been hearing about." To me, THAT was the game in which Lester was back - not just as a cancer survivor, but as a top-notch pitcher. It was 13 months after his lymphoma diagnosis.

My father has made so much progress this fall, returning to work on a part-time basis and even driving a little. Still, as swallowing and eating remain a struggle, he expresses frustration that he can't do more. I told him that if a 23-year-old baseball player like Lester needed more than a year to be himself again, my 59-year-old non-athletic father was going to have be more patient. "Patience? You're talking to me about patience?," my father scoffed. On Oct. 28, Lester won Game 4 of the World Series, and the Red Sox celebrated their second title in four years. The next night, I heard my father chatting with my mother, comparing himself and his recovery to that of our pitcher. “If it takes Jon Lester time to recover and then he can win the World Series, then I can be more patient,” he said. Maybe a World Series title was what my father needed to understand?

At the “rolling rally” victory parade the next day, I celebrated and cheered as I saw Manny, Papi, Mikey Lowell, and many others, but only when Lester rode by did I scream "Thank you!" Lester didn't just win a game - he gave my father hope and a point of reference. That is the ultimate trophy.