Lovefest + Letter

I love Tom Glavine. I know this comes as no surprise to anyone, but that Atlanta uniform, #47, it makes me like baseball again. Not that I stopped liking it, exactly, but it had lost its magic.

 

Which brings me to my next point.

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Dear NSG, 

I think the only thing I can’t forgive you for is taking the magic away. I will always remember stepping onto Enron Field (with you) that cold, cloudy February day, and it was perfect. Everything in my life had been leading up to that point, and it was just as it should be. It was right. I was scared to death about moving to Houston alone, but this made it all worth it – no matter what had happened before or what would happen after. It was enough just to see that field, and all that possibility. It had always been like that for me: seeing a baseball field just made me happy. It was magic.  

It stayed like that all year with the Astros, through the end of the season when Tom Glavine told B.J. Surhoff to “go get ’em, Beej” in the interview room after Game 2 of the NLDS (and you sent me down there to hear it, even though you spent the entire game giving me crap); through the next season when my personal life took a somewhat unexpected and rather jarring turn; through the start of the season after that. And then you ruined it. 

The night before you left, we all knew something was up, but we thought, hey, it happens, he’ll get over it. And I thought, driving to work the next day, “I wonder if he was writing a resignation letter,” but no, you wouldn’t do that, not like that. But oh yes, you would, and you did, and it was worse, because you disappeared, without a word. That night was one of the worst nights of my life. I was sitting there in the press box, watching BP, and I felt nothing. And then watching the game – nothing.

That’s what I can’t forgive you for.  You didn’t feel like you needed to say anything to me, because “it wasn’t about you,” and I could forgive you for that (even if you didn’t really mean it when you said sorry). I forgave a lot, and I think everyone else did, too, because you were such a great guy and we all loved you, and you got dumped on, and we all felt bad for you. (I sometimes wonder if you and K talk, or, if you don’t, does she think about you, too?) And it all seems to have worked out for you.  

But here we are now, and you've thrown our friendship away. Seven years, all total, some better than others, gone. I don’t know why, though I could guess. Even that I could forgive you for, not that you’ve asked, I guess because you either don’t want to or don’t feel you need to, and that’s fine. 

But I still can’t forgive you for taking away the baseball magic. 

Molly