The Bambina Steps to the Plate

Well, my little bambina Laura Agatha Carpenter is a Red Sox fan after all. This comes as no surprise, but with relief all the same.

You just never know how these things are going to work out. In utero, you go in for ultrasounds and you’re just peering into the murmuring woosh to see which chromosome has won out.

You might get the occasional hand or arm as a bonus, but no indication as to which banner they will wave.

Nor did I get any clues at birth. There was no cap on that full head of hair, no numbered Varitek jersey like the one her mother owns. Just the birthday suit and a whimpering cub-like cry.
Cubs? Cubs! Certainly she wouldn’t grow up to root for that cursed franchise. I dwelled upon this from time to time for the first six months of her existence.

Then, the other day, I woke up and found my girl decked out as you see here.
Whew.

Immediately we began talking Red Sox hot stove in between episodes of Elmo’s World.

I confess I’m starting to think they’re one in the same. Because I don’t get it: How is that Red Sox ownership, pockets deep to begin with and selling out Fenway Park night in, night out since long before my little bambina was a gleaming, get so penny-ante over eight-figure contracts?

It’s how we failed to land Mark Teixeira, who proved to be the linchpin of New York’s 2009 success by catching every ball throw in his vicinity at first base, smacking three out of every 10 pitches thrown over the plate (ignoring all the rest) and, in both capacities, making everyone around him better.

“Sure, the Yankees bought the 2009 World Championship, but that’s the name of the uncapped game, and we got chintzy over relative nickels while the Yanks played for keeps in their new stadium. You get what you pay for, whether it’s a Bumbo seat or a banner,” I babbled to my bambina.

She gave me a “where is this going?” look.

“Jason Bay, of course. The Mets are paying all of six million more than the Sox were willing to pay to the guy who made us forget about Manny Ramirez.
“Well, on a lot of nights,” I hastily added. “He sure was a heck of a lot more enjoyable to root for. But it had to be clear to him by the All-Star break where the Sox would come down in negotiations. It seemed to show in his play.”

Bambina, having broken into her bin of plastic circles, squares and other shapes, gave me a “at least we still have Jacoby Ellsbury” giggle, then began gnawing in earnest on a green diamond.

“Yeah, but one of the fastest guys in the league is now in the smallest of left fields, giving way in center to an aging veteran who will be in and out of here in a year.
“And I still can’t believe the pundits who were saying Ellsbury was expendable when the Sox were trying to land Adrian Gonzalez from the Padres. Clay Buchholz? Ummm, OK, maybe. Ellsbury? That’s high. Mr. Noodle might as well be running the show.”

By then my bambina’s attention was back on Elmo. Elmo was talking to his pet goldfish Dorothy. I couldn’t help but notice Dorothy had one active imagination. I found her effect on me to be quite calming, certainly more so than Tom Carron’s caffeine chatter.

“Well, bambina, John Lackey was a great pickup. We’ve got an awesome rotation, and it is true that pitching and defense win championships. We’ll stop a lot of balls and make a lot of people miss. We just might not hit too many ourselves.”

And that might not be so bad. It will make for shorter games and leave more time for greater loves.