Upon reminiscing, the touching part of playoff wins is sharing them with loved ones. The impact those games had on others is far more memorable than any individual performance.
Play the game long enough and you'll inevitably experience the heights of success and the depths of failure. My only career walk-off home run came in 2008, when I was with the Milwaukee Brewers. In the 13th inning, against the Washington Nationals, I homered off the pole in left to lead off the 13th inning for a 5-4 victory. The moment I can still feel is not the bat connecting with the ball. It's crossing home plate into the embrace of my teammates. I promise that juncture is why we play. There is nothing like making your brothers proud. I recall Prince Fielder's electric smile. Without Craig Counsell to participate in that blink in time, it simply didn't exist.
The postseason magnifies those instances tenfold. I have photos of my family and I on the field after Game 4 of the 2004 World Series. My boys had just turned 5 and 3. They are now 15 and 13. The World Series was powerful because it was shared with my men.
When I walked into the clubhouse, drenched in champagne and with a cigar in hand, I looked to my left and saw my best friend from high school. We called our crew the "Nutty Boyz" (we were teenagers, be nice), and I had invited "Shorty" to come experience the moment with me. He was there, perpetually cool but still smiling, sharing space with Manny Ramirez, Pedro Martinez and David Ortiz. This was the same man I ditched school with to play hoops and hit the weight pile. We had exploded in laughter and writhed in agony over the years.
Being able to bring this baseball outsider in was the real privilege. He will embellish the evening to his kids and theirs. Shorty, a recovering addict, shares the story with hundreds at Narcotics Anonymous conventions as a message of hope. "This is how far my life has come," he tells his listeners. My life was forever altered because of that win, but being able to share those moments with my loved ones remains the highlight.
The World Series fallout has never ended. Every time I'm around a group of Red Sox fans, they light up and desire a story or two. I may not always be in a social mood, but those times always remind me it was their victory more than ours. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "That was the best time of my life."
It was one of the greatest times of my existence too. I promise, I don't give a crap about a piece of blingy jewelry or even what the ring represents. It's physical and frankly near meaningless to me as an object. But that ring is f'ing magic, and I cherish it for that reason. It makes people grin. It gives them goose bumps. They clamor to hold it and marvel at its weight. They snap pictures to post to Instagram. Witnessing that unfold feels inspiring to me. If not for that interaction, I'd have literally zero use for a gaudy ring.
This isn't value at the margins; it's the meat of the matter.
As the postseason moments unfold for the Royals, Orioles, Cards and Giants, it's the human experiences that theyâll take away. Sure, they'll connect with striking a ball well or stealing a base, but when they're telling the stories down the road, the people listening will be the ultimate reward.
