A List Of Things Thrown Five Minutes Ago

IF IVAN TURGENEV HAD BEEN A RED SOX FAN: Several months ago, my dear friend Rosi Amador of the band Sol y Canto invited me and my family to participate in a celebration on the evening of Sunday October 28^th of Noche de Muertos, Mexico’s lively and colorful community festival honoring departed ancestors. Although this sacred holiday takes place at about the same time as Halloween, All Saints' Day and All Souls Day, the emphasis in Noche de Muertos is on celebrating and honoring the lives of the deceased, and celebrating the continuation of life. The belief is not that death is the end, but rather the beginning of a new stage in life.

The multi-media celebration consisted of giant projected images created by photographer/historian Susan Wilson, illuminating traditional dancing skulls, marigold bouquets, bustling marketplaces and the faces of families in celebration, taking you to the heart of Michoacán, one of Mexico's most historic states. The Sol y Canto sextet added live interpretations of beloved Mexican classics as well as evocative new compositions in a powerful combination of Mexican and pan-Latin rhythms, with special guest violinist Rebecca Strauss. It was a stunning performance.

Immediately outside the concert space, there was an astonishingly beautiful altar featuring a Christian cross, a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, marigolds and other flowers, pictures of deceased relatives, and hundreds of candles. Traditionally, families spend time around the altar praying and telling anecdotes about the deceased. Without any prompting, Liam, my 8-year old son, dropped to his knees and started to pray. “I’m praying for Grandpa David (my father) and Uncle Murray” he explained when he finished. Then we all kneeled down and I led the family in another prayer in their honor.

We rushed home in time to see Jon Lester, the Red Sox pitcher, retire the Rockies in the bottom of the 4^th. Watching Lester, a cancer survivor, made me think of my father, who died suddenly of cancer almost exactly three years ago, a scant three weeks before the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004. The Sox never won a championship during his lifetime. I hugged my sons, both of whom were wearing their Red Sox jerseys.

Suddenly I was seven. I saw my father pitching whiffle balls to me on Cambridge Common when we lived in Harvard Square.

During the 2004 ALCS when the Sox were down 3 games to none against the Yankees, I needed something to take my mind off what I figured might be the sting of another painful loss and the lingering pain of my father’s recent death. So while watching Game 4 I prepared handwritten notes for the people who had sent us condolence cards concerning my father’s death. You probably know what happened on the field. Dave Roberts stole second, the Sox won Game 4 and the next three games against the Yankees, and later the Red Sox defeated the Cardinals in the World Series. During every game, I continued to write these notes expressing my gratitude to the people who offered their support when my dad died.

Following my father’s death, the issue of cancer weighed heavily upon me. I’m the type who likes to solve problems, but I knew that there was no way that I could make a major contribution to our battle with cancer. But I couldn’t stand to do nothing. So despite having not touched a bike for a decade or so, I signed up for the Pan-Mass Challenge a very long bike ride across Massachusetts that raises money for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, a leading cancer research center in Boston. My father was treated there about 4 weeks before he passed away.

I did the nearly 200-mile long ride again this year. During the dark moments of this year’s ALCS, when the Sox were down 3-1 against the Indians, I decided to prepare handwritten notes for the people (including many of you) who had contributed to the Pan-Mass Challenge on my behalf this summer. I did the same thing during the next three games against the Indians and the next four games against the Rockies, all of which turned out to be Sox victories.

Did expressing my appreciation to the people who supported my efforts to raise money for cancer research, to the people who gave money because they had loved my father, and to the people who had given money because their lives had been touched by cancer, improve the mojo favoring the Red Sox? Who knows? Either way, though, you can understand that the Sox success thus far is inexorably tied up for me with the loss of my dad, my determination to make even a small difference in our battle against cancer, and my appreciation for the kindness, generosity, and sympathy of all those people.

As the game ended and pandemonium ensued on the field, I hugged Aidan, my 10-year old son, and told him that he would always remember this moment (Liam had already fallen asleep). I then put Aidan to bed (it was a school night!) and returned to the post-game coverage. When Mike Lowell, another cancer survivor, was named World Series MVP, I figured that some sort of cosmic karma was being made manifest.

I flashed back to Game 6 of the 1975 World Series, the famous “Carlton Fisk home run game”, which my father took me to. I remember Bernie Carbo’s home run that night. I remember Dwight Evans’ great catch that night. But what I remember most vividly about that night is my father putting his arm around my slender shoulders as we left the game, drawing me close to him. Keeping me safe as we made our way through the thicket of the crowd to the subway in Kenmore Square. The faint smell of tobacco and Old Spice aftershave on him. The rough texture of his tweed jacket as it brushed my tender cheek when he held me during the bumpy subway ride home.

Noche de Muertos celebrates the continuation of life. The belief is not that death is the end, but rather the beginning of a new stage in life. Fathers, sons, and baseball. It’s a never-ending story.