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By Katrina Margolis
Hometown Weekly Reporter
On Tuesday morning at 8:50 a.m. I stood in a line wrapping around the entirety of Wellesley Books to buy “Papi: My Story” in order to have it signed by the one and only David Ortiz. By the time I made my way through the front door to purchase my copy, the tickets were for standby only, and my ticket specifically was for the 56th spot in the standby line.
At this point, I began to feel a little disappointment at the prospect of not having my book signed by the Red Sox legend, getting hit with the full-on feeling of letdown of not being able to even briefly interact with one of my idols.
It’s hard to explain to someone who is either not from Boston or not a Red Sox fan the ethos of David Ortiz. His statistics speak for themselves, however, there is more to the designated hitter than his ability to hit home runs.
Ortiz joined the Sox when I was 11 years old. At the time, I did not quite understand the sport of baseball, but I knew I was a Big Papi fan. He was the Red Sox, and I continued to love him as I learned to love the sport. The two were, and still are, inextricably intertwined.
I spent Ortiz’s last season living in New York, which was quite the struggle for a Sox fan. Luckily, I lived across the street from the biggest Boston bar in the city. I came back to Boston for thirteen separate Red Sox games, traveled to Yankee Stadium for three, and even made a pilgrimage down to Baltimore to watch the Sox (and Ortiz) beat the Orioles. I was at Fenway when Papi beat Ted Williams’ home run record. I was there for his last regular season game, and I was there for his last game ever when the season was cut too short by the Indians. That game was the only time I have cried at Fenway Park.
When Boston was attacked during the marathon, I was in Virginia, some 620 miles away, unable to be there for my city. I felt powerless. But when I watched Ortiz speak to the Fenway crowd and take back the city in a way that was both unexpected but ultimately iconic, I knew the city would be okay.
The thought of never seeing him from the stands of Fenway again was, and still is, nearly inconceivable. Seeing him in a bookstore for a few minutes seemed like the next best thing.
The day of the signing, I called the store to discover they had miscalculated, and my standby ticket was just a regular ticket.
Rushing over, the entire event seemed unreal. It was extraordinarily hot, having unexpectedly become 94 degrees overnight. I had already mentally prepared for not being able to have my book signed, and I was too hot for my brain to come to terms with the change. I didn’t know what to say, and leaving the store, the whole event went too quickly. In retrospect, it was a bit of a letdown; an impersonal, routine interaction. However, seeing this legend of a man sitting in a chair in one of my favorite bookstores, also hot and tired, asking for water, allowed for just a little bit of a transformation of him in my mind from an unreachable, untouchable baseball giant to just another guy in a tee-shirt and red sunglasses.
It’s hard to meet a legend, especially one who you have loved, idealized, and cared about for years without any reciprocation.
But what makes Ortiz, and the Red Sox, great, is the little ways in which you feel that he does love you back. Whether it’s the passion he shows for the city you both call home, a tip of the hat with a tear-streaked face as a goodbye, or a signature in a book and quick picture.
