Guest Feature from Jessica Quiroli

Game 7, Loss

On the day of Game 7 between the Phillies and the Arizona Diamondbacks, my six-year-old daughter asked me about death.

She asked me why we weren’t going to see her great grandmother and great grandfather, my grandparents, the two people I was closest to in my life. I explained to her why, as best I could, gently, but truthfully. She got very quiet, then asked some more questions. We both got very emotional. But then she started to laugh at me, and asked a silly question, and we went back to playing. She returned to childhood, a little bit wiser, sadder, but continuing, hopefully and joyfully. I had to explain the most final ending of all, even though I don’t understand it myself. Painful endings are inevitable, but from that conversation, I was reminded that hope and happiness endure.

I’m sure you can see where I’m headed. I don’t want to smack you on the head with obvious metaphors.

Here we are, post-loss, grieving after a historic Game 7 in Philadelphia. Despite all the historic moments, all the joy, we were forced to face loss. And now we carry on. Baseball like life, right?

“It’s a disgusting feeling,” said Nick Castellanos, after the game. Yes, it was. Imagine how hard that feeling is still hitting him. It’s his job. His passion is ours, but he worked all his life to get there. What a terrible feeling all-around.

Thinking about my grandparents on that day made my heart ache, but it also brought to mind baseball memories. My grandpa and I would go out to breakfast and talk Phillies. We’d argue, we’d hope, he’d ask me about players I’d interviewed. He really only wanted to know if I’d interviewed “Lefty.” As in Steve Carlton. No, I’d say, I don’t think I will. It was fun. He was excitable when we talked baseball, just as my grandmother was when she’d talk about the Phillies or Eagles. She too would get fired up. She was more matter-of-fact, sharply direct, as she was about everything. If she had something to say, she damn sure said it. I never doubted her because she spoke confidently, raw, and from the soul. She’d tell me something and throw in what Jesus would think, and, man, it was hard to say anything after that. She was a believer. In family, in the teachings of Jesus, in sports—Philly sports. She didn’t throw in the towel for long, but there were plenty of times when she’d had enough. I felt their presence on Monday, and imagined them sitting with us, desperate to hear their voices, even if they were unhappy. And they would’ve been. I needed to commiserate so badly, perhaps mostly with my grandpa. What a gift to have a relationship as baseball buddies in his later years.