How The Cleveland Indians Became My New Favorite Baseball Team

“Why am I doing this?”

This is the thought in my head as I’m pressed up against about 9,000 other people early on Saturday morning in Central Park.  No, it’s not another free Simon & Garfunkel concert. I am once again lined up for a race in 30-something degree temperatures, trying to keep my feet warm.

This time it’s the Scotland Run 10K, where we take a bit more than one full lap around the park, clockwise (which gives you two big hills at the north end instead of one).  Fortunately, I’ve convinced my coworker Stephanie to endure this torture with me, so at least there will be some pleasant conversation.  But I admit freely that I’m not looking forward to this.  Even though it’s Saturday, I still had to get up at 4AM to catch a train that only runs hourly at that time of day and ended up being 25 minutes late, I’m once again standing in below freezing temperatures with nothing more than a few layers of lycra and shoes with ventilation holes in them, and my ankle still hurts.  I had finally gotten in to see my orthopedist last Thursday (and not that I go there often, but when he walked in the exam room and saw me, he yelled out, “Ali!  I haven’t seen you in a while!” and then gave me a big hug).  He scheduled an MRI for the following week, so I still don’t know what’s wrong.  I asked him if I could run in this race, and he didn’t say I couldn’t (his exact words: “don’t do anything that hurts.”  Well, I wasn’t going to know if it hurt unless I ran it, right?  If that wasn’t blatant permission, then I don’t know what is).

Stephanie’s IT band is still sore, so we’ve agreed that we’re going to run like two old ladies and take it nice and slow.  We might even take a nap halfway through.  As soon as we start, my foot starts to hurt.  Pain keeps shooting from my ankle to the bottom of my foot and back again.  I’m still cold, and quickly out of breath.  I’ve replaced my land runs with deep water runs all week, and I very quickly discover that although they are still an aerobic workout, they don’t do much for one’s endurance on hills.

Except for the fact that I’m with a friend, this race is absolute torture.  I can’t catch my breath or get into a good rhythm.  My foot is screaming, and I’m beginning to wonder about the MORE/Fitness Half Marathon I’m supposed to run next week.  After another mile of intense pain, I start to wonder about my entire race season: 4 triathlons, a few more 10Ks, 2 more half marathons, and the NYC Marathon in November.  I question what is wrong with my foot, and whether I’ll be able to do any of them, or if I’ve seriously injured myself and my season will be done when I get my MRI results next week.  Then, I think that I don’t really care.  I’m suddenly tired of waking up early, waiting for races to start in the cold, and running on injuries.  Including this current “run” – if that’s what you can call my gait as I hobble along trying not to land on the outside of my foot or bend my ankle at all – this is only the third land run I’ve done in as many weeks, and it’s dawning on me that I don’t miss them.  The agony in my foot has completely wiped my memory of every reason why I get up early every day to work out, and almost never take a day off  (which would certainly explain while I’m injured all the time).

Stephanie and I trudge along, stopping to stretch at about mile 4.  When we ran that half marathon training run, we coaxed each other through our own individual rough spots.  This run, though, Stephanie had to do all the cheerleading as I dragged ass up and down the hills of Central Park.

We finished the run (I’m not writing our time.  Let’s just say that “slow” would be an accurate description if you tack another few minutes on to that), and Steph mercifully drove me to Grand Central Terminal.  As I sat on my train, I tried not to pay attention to my foot or to that fact that I could no longer bend my ankle, but in the back of my mind my increasing desire to quit was growing like a cancerous tumor.

As my train rumbled along, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my husband Wil.  Today was my son Benjamin’s first T-Ball practice, so Wil texted me a picture of Ben in his newly acquired Cleveland Indians uniform (and quick sidebar: my son’s league uses all major league team names except for the Mets, Yankees and Red Sox because it caused too many arguments – amongst the parents).  Ben has been wanting to play baseball ever since he was 2 and saw his big sister in her first uniform (Chicago White Sox), and that poor boy has waited 3 solid years to finally be old enough for our town league.  I look at the picture and see that Ben is absolutely beaming.  It definitely raises my spirits, and I realize that this life-long Yankee fan suddenly adores the Cleveland Indians.

 

I text back to Wil and ask if he can pick me up at the train station; I really can’t walk.  When he gets there, Ben is practically jumping out of his seat ready to tell me about his first “game”.  I get in the car and turn to Ben and say, “Hey, Buddy!  How was it?”  His reply: “Mom, it was AWESOME!  And now I get to exercise, too!”

In the 3 or so minute drive home, suddenly everything is clear.  I think about my family in the car with me: Ben, going on about T-ball, his sister Olivia sitting in her ballet clothes and rolling her eyes at him, Wil driving and enjoying his role of Suburban Dad.  This is why I do all this.  The contents of this car is why I wake up early, eat healthy, hardly ever take a work out day off: so that my kids are healthy enough to enjoy sports and annoy each other, so my husband can swoop in and rescue me when I can’t do a half mile walk home after running 6.2 of them.

When we get home, I eventually navigate the steps to my house and limp inside.  I sit down and think about the rest of my race season: the half marathon next week, 4 triathlons, a few more 10Ks, 2 more half marathons, and the NYC Marathon in November.  I can’t wait to do every single one of them.