To Boston and back in under 48 hours
By Jason Begay
Navajo Times
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Excerpts from the mental diary of the Navajo Times reporter sent to Boston to track Red Sox outfielder Jacoby Ellsbury:
April 10, 2008
9 a.m.: The Navajo Times editor asked me if I wanted to cover Friday's Red Sox game! Could be fun. There's no way the paper would send me to Boston, so the team must be playing nearby, obviously. Maybe they're in Phoenix? I'll just ask to make sure.
9:05: Editor looked at me like I just told an ill-timed knock-knock joke. The game is in Boston. We have to leave this afternoon.
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9:10: So, baseball. That's the one they play with the bat, right? I should probably go to Wikipedia.
9:30: I told reporter Jan-Mikael that I'm covering the Red Sox game. He said, "You? Really?" Ha. What a joker!
9:33: Reporter Marley Shebala said, "Really? You?" Oh, the workplace is just full of comedians today!
Noon: Navajo Times receptionist is working very hard to secure our flight plans, which are complicated and way short notice. I must make sure to get her a souvenir or something.
12:30 p.m.: The publisher, a huge sports fanatic, asked who the Sox are playing. I said, "The Yankees? I think they're from New York." I'm sure I'm mistaken, but for a brief moment, the look in his eyes seemed to imply that he was deducing how much force it would take to leap from his desk chair to my throat.
1 p.m.: Reported the news to Mom who asked, "Are you sure they're sending you to cover a sports game?" Oh, Mom!
6:55: Leaving Albuquerque for Salt Lake City, thence to New York where we have a two-hour layover. This would be a good time to read up on Jacoby ... and baseball.
April 11, 2008
9 a.m.: While boarding our final flight, mostly thinking out loud, I ask, "What does 'Batted .361' mean?" An older woman turned around to explain that it's a percentage of successful hits that resulted in base runs. I bite my tongue, resist asking what a "base run" is.
Dude, she was older than my mom. Fear, inadequacy: 1. Ego: 0.
11 a.m.: Arrive in Boston! After doing the math, and realizing that the Navajo Times spent more to send us here than I spent on all of my furniture combined, I decide to go straight to Fenway Park to meet up with singer Shawna Becenti, who will sing the national anthem, during her sound check.
11:45: I'm sure she was busy but Becenti seemed none too impressed at the homeless looking guy trying to lure her away for some questions. To the hotel for a shower and much-needed hair product, then.
1 p.m.: The streets surrounding Fenway Park smell like beer. I start looking for apartment guides.
3:30: After lunch and a lengthy interview with Becenti, we make our way into the park. I've never watched any baseball game through its entirety. But, the park obviously had character. It seemed almost majestic in its bare structure, from the rackety folding seats to the dank concessions area.
4: I've just been informed that my credentials will not get me into the locker room after the game. If I am going to talk to Jacoby, it's going to have to be before the game.
4:15: Standing on the field of Fenway Park! Watching the Red Sox practice, looking for Ellsbury. I know his batting average, that he's a constant threat to steal bases, he's in his second season with the Sox but still a rookie with less than 200 at bats. However, I now realize that I have no idea what he looks like.
4:45: Is it just me or do baseball players all look alike?
5:15: Spotted him. But it's less than two hours until game time. That doesn't give me any time to get any depth in our interview. Of course, that's even if I can get him to talk to me in the first place. I'm not even sure what I'm going to ask him, or how or ...
First thing's first. Just have to get his attention.
5:20: Luckily, I just happen to be standing next to one of Jacoby's friends. Ellsbury takes a break from batting practice to come over and pose for a picture. Internally, I debate if I should call out his first name, or "Mr. Ellsburg," wait, or is it "Ellsbury?" He tells his friend to enjoy the game and turns toward the field. This is my chance.
I stammer, "Mr. Ellsbury." He pauses, but doesn't stop. I introduce myself as quickly as I can before he runs back onto the field. I try to keep my rushed words as coherent as possible. His stride slows more, but he still doesn't stop. So I keep going, asking for some time for an interview. I resist the urge to add, "Please."
"Yeah, yeah," he says quickly. "After ..." but he turns away and I can't hear the rest.
5:30: He's finished batting drills and comes back to the dugout to put away his bat. I approach him again. Show him my credentials. Ask for some of his time. He asks how much time I need, afraid of boxing myself into a limit, I answer, "As much as you can give me."
5:50: After some outfield drills, he comes back. Ready for an interview.
6:30: With the world having been surgically removed from my shoulders, I breathe again. Ready for that hotdog that people keep telling me about and the game that no one believed I was attending.
8 p.m.: It's the fourth inning and still no score. I'm told this is normal for baseball. This is what everyone back at the office envied so much?
10-ish: The first in a three-game series, and Boston lost 4-1. The guy next to me cusses like me when I'm off work. As people filter out of the stadium, an organ is playing "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow," over the speaker system. Behind me, a group of guys chant, "Let's go, Celtics, let's go!"
April 12, 2008
7 a.m.: The first leg of our flight home, Boston to Las Vegas. To Denver. To Albuquerque. The movie is "P.S., I Love You." Followed by episodes of "Two and a Half Men." Followed by me throwing up in my mouth.
5 p.m.: Land in Albuquerque.
5:30: They lost our luggage.
The total numbers: About 46 hours - 27 in airplanes and airports and 18 in Boston. The Navajo Times receptionist looks like she's gonna make us pay for all the trouble we put her through. Fortunately, I forgot her souvenir.