I’m from outside Boston, and I’ve been a Red Sox fan since I found out what baseball was. I’ve watched David Ortiz emerge from a spare part set to platoon with Jeremy Giambi (the equally steroid-injected but way worse Giambi brother) into a slugger who allowed a generation of old Red Sox fans to die in peace, who sent Torii Hunter over the bullpen wall as Boston’s coolest cop looked on, who became the most productive DH in baseball history. That being said, I’ve always had mixed feelings about Ortiz. I just don’t believe he has accomplished the vast majority of his baseball dominance without illicit help. Of course, I can’t know this, and some people don’t have a problem with PED users; I do. But what is undeniable is that for fourteen seasons, Ortiz has meant a ton to the city of Boston, on par with the city’s other athletic greats: Ted Williams, Bill Russell, Bobby Orr, Carl Yastrzemski, Larry Bird, Tom Brady… And in that respect, David Ortiz’s finest moment came on April 20, 2013.
Boston is the greatest sports city in the world. We have a football, basketball, baseball and hockey team that each has considerable modern day success, a rich history and legit, diehard, lifer fans. Then there is the Boston Marathon, which holds a special place on the calendar. Once a year, people from the hinterlands of Hopkinton to the high-rises of Boston gather and watch the greatest marathon runners in the world battle each other, flawless strides down suburban streets. After them come dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of incredibly ordinary people, a celebration of the amazing human ability to run for 26.2 miles.
When two cowards decided to bomb the 2013 Boston Marathon, our city suddenly became just another terrorist target. For days the killers stayed at large, and we stayed on edge. Driving out of suburban Boston to go on a prescheduled college tour was a surreal experience: entire roads empty as millions of people waited in anxious lockdown. A pair of bombs and a firefight with police can mess with the confidence of any city, even one as resilient as Boston. But David Ortiz knew exactly what to say.
Five days after the bombings and the day after the second coward was found hiding in a boat in a Watertown backyard, the Red Sox returned to Fenway, and Ortiz was asked to speak. Wearing a special jersey with the city name on it, Ortiz gave the obligatory thank yous to the mayor, to the governor, to the police department. Then he said the most defiant, tough and quintessentially Boston fifteen words he knew: “This is our fucking city, and nobody is going to dictate our freedom. Stay strong.” It was perfect.
Image courtesy of Michael Ivins / Getty Images North America
