It was an unseasonably warm February afternoon – well, unseasonably warm for its era. If a future civilization stumbles upon this website in some assemblage of digital ruins, it might seem entirely unremarkable that I might be spending a February afternoon strolling in the warm sunshine along New Mexico Ave. in Washington, DC.
In any case, I was walking along when I happened to look at my phone and see that the Red Sox had signed a pitcher out of the Mexican League. Huh, I thought. Could be interesting.
It wasn’t. Hector Velazquez would soon prove to be the absolute best pitcher you could hope for in a situation where you had absolutely no other pitchers available. Yes, there were glimmers of something more: the 102 innings of stellar AAA pitching, the handful of long relief appearances where a steep deficit got no steeper, the sad moments when he would come off the IL and I would think, oh, good, no more Kyle Weber for a while.
But I think the best moment of the Hector Velazquez era, for me, was that moment in February 2017, when the two of us, separated by miles and years and about five inches in height and a world of talent, found ourselves connected in hope. I imagine it was one of the best moments of his life, that moment in which I found myself thinking about him, that moment in which we both had dreams of a future in which “Red Sox purchase the contract of RHP Hector Velazquez” would be an ironically dull entry in a transaction log akin to “Red Sox purchase the contract of INF David Arias.”
Sports fandom is weird like that. Hector Velazquez is leaving, and when I think of him from now on, it will be with some small, impersonal part of my brain. I’ll be sitting in the bleachers at Camden Yards, suffering in the heat as the Red Sox open a 9-3 lead and Brandon Hyde makes the slow walk to the mound to wave the white flag and bring him in. I’ll be putting off some piece of work and see that he’s been designated for assignment and claimed by, I don’t know, the Diamondbacks. It’ll be the trade deadline in 2022, and Velazquez, his value rebuilt by a tweak to his delivery, will be dealt to a marginal contender in exchange for a marginal prospect and I’ll think, huh – I remember him.
But the thing is, I have no less connection to Hector Velazquez than I do to Mookie Betts, whose departure put me into an existential funk, or to John Lackey, about whom I have more opinions than I do about most of the presidential field, or to Rafael Devers, whose children I consider my grandkids. These people exist in my life. And while it is plainly silly to think that a transaction like the one that brought Hector Velazquez to the Red Sox, or the one that sent him away, has anything to do with me, that connection has to have meant something, or else we’re all wasting our time here.
Hector Velazquez pitched 166 innings for my favorite baseball team, and although he didn’t pitch in the 2018 postseason, he got to hang out in the dugout and drink champagne in the locker room and take home a ring. Several times over the past few years, I have spent energy trying to remember whether he spelled his name with two z’s or not. He had a neck tattoo that made me wonder a lot. He was better than Frank Castillo, but not as good as John Burkett. He existed, and his existence mattered to me, and that alone is cause for gratitude.
In any case, I was walking along when I happened to look at my phone and see that the Red Sox had signed a pitcher out of the Mexican League. Huh, I thought. Could be interesting.
It wasn’t. Hector Velazquez would soon prove to be the absolute best pitcher you could hope for in a situation where you had absolutely no other pitchers available. Yes, there were glimmers of something more: the 102 innings of stellar AAA pitching, the handful of long relief appearances where a steep deficit got no steeper, the sad moments when he would come off the IL and I would think, oh, good, no more Kyle Weber for a while.
But I think the best moment of the Hector Velazquez era, for me, was that moment in February 2017, when the two of us, separated by miles and years and about five inches in height and a world of talent, found ourselves connected in hope. I imagine it was one of the best moments of his life, that moment in which I found myself thinking about him, that moment in which we both had dreams of a future in which “Red Sox purchase the contract of RHP Hector Velazquez” would be an ironically dull entry in a transaction log akin to “Red Sox purchase the contract of INF David Arias.”
Sports fandom is weird like that. Hector Velazquez is leaving, and when I think of him from now on, it will be with some small, impersonal part of my brain. I’ll be sitting in the bleachers at Camden Yards, suffering in the heat as the Red Sox open a 9-3 lead and Brandon Hyde makes the slow walk to the mound to wave the white flag and bring him in. I’ll be putting off some piece of work and see that he’s been designated for assignment and claimed by, I don’t know, the Diamondbacks. It’ll be the trade deadline in 2022, and Velazquez, his value rebuilt by a tweak to his delivery, will be dealt to a marginal contender in exchange for a marginal prospect and I’ll think, huh – I remember him.
But the thing is, I have no less connection to Hector Velazquez than I do to Mookie Betts, whose departure put me into an existential funk, or to John Lackey, about whom I have more opinions than I do about most of the presidential field, or to Rafael Devers, whose children I consider my grandkids. These people exist in my life. And while it is plainly silly to think that a transaction like the one that brought Hector Velazquez to the Red Sox, or the one that sent him away, has anything to do with me, that connection has to have meant something, or else we’re all wasting our time here.
Hector Velazquez pitched 166 innings for my favorite baseball team, and although he didn’t pitch in the 2018 postseason, he got to hang out in the dugout and drink champagne in the locker room and take home a ring. Several times over the past few years, I have spent energy trying to remember whether he spelled his name with two z’s or not. He had a neck tattoo that made me wonder a lot. He was better than Frank Castillo, but not as good as John Burkett. He existed, and his existence mattered to me, and that alone is cause for gratitude.
