Dear Alex:
I know you have been very busy since you fractured my collarbone. There's your devotion to Kabbalah, the birth of your new little princess and the pending exit of her mother, C-Rod. You have another 80+ baseball games, and then the playoffs. November 30th, you'll also need to be in Mexico City for the finale of Madonna's "Sticky and Sweet" Tour, quite appropriately named, I'm sure you'll agree.
The reason for my letter, and tracking your schedule so intimately, is that I need you to finally sign the baseball you hit me with on September 5th 2007 in the second inning at Yankee Stadium against the Seattle Mariners.
As you probably don't recall, you blasted a foul ball into my collarbone on your first swing to lead off the second inning. It was one of those glorious, New York, end-of-summer evenings, clear blue skies, and slightly crisp air. I was minding my own business, drinking a beer and sending a text to my boyfriend saying how great the eighth row seats were behind third base. I heard the crack of your bat, and then the crack of my collarbone, as did everyone in my entire section.
That didn't stop them from diving for the ball though, and as I focused on trying to breathe, my friend Stefani forcefully persuaded the man who finally held it up to give it to me as a consolation for taking the direct blow. "You're gonna take that ball from her after she just got hit?" I remember she screamed. "Oh, alright, here," he surrendered, and handed it over to her.
Next thing I knew I was being escorted to the Yankees infirmary and as shock set in, I puked a few times before leaving the stadium en route to Mount Sinai for x-rays and painkiller prescriptions. The entire time, Stefani would look at me and hold up the blank ball, both of us thinking we would eventually get it signed by you.
Then, for three straight weeks I lay on a couch day and night, (couldn't even sleep in a bed) popping Percocet and Vicodin to ease the pain, watching your games, with my cell phone on vibrate just in case you decided to call to see how I was feeling. After all, every single person I told wanted to know if I had heard from you, and in my prescriptioned-stupor, I began to believe I would. You guys had my information, and it really would have been the right thing to do. But no calls, no day on the town with A-Rod shopping at Gucci or Chanel as one friend had suggested, and no offer for a doctor's bill to be paid, or for the ball to be signed!
My mother was so insulted at the lack of concern, that she called the Yankees and was directed to the PR department. She was all excited to let me know that I would soon be receiving a big package. We were stunned when they sent me a couple of pencils, a few stickers and a Jorge Posada bobble head.
A-Rod, you are the man, but now I know how women in your life must feel -- in pain, and tossed aside as you run the bases. So, I know you'll be busy until at least early December but I wanted to write this open letter so you can do the right thing, and add the signing of my ball to your blackberry or iPhone of "things to do after the season" since it appears you will have a lot on your plate in the coming months. And the recent press should only add to the value of the baseball after you sign it!
Thanks, Lauren (33-year-old New Yorker & newly-minted yet fearful baseball fan)