Hazel. Good morning. Red here.
You know, everything was going pretty good for me yesterday morning. Sun was shining. Car started up just like that ::finger snapping sound::. I was at peace with everything around me.
Then I read this:
Since joining Rogers Sportsnet a few years back, Torontonian Hazel Mae has dated a bevy of professional athletes and at least one other sports anchor (Sportsnet’s Brad Fay), but she’s now about to settle down and get married. To a baseball player.
Hazel, a Boston-based sportscaster these days, is engaged to Kevin Barker, a non-roster infielder at the Blue Jays’ camp.
Now, Hazel. If I may. What the f–k are you thinking?
A non-roster infielder? And from the Blue Jays, no less?
I thought we had a deal.
Not that I could have given you any better. I mean, for chrissakes, I’m a guy with a blog. That puts me just a few steps above the guy who tries to sell you pencils at traffic lights on the VFW Parkway in West Roxbury.
But what about the promises? That time we bumped into each other — literally — at the Cask after the Baltimore game? The time I showed up at your autograph session at Best Buy in Dedham and we met up afterward for a few Buds at Tahiti? What about the autograph you gave me that said, “Together, we can.” That tandem bicycle ride down Huntington Ave at 3:00AM? I don’t care that all of these things happened exclusively in my mind, I think I deserve some answers.
Fact is you could have had something. We could have had something. I may not be a non-roster infielder for the Toronto Blue Jays, but I have a master’s degree. And all of my teeth. And a reliable automobile. And the skills to pay the bills, if you know what that means, because I sure as hell don’t. I’m also blessed with that almost translucent Irish complexion that would have made you look even more radiant every time you stood next to me.
Needless to say, I would have also gladly given up the drinking, the tree-climbing, and the entire Surviving Grady empire — at this point worth an estimated 53 bucks — for just the chance to chase your ass around the kitchen every night.
I don’t want to sound bitter. But I am. So go ahead. Yummy down on your non-roster guy. Nice work, there. We’re all very proud of you. But those calls and letters and photos and boxes of candy and marraige proposals and wood carvings of you and I, hand in hand, running through the grass of Lars Andersen Park in Brookline that I’ve been bombarding you with for the past three years? They’re done, babe. It’s all gone, Pete Tong.
So great. It’s been real. Good times. And good luck with everything.
Also, would you happen to know Amalie Benjamin’s number?
