Stronger (30 page)
I knew it was a bad idea. There were dozens of people, and if I stopped to talk with them, more would arrive, and I’d be standing on my artificial legs all night. But I could never say no. So I was relieved when security hustled toward me, saying we had to get to the field.
A round of applause burst out, with people yelling and cheering.
“Thank you, Boston,” I said. I looked over and saw a group of fans in St. Louis Cardinals jerseys. They were clapping, too.
“Thank you, everyone,” I said, nodding toward them. Then I smiled. “Go Sox!”
We had to wait in the groundskeeper’s tunnel, a few feet from the field, for a long time. The Sox were leading going into the inning, but the Cardinals loaded the bases, the Sox made a pitching change, and Breslow overthrew third base into center field, giving the Cardinals the lead.
I can say it now, because the Series is over and there’s nothing to jinx, but I wasn’t worried. The Red Sox had ended the season with the best record in the American League, but nobody thought they were the best team. They lost the first game of the American League Championship series to the Detroit Tigers (probably the best team) and were down by four runs in the eighth inning of the next. Two losses at home, to start a best-of-seven series, would probably have been the end. Then the Sox loaded the bases with two outs, and David “Big Papi” Ortiz hit a screaming line drive to right center field. Torii Hunter, the Detroit Tiger outfielder, leapt to make the catch, barely missed it, and fell headfirst over the wall. Grand slam. Score tied. “Salty” Saltalamacchia got the walk-off hit in the next inning to even the series, and after that, it was all but over.
Sure, the Red Sox were still underdogs. They still had to win six more games, against the best in the world. They were still only ten outs from a crushing defeat, until Big Papi roused them with a fiery dugout speech in the sixth inning of Game 4 in St. Louis.
But the grand slam was the turning point. It was the American minutemen racing down the hill to the Old North Bridge in 1775 and defeating the British in the battle still celebrated on Patriot’s Day. You work and work, you get a little better every day, more together, stronger, and then one day something happens, and you believe. Only five people died in Concord in 1775, but a bridge had been crossed, and after that, it was all over except for eight years of brutal war.
Maybe I should end this book with the Red Sox winning the World Series. Big Papi was the MVP, of course, after reaching base 19 times in 25 at bats, one of the greatest individual World Series in history. My boy Salty? He’s probably most famous for his throw to third base in Game 3… which skipped into left field and lost the game for the Sox.
Or maybe he’s most famous for stopping the victory parade at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, now permanently painted on Boylston Street, and placing the championship trophy there.
I wasn’t at the parade. And I wasn’t there for Game 6, when the Red Sox won a championship at Fenway for the first time since 1918. The Sox and the Bruins invited me to four games during that summer. The Boston team lost them all. I had to stay home.
But I was there for Game 2 (a Red Sox loss, of course). I was on the field in the middle of the seventh inning, when James Taylor sang “America the Beautiful,” and the whole crowd sang along. I didn’t have to walk in the marathon next year, I realized then. I was going to walk, no doubt, but it wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t special. I was only one in the crowd, one of the millions. This was our story, not mine. We were together—the Fenway crowd, Boston, all the good people of the world—and that made us unbreakable.
There was a picture of us, the row of bombing survivors, plus Carlos, in the newspaper the next day. We are lined up along the third-base line, and I’m in the middle, with my crutches in one hand. I’m not even using them for balance. I am just standing there, calmly, like it’s nothing.
Like it’s no effort at all.
Thank you to everyone who saved my life at the Boston Marathon, not just my friend Carlos Arredondo, but everyone who touched my life that day. Thank you to everyone who helped; thank you to everyone who ran to help without knowing if they would be hurt or killed. I would not be here without you.
Thank you to everyone who has supported me in my recovery. Thank you to Dr. Kalish and Dr. Crandell, the staffs at BMC and Spaulding, all the businesses (like Blunch and the Colonnade) and people (like Tanya and Isabel) who gave when my family needed it most, and everyone who sent me their love and prayers. Thank you to Matt Gobeille, who sent me the special guitar, and all you kids with lemonade stands.
Thank you to the Red Sox, Bruins, and Pats. Thank you to every celebrity who reached out to victims and their families, especially James Taylor, Kim Taylor, and Ellyn Kusmin, who treated me so well.
Thank you, Boston! My city. Never broken, only stronger.
Thank you to the people who helped make this book happen: Bret “The Hitman” Witter, Anthony “A-Train” Mattero, Peter “No Nickname” McGuigan, and everyone at Foundry Lit + Media, especially Matt Wise and Kirstin Neuhaus.
Thank you to all the fantastic people at Grand Central: Jamie Raab, Sara Weiss, and Deb Withey in editorial; Ann Twomey, who designed the amazing cover; Jimmy Franco; Emi Battaglia; and Carolyn Kurek, Mark Steven Long, and Giraud Lorber, who turned a bunch of pages into a real book.
I have so many family and friends that I can’t possibly list everyone. So to make it simple, let me just say thanks to my three families: the Baumans, the Joyces, and the Hurleys. I love you all. Even you, Forehead.
Thank you to Katlyn Townsend, who stepped in when we needed her and never stepped away; Kevin “Heavy Kevy” Horst, who is unstoppable; John “Nacho Man” Sullivan; Remy Lawler; Michele Mahoney; United Prosthetics; Carlyn Wells and Michelle Kerr; Tim Rohan and Josh Haner; Kevin Sullivan; Elaine Rogers; Pat and Jess; the Corcoran family; and Ryan Donaher, who helps Erin take the trash to the dump and never lets her buy him lunch.
Thank you to the hundreds of people at Costco who treated me like part of their family, even though most of you didn’t know me. Thank you especially to James Sinegal, Craig Jelenek, Maya Holt and the whole Nashua crew, Byron Spear, Will Fifield and his wife, Stephanie, Stacy Thrailkill, Judith Logan, and Pennie Clark Ianniciello, who made me believe this book was possible when I wasn’t sure.
Thank you to Chief Ed Deveau, the Watertown Police Department, and all the cops, firemen, first responders, EMTs, bomb techs, and FBI agents. You guys are the real heroes.
And finally, to my magical liege, my E: I am thankful for you every minute of every day, even when I’m playing
MLB: The Show
.
This book was written for my fellow survivors and their families and friends, and in honor of Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell, Lingzi Lu, and Sean Collier.
Michele, Remy, and me with our marathon swag, just before leaving for the finish line. This was the last photo taken before all three of us were injured in the bombing.
(Photo courtesy of Remy Lawler)
The famous bombing photo. I think of it as a picture of triumph, because three people are saving my life. But I still don’t like to look at it.
(AP Photo/Charles Krupa)
Big D, Aunt Jenn, and me at Erin’s Team Stork fundraiser on April 1, 2013, only two weeks before the bombing.
(Photo courtesy of Jenn Joyce Maybury)
My half-brother Alan and me at the beach in Seabrook, New Hampshire, in 2011.
(Photo courtesy of Alan G. Bauman)
Erin and me in the fall of 2012. This photo hung on my IV while I was in the intensive care unit at Boston Medical Center.
(Photo courtesy of Erin Hurley)
