Of all the major sports, baseball is the one you could imagine yourself playing. You don't have to be seven feet tall, or impossibly fast on ice skates, or built to withstand collisions with 300-pound linemen. You watch the game, and you can see the players' faces, and the way they stand in the box, and you can see yourself there.
But, of course, that illusion only lasts so long. By the time you hit puberty, you know about athleticism, and, odds are, you know about it because you've learned that you don't have it. It's the other kids who can run the fastest, and jump the highest -- the other ones who move with impossible grace. And as you start become a more knowledgeable fan, you start to recognize that ease of movement on screen -- in the balance of a pitcher who repeats his complex motion, or the quickness of an outfielder who gets to every ball, or the simple ease with which Ken Griffey, Jr., swings a baseball bat.
So you find yourself drawn to players like Dustin Pedroia. A person-sized person, who seems to play the game the way you imagine you might be able to. In him, you see proof that the things you have -- energy, enthusiasm, desire -- can, in fact, make up for the athleticism and talent you will never have.
The thing is, it's a lie. Yes, he's short, like you. But he is not, in fact, great the way you imagine you, yourself, could have been great. He is great the way he is great. What substitutes for his lack of height and muscle isn't desire, but rather quickness, and hand-eye coordination, and supernatural control over four otherwise-ordinary limbs. You may admire him because he seems ordinary, but he is just as athletically transcendent as anyone else on the field. And when that athleticism fades, stolen prematurely by fate and bad luck and Manny fucking Machado, it turns out that all that want-to isn't enough after all.
Which feels like a tragedy. It is a tragedy. But: It's also a reminder that he didn't need to play the game that hard in the first place. He wouldn't have been there if he hadn't been good enough to be there. All the energy -- the extra bases and defensive outs he took not by virtue of athleticism but simply because he thought to take them when others might not have -- it was just the way he chose to play. All the dirt-dog bullshit wasn't a substitute for athletic talent, but a celebration of it.
And, in the end, that's why we all loved Dustin Pedroia. Not because he was a regular dude Just Like Us, but because he was a superstar athlete who felt as fortunate and excited to be one as we would. Watching him turn a double play was like watching Gronk body a safety or Lebron sprint the length of the court to block a layup. You could see how much he loved that his body let him perform these incredible feats. Nobody I've ever watched enjoyed playing baseball more. He deserved to be able to do more of it. I'm glad he did it for my team.