"I don't think life is scripted perfectly anyway. For it to end like this is a better script than I ever really would have thought." -- Mike Lowell.

If it could have only been Wednesday.

In the story of Lowell's baseball-playing life -- which was punctuated with a wall-ball single Saturday -- the day of the week was the only thing askew when it came to forming the final chapter.

Make no mistake, the Red Sox' wave goodbye to Lowell prior to the first game of Saturday's doubleheader against the Yankees was above and beyond. (Click here to see a recap of the festivities.) 

The collection of teammates, friends (including Mike Redmond and Alex Cora), and family. The gifts (stone crabs from the Marlins, an $100,000 check to Lowell's foundation from the Red Sox, a watch, and Fenway Park's third base). The standing ovations. The opportunity to address the crowd. Delivering the lineup card with his children, Alexis and Anthony.

All memorable.

And the timeliness of his exit proved right on point, as well. He reached base in all three plate appearances -- missing a home run by a few feet, before giving way to pinch-runner Lars Anderson. (The rookie might have wanted to take a cue from Chico Walker -- who replaced Carl Yastrzemski in the Hall of Famer's last game -- having almost run out onto the field prematurely, not allowing for the planned walk-off round of applause.)

Again, a fairly impressive exclamation mark.

But it wasn't Wednesday. 

To understand the importance of that day of the week is to fully comprehend what highlighted Lowell's special day. Growing up, it had been the day his father, Carl (a dentist), made sure he finished work early enough to head down to a Coral Gables baseball field with Lowell and his brothers to play baseball. And then, after a few hours of swings, throws, pop-ups, and grounders, the Lowell boys would venture over to the local 7-Eleven and get their weekly round of Slurpees.

What Saturday did do was make Lowell remember why Wednesdays were still tops in his book. It was because of his father. His family.

Of everything that transpired on Mike Lowell Day -- the name on the left field wall; the tributes; the presents; the three at-bats -- there were two moments that defined the 36-year-old's journey better than anything else.

The first came when his young son uttered words virtually every father who ever held a baseball glove would have prayed to hear: 

"Dad," said the 6-year-old, "are you the greatest baseball player in the whole world?"

Lowell, who was forced to err on the side of honesty because of a microphone documenting his ever sentence, responded, "No, I'm just a baseball player."

Anthony wasn't about to relent. "But everyone is kind of acting like you're the greatest in the whole world."

That was good enough. "Keep that thought," the man of the hour instructed his son.

Anthony's father had left an impression on his son, much like Mike's dad had on his son. For Mike, that first defining moment had come on a ride home from a Little League game when after an 8-year-old Lowell had come away with a game-winning hit Carl said, "Doesn't it feel great to get that hit?" 

He then continued, "If you want to do that more often, you have to want to be the guy that's that situation -- because a lot of people say they want to be in that situation, but they don't want to be in that situation. What's the worst that could happen? You make an out? Big deal. But if you want to be in that situation and you try your best, good things are going to happen."

It is because of that story that suggested what meant the most to Lowell Saturday. While being interviewed for his book, Deep Drive,' he only became emotional to the point of breaking down twice. Once was when discussing his battle with cancer. The other? The ride back from the Little League game.

This is why the second hallmark moment (in the eyes of Lowell) came just after the on-field ceremony. That was when Carl -- the man who had been inducted into the Puerto Rico Athletics Hall of Fame because of his pitching talents -- took the Fenway Park mound to throw the game's first pitch to his son.

The image of his father tossing a baseball was nothing new to Lowell, who had only known one batting practice pitcher (Carl) before turning pro. But this different. This was the finish.

Many would have thought that a home run would have been the perfect ending to a career which encompassed 1,619 hits, 223 home runs and 952 RBI, but that would have never been the case. Lowell got his perfect ending, and it came the minute Carl Lowell (the man his son says "cries at the Kraft cheese commercials") reared back and threw a bullet from the Fenway mound.

"I'm glad he got to show off," Lowell said.

The calendar might have said it was Saturday, but father throwing to son made it feel a whole lot like Wednesday all over again (sans Slurpees).

It couldn't have been scripted any better.