Hollywood intervened tonight. That's all there is to it. Two out, 1-2 count on Eckstein against Brad Lidge. A seeing eye grounder through the left side keeps the Cardinals alive. Before that, I thought Minute Maid was going to explode. Fox, as is its wont, showed the faces of 42 fans, 16 front office guys, and 10 Astro players, before that last pitch to Eck. The game was over. Or, so I thought. Or did I?
It was about 10:30 when John Rodriguez and John Mabry feebly K'd. I noticed that my DVR stopped recording. I thought, just in case, I'll record the rest. I just finished watching it again. The finish to the game will forever be recorded on my DVR as "A Current Affair -- Polygamy in Utah." It will never be erased. Ever.
So, anyway, when you click on "play" on this certain episode of A Current Affair, Fox is promoting Game 1 of the World Series. Who can blame them? Two out, nobody on, Lidge on the hill. The game is over. It's time for some Nolan Ryan close ups. It's time for Thom Brennemen, the little fella with the booming voice, to proclaim that our nation's largest state has never had a world series game. Of course, regardless of the outcome, Alaska will still not have a playoff game, but whatever. Seriously, the game is OVER.
Then Eckstein gets on base. Wow. Then I started picturing a tying home run from Edmonds. I do that. In close games, I start picturing my reaction to certain game events. Ok, if Edmonds hits a double, how will I feel? Will I stand up? No, we'd still be behind, I'm much too tense to stand up. Then, they walk Pujols anyway.... So, I get carried away. I never really believed good things would happen, though. The Cards have been hitting like crap and Lidge is still Lidge. Plus, the Astros just looked so ready to celebrate -- clearly this was over. Or OVER, as I came to think of it.
A funny thing happens though when you build a stupid stadium that is about 120 feet down the left field line. A pitcher, even a guy like Lidge, in a pressure moment is going to make damn sure he doesn't throw anything on the outside half of the plate to a power lefty like Edmonds. Sure. But, you've got to be close. Yesterday, Lidge's ball three would have been a strike, but with a real ump behind the plate, it was a ball. Ball four was ridiculously inside. Sure, put 'em on. It's only Pujols coming up.
Pujols is such a stud. Even when fooled, he still looks studly. Big strapping young man with the balance of Bart Connors (sorry, I don't know any other male gymasts), the strength of Mr. Clean, and the tenacity of Harriet Miers (I'm playing up the Prez's "pit bull" description of the Supreme Court nominee -- please bear with me, I'm still giddy). Pitch one was one of those Lidge sliders that hits the dirt but everyone still swings at. Pujols takes a crappy cut. Strike one. At this time I'm of course envisioning how I will react if he hits a homer (still denying that it could ever happen). I picture myself jumping off the floor and whooping it up, then running upstairs to see if my wife was watching. That's pretty good. Instead, maybe I should just thrust my fist in the air. Or maybe nod my head like I knew it would happen all along. So many choices.
Lidge's next slider didn't slide. Pujols hit the shit out of it. Everyone in the place knew it was gone on contact. Later, I paused it over and over to watch the fans behind home plate -- to see their reaction at the instant they learned their destiny was no longer. There's a kid, probably 10, for whom I feel sorry. He was in his orange shirt, had snuck down a few rows to be right on top of the action, and before Pujols has taken a step, he has his hands on his head. I remember that feeling well from my childhood. Baseball is mean -- it'll break your fucking heart. Just as real as when your crush says she wants to be just friends -- your favorite team will fail and you won't see a way past it. It is your permanence. I like to think I've outgrown this, but I remember it so vividly. Sometimes I hope my son never falls in love with baseball so that he'll never experience this feeling.
Usually though, I hope he does fall for the game. Pujols smashes it and I leap off the floor squealing like a schoolgirl who just found out Johnny likes her likes her. I hear our bedroom door open upstairs and know that my wife was watching. She rushes down the stairs and I hear "oh my God, did you see, did you see?" We hug, jump up and down, express our disbelief, our great fortune. We sit down to see the post script K to Reggie Sanders and then watch Izzy shut down the Astros easily in the bottom of the 9th. Minute Maid is quiet -- if they'd take the roof off we'd hear crickets. Sweet sweet crickets.
I realize that there is at least another game to be played in the series, but that's so remote right now. It works both ways, I guess. Right now this feeling of elation - no, that's not quite right - this feeling of true love, is my permanence. I know Oswalt's on the horizon, but I don't care. Win or lose, I'll always have "A Current Affair - Polygamy in Utah."
Comments