Two weeks ago I started looking at the schedule. Being the Phillies’ fan that I am, currently living in Los Angeles, I started to do the math. If the Dodgers could get past the Cubs, and the Phillies could eliminate the bruised and fading Milwaukee Brewers, the Phillies would hold home field advantage and therefore play Games 3-5 of the NLCS right here in LA.
It all fell into place. My buddy Larry and I cleared our long list of Hollywood engagements, booked out with our agents and managers, got dog sitters, cancelled our yoga classes, moved our weekly colonics to Tuesday, and called our publicists who got us tickets to sit right alongside Babs, Penny and Gary Marshall, Lamar Odom and Paaaaat SAJAK! (Ok, so I lied about the dog sitters)
As I opened my eyes on Monday morning, I realized two things. One, after a demoralizing Game 3 loss – during which Jamie Moyer did, in fact look like the 100-year-old softball pitcher he was locally coined to be – I realized that I hadn’t slept much at all. Two, and more importantly, the persistent October heat that had me dripping in sweat just three days earlier was gone. The everlasting Southern California summer had disappeared in the dark of the night, and the morning sun brought with it a cool breeze that swept me home to the crisp autumn air of so many Octobers past.
I had a healthy breakfast with a couple of old friends, put on my Schmidt jersey (1980’s light blue – visitors), opened a beer, and took my seat on the couch by noon. No, I’m not an alcoholic; I just needed to soothe my nerves. I had two hours to kill before heading out. Better yet, the waiting game had two hours during which to kill me.
I talked to my roommate a bit. Nervous. I wrote some emails. Nervous. I called my Dad. Nervous. I called my Grandmother. Nervous and hysterical. I called some buddies from home. Nervous, angry, scared, nervous.
You see, whether you like it or not, playoff memories don’t leave your brain. They brand themselves into untouchable corners of your memory. And for Philadelphia fans, they are the most sensitive and delicate mental reminders of how long and hard the fall can be. My mother was 3 months into her pregnancy with me when Tug McGraw struck out Willie Wilson to clinch the Phillies last, and only, World Series title.
Larry had the parking hook-up. We drove through Silver Lake and cut across Echo Park, eventually finding our way to the Scott Avenue preferred parking area (AKA Street parking one-half mile down the hill from Chavez Ravine). Parking here would one, ensure I burned off at least one-tenth of the calories I ate and drank in beer and Dodger Dogs (which, btw pale in comparison to Phillie Franks), two, assure us an easy escape route, and three, guarantee at least four attempts by Dodgers’ fans to run us off the road as we walked – clad in Phillies garb – gingerly into enemy territory.
Having watched for 25 years how opposing fans can be treated in a hostile playoff environment, I will admit I thought twice about wearing both hat and jersey into the heart of the beast. But it only took me about ten minutes to realize that the idiots in Mets attire, Giants hats, and Cowboys gear, had me looking like Tony Blair sitting next to Osama Bin Laden, Sadam Hussein and Satan. Ultimately, Dodgers fans are all bark.
I felt the tension in my body vanish the second I took my seat. I don’t know if it was emotional exhaustion setting in, the sight of my home team finishing batting practice on the most beautiful natural turf in the National League, the rising moon – a night from full – over the right field fence, the calm demeanor of my friend Larry, or the 20,000 empty seats at game time, but something just felt right. It was as if the baseball gods had come to me, asked for my permission to take me on a ride, promised I would enjoy the experience regardless of the outcome, put the bar down over my shoulders and wished me good luck. There was no turning back now.
I kept thinking about 1993. I remembered Game 4 of that World Series so vividly; so many lead changes; so many key moments; so many big plays; so many chances to jump up and down, tug on my dad’s mustard color J. Crew Barn Jacket and scream at the top of my lungs. It was the highest scoring game in any World Series, ever. There were more lead changes than any game in playoff history. And yet I walked out of the Vet with tears streaming down my face because the Phillies had lost 15-14. My dad looked at me, smiled and asked, “Are you crying? What are you crying about? You just saw the most exciting baseball game in World Series history. How could you be crying?”
Monday, I finally understood what he meant.
I couldn’t ask for a win. I could only ask for a night I would never forget. And that’s exactly what I got.
I’ll never forget JIMMY ROLLINS leading off the game with a base hit; the look on DEREK LOWE’s face after giving up three straight hits; the two-run first inning that allowed JOE BLANTON to get settled on the mound; ANDRE ETHIER’s diving catch to stop the bleeding; the ‘boos’ as MANNY got his free passes to first base, and the eruption when he tied the game with one sweet swing of his scalding bat; not one, not two, but THREE defensive double-plays that kept the Phillies in the game; the wild pitch that let in RYAN HOWARD and tied it once again; the CASEY BLAKE homerun that had me wishing I was alone on my couch, where I could kick something; the Ryan Howard fielding error that had me wishing I could kick RYAN HOWARD; the CHASE UTLEY unassisted double play; the dominance of HONG CHIH-KUO in the top of the 7th; the long, long, long, and questionable (even at the time) walk that JOE TORRE took to the mound in the 8th to pull KUO, after keeping him in to bunt – with two runners on – a half inning before.
I’ll remember all of those things, but you will too. Here’s what Joe Buck couldn’t give you…
From our seats on the third-base line, any ball hit left of center field was easily judged from our angle. Although Blake’s sixth-inning homerun to left-center only cleared the fence by five feet, it was obvious from our perpendicular perspective that it was gone as soon as it left the bat.
With Ryan Howard standing on second base, one out and a 5-3 Dodger lead on the board, I turned to Larry and said, “If they can just get Howard home, they can cut this lead in half.” With that, Cory Wade threw a hanging curveball on the inside half of the plate and Shane Victorino turned on it.
It sounded good. From the crack of the bat, you could tell he hit it hard. As it sailed over the infield, it never got more than fifty feet off the ground. As Andre Ethier sprinted for it in right, I started to talk to it.
“Get over his head,” I urged it.
Larry chimed in, “Fall in, fall in!”
For a second, it looked as if the ball might have enough juice to hit the wall in the air, give the speedy Victorino a double, and plate Howard from second.
As the twelve-year-old inside of me reached for my dad’s sturdy arm, my hopeful, though weathered adult hand instead came up with the light threads of Larry’s grey hoodie. I glanced to Howard at second base, and by the time I looked back to right field the ball was gone. It hadn’t been caught. It hadn’t fallen in. It hadn’t ricocheted off the wall. It was in the Phillies bullpen, over the right-field fence, and the game was tied, 5-5.
We were speechless.
In an instant, a brand new memory had been seared into a new corner of my brain. The homerun brought groans, and ‘boos,’ along with an eruption from the Phillies’ dugout. But it was nothing compared to what was about to happen.
After Pedro Feliz was retired for the second out of the eighth inning, Carlos Ruiz singled to keep the rally alive. Charlie Manuel pinch-hit Matt Stairs for reliever Ryan Madson. Joe Torre countered, by bringing in the flame throwing Jonathan Broxton.
After picking up Stairs off of waivers in August – meaning no one else wanted him – all we really know is that he sure can hit a fastball.
It was prediction time. Stairs waited out a 3-1 count, and I turned to Larry. “Broxton can’t put the go-ahead run in scoring position here, so look for Stairs to get a fastball for a strike.”
Larry nodded hopefully, yet skeptically.
Broxton threw Stairs a 96 MPH fastball right down the center of the plate, and there was no doubt about this one.
Stairs’ homerun was such a bomb that Larry and I were standing, jumping, screaming, and punching each other out of excitement long before the ball left the infield atmosphere. It was such a bomb that Andre Ethier didn’t move from his place in right field. It was such a bomb that Cole Hamels almost jumped the dugout fence onto the playing field. It was such a bomb that I forgot all about 1993. It was such a bomb that Iran has reportedly begun a cloning experiment of Stairs’ DNA.
You’ve heard it said a million times; “And this crowd is silent…”
But, you’ve never heard this.
As pods of Phillies’ fans leapt from their seats amongst a sea of fifty-five thousand in Dodger Blue, I heard a brand new sound. It was the sound of my own screams, traveling across the field, bouncing off the concrete walls, and traveling back for me to hear with my own ears. It was the sound of silence. It was the sound of victory, in a foreign land.
Game 4 provided something for everyone; small ball and big ball; leads and deficits; pitching and hitting; base running and defense; strategy in every inning. It provided the Phillies and their fans a huge, Game 4 win. But if I never remember who won Monday’s game, I’ll always remember the sound of silence created by that homerun.
The hazing wasn’t quite as bad on the walk back to the car.
When I got there, I called my dad.
I saw it, and I don’t mind the crush.
She’s right. Defense and pitching win championships.
I think she’s a keeper.
0 comments:
Post a Comment