We tried to pretend that it wouldn't be such a letdown if we lost because people expected us, the underdogs, to lose. At least we had given the Mets a tough fought seven games. But of course our true feelings emerged as the game progressed.
During the latter innings I looked to my left to find a Washington University graduate with a Psychology degree covering her face with uncertain hands, reciting every chapter of the Quran she could think of. When I looked to my right, a usually calm athlete had an uncharacteristically flushed face, spontaneously yelling "Oh no! That's it! They're going to score! We lost! That's it!" more to himself than to anyone else in the room, before screaming in the utmost joy when the opposing team failed to score. (This being the neurotic Woody Allen impersonator I referred to in the previous post)
Game seven was as close to a panic attack that three people in the same room could possibly get. For that matter, it was as close to a city-wide panic attack as it could possibly get. First there was the Endy Chavez theivery that had Cardinal fans, and most viewers, thinking would prove to be the turning point in a game won by the Mets.
The next inning I seized the moment to yell, "momentum shifter! momentum shifter!" as soon as the Mets failed to score on a bases loaded jam Suppan was in, thanks in large part to a throwing error by the usually stellar defensive third baseman Scott Rolen.
Still, none of us were sure. We thought we felt sure when Yadier Molina hit the 2-run homer in the top of the 9th, breaking a 1-1 tie as fragile as a newborn.
We jumped for joy, not believing the good fortune of being 3 outs aways from advancing to the world series. If anyone from the outside were to look in, they would have seen 3 grown siblings huddled and jumping in circles like overgrown children. "I know I don't always show it, but I love you guys..." Banan's faint voice revealed in a state of raw emotion even as Ibrahim and I continued to scream.
But then the bottom of the 9th happened. The kind of inning that ages anyone watching, that gives 20-somethings gray hairs. The kind of inning that people walk away from trying to make some sense of as soon as it's done, or try to grasp even as the realization of what we just witnessed starts to settle in. As soon as the shock subsided,relief settled in. As soon as we were done squeaking and hoo-hawing in glee, we slumped back in similar fashion to all other game 7 finishes.
Adam Wainwright escaped with bases loaded and "Cardinal killer" Carlos Beltran looking at a curve ball that will live on in post season folk lore. They'll say, "remember that curve ball that froze one of the best post season hitters in recent memory?" That curve ball froze everyone in their seats at home, evoking moans from the Mets crowd and awe from the Cardinal crowd.
One day my grandchildren will ask me about one of the best games I ever saw. I'll tell them about game 7 of the 2006 NLCS. I'll tell them their uncle bit his tongue drawing blood out of excitement as he watched Molina's home run sail away, right over the head of a man who made one of the greatest post season defensive gems of all time earlier, robbing the greatest defensive 3rd baseman, known for ritually robbing hitters of hits, of a 2-run homer. I'll say we hugged and loved eachother as much as we loved the Cardinals in that moment. I'll tell them a Cardinal killer recieved a lethal injection from a kid and his uncle Charlie.
Maybe I'll show them the blood stained shirt if they don't believe me. And if they're lucky enough, I'll be able to tell them that game paved the way to our first World Series victory in 24 years and the first of many in my lifetime.
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