Monday, January 23, 2012

World Series Game 6



I remember looking down at the three guys clad in their blue Rangers jerseys.

 They all had their arms around each other, ready to share the special moment that was culminating after a long season of some pain but mostly joy, and I'm sure at least over 600 miles of travel on top of that.

I looked down. Bittersweet. Almost numb. I knew what they were feeling. The excitement. The joy. The relief. The disbelief.

I couldn't hate them for that.

After a mostly sloppy game, I didn't want to see another team celebrate a World Series victory on our field. But I knew it would be historic. How many people get to see a World Series victory in person?

I felt an emotion that I guess comes with years of loving a game. I'm not just in love with my team, ya know. I love the game. I appreciated what I was watching no matter the outcome. I felt a lump in my throat that had to be subdued because, you know, there's no crying in this game.

It was like some relief or blessing to see that intimate moment. These friends, or brothers, or whatever they were, seemed to really take in the moment. They weren't bandwagon fans. They were oblivious to the Cardinals fans around them by now. Two strikes away from the ultimate taste of victory. Then one. I looked down behind the Rangers dugout and saw the buzz of Rangers fans, excited to see it finally happening for them.
I don't remember if we were standing or not. I just remember my sister and I promised not to look like one of those sad, pathetic fans on TV. You know, the ones that are crying, or are cupping their hands in front of their mouths. We didn't want to be one of those people we mocked, so we pretended not to be. But I know we were feeling like someone was squeezing our hearts.

I looked around the ballpark, watching everyone's reactions, ready to accept defeat. What else usually happens in baseball? I didn't remember a baseball team coming back, down by two runs, in a world series game, one strike away from going home.

Then I saw the ball fly in the air. It seemed like time slowed down. It looked like Nelson Cruz slowed because the ball wouldn't carry out. He was going to catch it. And I heard screams. I heard the Rangers fans celebrating. I looked down at the field and the mound, waiting for a pile of Rangers. So this is what it felt like?

Confusion. Instead, I saw Pujols and Berkman running around the bases. I swear I thought the Cardinals were running because they refused to believe it was over. Were they confused too? I saw them cross home plate. I saw the crowd jumping wildly. I saw the ball being thrown in and Freese slide into third base.

I felt myself screaming and jumping up in down. I screamed like I had never screamed before, literally like I was watching someone being raised from the dead. I hugged my sister and hugged the strangers who had become friends behind us. "Oh my GOD!" was the phrase of choice. What else do you scream when you see what we saw?

We forced the game into extra innings and it felt like I had entered a dream state.

Then the dream entered a new twilight zone. Just as quickly as we had tied it, it felt like Josh Hamilton had undone that feeling of euphoria. Again, I saw the Rangers fans celebrating. But this time I was more crushed than anything else. How could something so wonderful turn so wrong? Why did we have to crash down like this? It was as if someone had punched us in the gut. "Oh," I thought, "it's one of those games." Was this the opposite of delirious euphoria? Is there a word for that?


But these Cards...they kept fighting in the tenth. And the Cards were suddenly down by one again. There were two outs, but Jon Jay was on third base and Pujols had been intentionally walked. Up came Puma. Again, we were down to our last strike, because let's face it, it wasn't just the Cards down to their last strike, it was everyone hanging on to every pitch.

Then it happened again. To quote Joe Buck, and I don't do this often, "They just. Won't. Go. Away."  I felt dizzy. There was that feeling of disbelief again. I didn't know any other feeling anymore. I kept thinking I would have to go home and pray after seeing a game like this.


Our new friend behind us kept getting text messages. "I have Cubs friends texting me! They're telling me this is the best game they have ever seen!" she screamed to us. Yes. This was the best game we had all ever seen.

I found out later that Cards radio broadcaster, John Rooney, described it perfectly when he said it was like a heavyweight bout. It was exactly that. And we were all exhausted because it was like the fans were taking and dodging the emotional punches. At one point, in between innings, my sister and I hugged, because we knew we were witnessing something special and we were glad to witness it together.

When the bottom of the 11th came, everyone felt like we had already witnessed a classic. I felt like we had all joined some fraternity or something. And when Freese belted that walk off home run, it was our happy ending. We screamed again, with what was left of our voice. I screamed "This is the best game I have ever seen" and I could scream it with conviction.

Everyone lingered because no one wanted to go home. We wanted to milk this feeling for as long as we could. We just wanted to be around each other. So we stayed. And when the ballpark was almost empty, my   sister and I left.

I still can't believe so many things. I can't believe that game and how it unfolded. I can't believe how sloppy it had started, like some lump of coal that turned into a diamond. I can't believe how many times we were down to our last strike. I can't believe we got to be there.

I'll never be able to accurately put into words the feeling we had being there. There are no words.
 Just the excitement. The joy. The relief. The disbelief.

Like everyone else, I am going to die. But the words – the words live on
for as long as there are readers to see them, audiences to hear them. It is
immortality by proxy. It is not really a bad deal, all things considered.
-J. Michael Straczynski

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