Something to tell the kids about
It is the next morning. Actually, I guess it's later the same morning. My hands are still sore from the clapping. My throat is still parched from the screaming. My heart is still slightly broken from the defeat. But dammit, I was at the longest game in World Series history.
Every World Series has a story, but this one is extra personal to me. It's a story I look forward to telling my children, who will undoubtedly be baseball fans.
I can tell them about the night the Astros won the pennant, how I stupidly drank four beers at Two Rows on an empty stomach, waiting around 3 hours for the Astros to win so the tables would clear and we could eat, and how the place erupted when Jason Lane caught the fly ball for the final out.
I can tell them how excited we were knowing we were going to game 3, and how much it meant to their grandfather, who had been robbed of several previous chances to make it to the Series.
I can tell them how I knew we had this game, because Roy Oswalt was on the mound and the Astros were back at home, and how certain I was this would be the night we turned it around after two devastating losses.
I can tell them about the controversy when Major League Baseball refused to let them close the roof at Minute Maid Park, which not only destroyed some of the Astros' homefield advantage, but also caused many Houstonians, blood thinned by the previous weeks' 90-degree weather, to complain about how chilly the 60-degree weather was.
I can tell them about how fired up the crowd got after we took a 4-run lead in the fourth, the biggest lead either team had had in the Series.
I can tell them how a seemingly isolated Joe Crede homer off Oswalt in the fifth exploded into a five-run inning, giving the Sox the lead, and how the crowd got more silent (with many exceptions, including yours truly).
I can tell them how their uncle Aaron texted me in the late innings, telling me he couldn't spot me in the stands on television, and asking me to run across the field naked to make it easier for him. And how a very small part of me was tempted.
I can tell them how the crowd got fired up when we tied it up in dramatic fashion in the bottom of the eighth.
I can tell them how the stadium erupted when Mike Gallo was relieved by Brad Lidge, whose last two appearances had both resulted in him giving up game-losing home runs, and how loudly I sang Drowning Pool's The Game, and how the crowd erupted further when Lidge struck out Aaron Rowand to end the Sox threat in the ninth.
I can tell them how much their grandparents wished they could have stayed for the full game, but were too exhausted to make it past the ninth.
I can tell them how we squandered opportunities to score that elusive winning run in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh innings, as the game dragged on, but never got boring. I can try, and probably fail, to explain all those indescribable moments baseball has to offer, the tension that mounts over and over again, each time ultimately erupting with victory or, as often as not, shattering with defeat. And how this game was such a great example of that je ne sais quoi that baseball fans just can't quite describe for the poor idiots who think baseball is boring.
I can tell them about how delirious the crowd had gotten by the fourteenth, and how I myself was so delirious that I was actually convinced perennial losing pitcher Ezequiel Astacio might be able to get out of the inning. But then ex-Astro Geoff Blum silenced the crowd with a home run, and as if that weren't enough, Zeke loaded the bases and then walked Chris Widger (yes, the Chris Widger, threat that he is) to push in another run and make the game seem even further out of reach. Which it inevitably was.
Ultimately, I can explain game 3, and this World Series in general, in terms of missed opportunities, how many times the 'Stros had runners in scoring position with less than two outs and couldn't get them home. I can use it as a metaphor for life, about how bitter those missed opportunities feel after the fact, how you keep telling yourself you'll get another chance but then someone else capitalizes on the chances you passed up. And how you just never know which opportunity may be the last.
And I can remind them that it's just a game. But what a game!
(I promise my posts will get shorter eventually. The last few just needed to be long.)
Song lyric of the day:
"And if I had a nickel for every damn dime
I might have half the time, do you mind?
Everyone's afraid of their own life
If you could be anything you want
I bet you'd be disappointed, am I right?"
- Modest Mouse, Lives
Every World Series has a story, but this one is extra personal to me. It's a story I look forward to telling my children, who will undoubtedly be baseball fans.
I can tell them about the night the Astros won the pennant, how I stupidly drank four beers at Two Rows on an empty stomach, waiting around 3 hours for the Astros to win so the tables would clear and we could eat, and how the place erupted when Jason Lane caught the fly ball for the final out.
I can tell them how excited we were knowing we were going to game 3, and how much it meant to their grandfather, who had been robbed of several previous chances to make it to the Series.
I can tell them how I knew we had this game, because Roy Oswalt was on the mound and the Astros were back at home, and how certain I was this would be the night we turned it around after two devastating losses.
I can tell them about the controversy when Major League Baseball refused to let them close the roof at Minute Maid Park, which not only destroyed some of the Astros' homefield advantage, but also caused many Houstonians, blood thinned by the previous weeks' 90-degree weather, to complain about how chilly the 60-degree weather was.
I can tell them about how fired up the crowd got after we took a 4-run lead in the fourth, the biggest lead either team had had in the Series.
I can tell them how a seemingly isolated Joe Crede homer off Oswalt in the fifth exploded into a five-run inning, giving the Sox the lead, and how the crowd got more silent (with many exceptions, including yours truly).
I can tell them how their uncle Aaron texted me in the late innings, telling me he couldn't spot me in the stands on television, and asking me to run across the field naked to make it easier for him. And how a very small part of me was tempted.
I can tell them how the crowd got fired up when we tied it up in dramatic fashion in the bottom of the eighth.
I can tell them how the stadium erupted when Mike Gallo was relieved by Brad Lidge, whose last two appearances had both resulted in him giving up game-losing home runs, and how loudly I sang Drowning Pool's The Game, and how the crowd erupted further when Lidge struck out Aaron Rowand to end the Sox threat in the ninth.
I can tell them how much their grandparents wished they could have stayed for the full game, but were too exhausted to make it past the ninth.
I can tell them how we squandered opportunities to score that elusive winning run in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh innings, as the game dragged on, but never got boring. I can try, and probably fail, to explain all those indescribable moments baseball has to offer, the tension that mounts over and over again, each time ultimately erupting with victory or, as often as not, shattering with defeat. And how this game was such a great example of that je ne sais quoi that baseball fans just can't quite describe for the poor idiots who think baseball is boring.
I can tell them about how delirious the crowd had gotten by the fourteenth, and how I myself was so delirious that I was actually convinced perennial losing pitcher Ezequiel Astacio might be able to get out of the inning. But then ex-Astro Geoff Blum silenced the crowd with a home run, and as if that weren't enough, Zeke loaded the bases and then walked Chris Widger (yes, the Chris Widger, threat that he is) to push in another run and make the game seem even further out of reach. Which it inevitably was.
Ultimately, I can explain game 3, and this World Series in general, in terms of missed opportunities, how many times the 'Stros had runners in scoring position with less than two outs and couldn't get them home. I can use it as a metaphor for life, about how bitter those missed opportunities feel after the fact, how you keep telling yourself you'll get another chance but then someone else capitalizes on the chances you passed up. And how you just never know which opportunity may be the last.
And I can remind them that it's just a game. But what a game!
(I promise my posts will get shorter eventually. The last few just needed to be long.)
Song lyric of the day:
"And if I had a nickel for every damn dime
I might have half the time, do you mind?
Everyone's afraid of their own life
If you could be anything you want
I bet you'd be disappointed, am I right?"
- Modest Mouse, Lives
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