October 7, 2003: That was a pretty crummy day in my life. I was 23 and I finally experienced my first real romantic break-up. None of that teenager stuff. It was a relationship, one that lasted almost a year, but had been dying slowly for months. It seemed as though neither of us wanted to admit that it was over since July, maybe even earlier. neither wanted to be the bad guy, which only made it worse. It culminated in a supremely unpleasant parting. At present, we haven't spoken since that day.
That break-up negatively affected me for weeks. I didn't sleep well. My work suffered. I was a moody, sad-sack bastard and my friends were powerless when it came to getting me out of my funk. I'm sure she went through something similar.
10.7.03. That day sucked.
But, for me, it was nothing compared to October 23, 1996. That was when Jim Leyritz tore out my heart. And the heart of the Atlanta Braves.
I was 16, a sophomore in high school. It was fall in Atlanta, which coincided with the formation of the Varsity swim team. By some random mistake of my own, I missed the bus to practice that day after school. And by some equally random stroke of luck, it was meant to be. Stranded at school, needing a ride home, I gave my dad a call from the school payphone. That 25-cent call was a literal serendipitous moment.
He answered at work, surprised to hear from me. I explained what had happened. He said he was "very disappointed" I was missing practice. He continued, very fatherly, "You can't be this irresponsible...you really have to follow-through on your commitments." Man, he was laying it on thick. He continued, "You're going to have to be punished for this..." Oh, come on, it's just one practice! Then he dropped the bomb. "Seriously...You're going to have to go to Game 4 of the World Series tonight."
Wait. What?
Turns out, my old man, the smooth talker that he could be, had just finagled a pair of tickets to Game 4. His co-worker won them in a radio contest and she couldn't give two farts about baseball. He pounced. "My son would love to go!" As if he didn't want to go just as much as me.
I found myself suddenly going to a World Series game.
The '96 series, where the Braves were heavily favored defending champs. Where they had just gone into Yankee Stadium and taken Games 1 and 2 in commanding fashion. Sure, they dropped Game 3 to the Yanks, but they had two more at home.
There we were, father and son, at the Fall Classic, watching our team from the third base line. Cold and crisp like the World Series is supposed to feel, everything was also going as it was supposed to, up 6-0 by the end of the 5th. The Braves had their foot on the throats of the Yanks. Then New York got 3 back in the 6th. Alright, 6-3 now, but we still got this.
Then came the fateful 8th.
Top of the 8th and Bobby Cox brought in closer Mark Wohlers. He promptly allowed two to reach base, which brought Yankees back-up catcher Jim Leyritz to the plate. Jim F'ing Leyritz. With his bald head and humongous batting arm-guard, Leyritz resembled more of a pudgy Robocop than a baseball player. After six pitches to Leyritz, Wohlers decided to throw his fourth-best pitch. Leyritz responded by knocking the living hell out of the ball, sending it well over the left field wall. Dad & I had a perfect view to witness the dagger that was wedged deep into the heart of the Braves' chances to repeat as World Champs.
That was it. That one swing. The game was tied at six and the air had been sucked out of the stadium. From that point on, the Braves were as good as dead in that game. Three innings from going up a commanding 3-1 in the series, with a chance to close it out at home the next evening, the Braves lost Game 4 in extra innings, and were instead faced with a 2-2 series and a guaranteed trip back to the Bronx. And that was the killer.
They lost a heart-breaker in Game 5, 1-0, and even though they ultimately lost the series a couple days later in Game 6, it will always feel, to me, like they lost it in that one 8th-inning at-bat by Leyritz in Game 4.
I remember 10.7.03 and 10.23.96 for similar reasons. Both the relationship with my girlfriend and the '96 season lasted about the same length of time. Both had tremendous highs and terrifically low lows. And both dates signaled an end. Although, it isn't hard for me to pick which hurt my heart worse. Even though I recall the fantastic events that lead me to attend my first and, to this point, only World Series game, it will forever be overshadowed for me, as a fan, by the ultimate outcome of that game and its impact on the Series.
That's why, October 27, 2011, watching Game 6 between Texas and St. Louis, I can know a little of what Rangers fans everywhere felt. The highs of being so close. So. Damn. Close. Closer than the Braves in '96.
Closer even than the Braves in Game 7 of '91 when if, only if, Lonnie Smith doesn't hesitate coming around second base and instead goes for home, giving them the lead 1-0, which would have prevented the game from ever going 10 innings, which would have given them the series win instead of the Twins. Instead, it was being just that close to victory, not winning it, and living with it four more years. Four. Long. Years. Until Game 6 of the '95 Series, when Marquis Grissom caught a fly ball to center and collected out #27, and gave the Braves, and fans everywhere, their first World Series title, a moment of vindication, and closure on coming so close, but not quite.
As a Braves fan, there are moments like the ones from Game 7 of '91 or Game 4 of '96 that we can look back on and ask "what if?," but all of that was washed away by the comfort of winning it all in 1995. Texas Rangers fans don't have that. What they have is being one strike away from their first World Series title. One. Strike. Away. Twice. Both in the bottom of the 9th and the bottom of the 10th. It's the type of stuff you play-out in fantasy as a kid on the playground: end of the game, you're at bat, full count, runners on, tens of thousands cheering your name, and all it takes is one swing of the bat. One swing. For your team. And the Cardinals did that to the Rangers. Twice. In consecutive innings. It's something that will linger with Rangers fans for a long, long time.
On the other side of the coin, Cardinals fans couldn't have asked for anything more. They were ten-plus games out of playoff contention with barely a month to go in the regular season; made the playoffs on the very last day of the season; in the first round, defeated the odds-on favorite NL team with the largest payroll and a murderer's row of talent; came back from the brink of elimination three separate times in Game 6; and sent their 36-year old ace to the mound on three day's rest in Game 7 and won it all.
The TV ads say that you can't script October baseball. It's also commonly known that history is written by the victor. The number of home runs and RBIs that Texas catcher Mike Napoli put up would have earned him the Series MVP. Instead, that was all smashed to bits by eventual Series MVP, the Cardinals' David Freese, duly bestowed the award for his series-changing Game 6 heroics in both the bottom of the 9th and 11th. Sandwiched between was the Roy Hobbs-esque home run by injured Rangers' slugger Josh Hamilton in the top of the 10th. As a fan of baseball, you gotta figure at that point, "That's it, all she wrote." That Hamilton home run would have given them the game and the Series win, but it will forever be overshadowed by the walk-off home run by Freese in the following inning. That's the one that wrote history. And it's the one that will make high-light reels for years to come.
It's the Lonnie Smith-type moment that will stick with Rangers fans. It'll be ever-present over the next 100-plus days between now and Spring Training. The type of moment that will place seeds of doubt in their chances of winning it all when an eventual return trip to the Fall Classic arrives. A moment that will linger, even fester, until that Marquis Grissom-like time of exorcism comes and puts an end to the long and terrible drought of going without ultimate victory. When the Rangers eventually become the victors, that's when they'll get to write over the pains of Game 6 and 7 of 2011. It's a tremendous amount to deal with as a fan. Just imagine what the guys actually on the field feel; not all of the 2011 team will be around for the victory when it does come.
Dates like October 7 or 23 or 27 each have their individual meanings to us, some worse than others, some meaningful simply because of the level of importance we place on them. But they're moments that will always remain memorable. They're moments why, sooner or later, we get back to dating. Or why all of us, as fans, stick with our teams. Why we pick ourselves up and try again no matter how far or how close we were, not unlike the players we get behind. We accept that we can't have the tremendous highs without the horrific lows. What we hope for, what we strive towards, are the days that will validate all of the downs and have us all saying, "It was all worth it." Although, it really sucks in the meantime. It really, really sucks. F'ing Jim Leyritz.
