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The Power of Memory While drifting in thought about girls and music one night, I began to gaze steadily at the objects on my wall. I stared at the old baseball cards that are plastered all over it. And I'm not talking about Mickey Mantle, Brooklyn Dodgers, would-like-you-some-cards-with-your-gum old. I'm talking my kind of old, like Rance Mulliniks, California Angels, ugly uniforms, the stolen base and cokeheads. As the nostalgia swept over me like the thickest of waves and hammered me with feelings of longing, I knew what I had to do. If I just relived my best baseball experiences in my mind, those rare, fleeting moments where everything is as it should be and Derek Jeter is not involved, I could satisfy my intense need for... well, satisfaction. And somehow, I was able to do it and set my mind at ease. Maybe it was because baseball just has a way of grabbing ahold of your collar, shaking you violently and screaming "You must love me!!". Or maybe it was the acid. (Cue airy harp music as I sail away through the clouds on a bed made of wooden baseball bats. Eventually, I descend upon reaching the stadium.) Date: June 9th, 1996 I arrive at Rosenblatt in the morning before the game starts. I've been coming here regularly now for several years; the atmosphere is truly unbeatable. You can sit in the passenger seat of the car and slowly watch the prices for parking climb higher and higher as the park draws near. The smell of the inumerable tailgaters and temporary stands that now line 13th street lingers heavily in the air and eventually congeals inside the car, urging you to buy the overpriced and undercooked goods. Preferring to get inside and take in the view from my seat, I bypass all of this and punch my ticket. I used to sit in the general admission bleachers, but lately a cousin of mine had been giving my family his season tickets to the CWS when he couldn't make the games, which were usually all the day games. And luckily for us, the championship game is always played at noon. Not only that, but my cousin's seats are, well, quite good actually. If you go straight back from the plate, three rows up, and to the right, that's where you'll find them. I wasn't used to this kind of a privilege, so I was always amazingly excited for this day to come. The game this year boasted perennial favorites LSU and Miami in what promised to be a heated battle. Sure enough, when the bottom of the ninth began Miami took the field clinging to a one-run lead. The tension in the traditionally predominantly-LSU crowd was palpable as leadoff hitter Brad Wilson came to the plate to face stud Hurricane closer Robbie Morrison. As I looked on intently at the three patient figures surrounding the plate, Wilson laced a double that drove the Tiger fans into a frenzy, and then advanced to third on a groundout. Then Morrison blew Tim Lanier away on strikes, leaving one final hope for LSU. It was second baseman Warren Morris. A preseason All-American, Morris broke his hand and missed forty games before returning in time for the postseason. Morris came out swinging and made contact with Morrison's first pitch, sending it high in the air toward right field. From my vantage point, I could see it on a line-drive trajectory and didn't think it could make the fence. But that ball kept flying, kept flying, kept flying and finally landed in the outstretched arms of the bleacher bums. Morris circled the bases in his home run trot, the first one of the year, with fist raised up as the collective Tiger faithful roared its approval, surely not yet comprehending what had happened, and Miami star and future Phillies flame-out Pat Burrell laid face-down on the infield dirt. It's not every day you see a game-winning home run with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and it's downright absurd to see one in a championship game. So for that, I am thankful. (I float up and away from Rosenblatt through the sky and eventually the space-time continuum. It's itchy. Finally, I emerge...) Date: April 11, 2001 This match was almost called due to rain, and was undoubtedly saved by the constant rain-stopping commands eminating from my hotel room. Not only was it a fun early-season game, but it also featured plenty of stars like J.D. Drew, Albert Pujols, Matt Morris, Mark McGwire, Todd Helton and Larry Walker. McGwire in particular had been struggling, with zero homers so far on the season, and was suffering from a variety of nagging injuries and pains. He toughed it out for the home crowd though, and as he came to the plate in the seventh, they rewarded him by rising to their feet, as was the custom for his at-bats, despite having whiffed twice before. Big Mac summoned his massive strength and crushed a ball deep to right field which sailed over the fence with room to spare -- a rare opposite-field homer! Knowing it was his first one of the year, the fans went crazy and McGwire obliged with a curtain call. It would turn out to be McGwire's final season in the majors. (Oops, skipped ahead too far. Caught a glimpse of baseball in 2078, though. I saw some crazy stuff, man. Actually, crazy probably isn't even a good enough to describe it. That's how crazy it was.) Date: June 15, 2003 This interleague treat ended up being memorable for two reasons. The first was because it featured the best player in the game doing just what he does best. In the fourth inning, Barry Bonds, playing at DH, stepped in against miracle pitcher Jose Lima. Despite this being the third time I had seen him, I was no less awestruck; Bonds was on another planet. He took a Lima pitch onto his bat and, seemingly simultaneously, turned his powerful legs and arms with one motion and launched the poor ball deep into the right field decor in all of three seconds. That gave the Giants the lead, but the hometown Royals fought back, and they found themselves down by a run in the ninth. Angel Berroa looped a soft shot into the short outfield against closer Tim Worrell and dashed into second for a double. Berroa was sacrificed to third, and Worrell then quickly buried Aaron Guiel in an 0-2 count. But Guiel, who hadn't showed a history of extraordinary patience, stood his ground and made Worrell throw him a strike. He failed, and Guiel drew the walk. That brought up Kansas City star (and personal hero) Mike Sweeney. Even though I don't believe in clutch players, every time I've seen Sweeney live, he's gotten a big hit to help win the game. It must be that ESP meld. As you might guess, this time was no different, and Sweeney knocked a two-run shot into the gap to win the game. (A massive tornado now enterns the stadium and sucks me up into its whirling belly. It deposits me at my computer, looking at a finished article that has many spelling errors.) Fulfilled, I began to sneer at the cards and attempted to insult them. "Hey Gaetti", I said, "you ought to get on that Atkins diet." And I let John Smoltz know that he looked better without that beard. And I told Bob Brenly to learn how to manage. Finally, tired of being so damn right all the time, I went to sleep. Click on this unnecessarily long link to send me questions or comments. |
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©Copyright 2003
Phil Orr
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