Baseball is Life: Parts I and II

Part 1: 0-2 and 722

The once mighty slugger, a fallen hero, limped up to the plate as if he were weary of chasing ghosts. Flashes lit up the summer night sky as they had for many years, but the venom of the boobirds rained down relentlessly as if he had murdered their children or something. Oh, yes, he was still imposing, he still had the ability to scare the opposing pitcher into walking him, and by no means could you throw meat at the plate and not expect him to hit another of his many homers. Still, there were ghosts in his swing, ghosts holding his bat back, slowing it down, whispering that he was nearing the end of his controversial journey.

There were signs, plenty of anti-Barry signs, including a copy of the Ruth with hotdogs line that has become the anti-Barry slogan. I stood up and cheered for every Barry at bat, feeling like a Democrat in a sea of Republicans. There were a few of us who rose to our feet to cheer on the man, knowing full well that this could be the last time we ever witnessed him in a Major League uniform. A few goosebumps popped up when the scoreboard said "second all time in home runs." How many of those had I seen in those two glorious seasons I witnessed in San Fran? Some memories flooded back, those days when that beautiful temple called Pac Bell Park was my playground, my escape from the realities of voluntary confinement and impending war, when I struggled to hold on to the last shreds of youthful innocence, memories that are my own ghosts. Those magic seasons of numbers, of 73, .370, 600, .585, a World Series, those are mine as much as his. They belong to me, to Giants fans, baseball historians, and lovers of the game.

Dear Boobirds: You don't know. You didn't watch him day in and day out. You didn't feel the way the air changed every time he stood on the on-deck circle. You didn't breathe in the magic, the electricity, the aura of the man who could do everything. You didn't love him for saving your storied franchise from moving out of San Francisco. (For the record, I can't identify with San Franciscans on this one, but I respect it dearly.) You hate him because you think he spoiled your game. You hate him because you think he stands for everything that is wrong with baseball. Look at these numbers! Do they not make you reach back into the throes of baseball history in your mind, make your jaw drop, make you think, wow, I was lucky I got to watch this guy play? How can they not? Is your baseball soul dead?

He wanted to be the best. While other ballplayers grew fat with vacation in the winters, baseball's second best home run hitter worked out six hours a day, six days a week. His body broke down. He grew weary from the constant scrutiny, the rude media, the critics. Tell me, is it so wrong to do everything you can to make the pain go away?

A walk, another walk, 0-2 he went as he limped around on his battered legs. If only he had been a nice guy.

Part 2: 5-0 since the Grand Reopening (and 3-0 for me)

Yep, I sure did go to my third Nats game in five games last night. Those $3 tickets are kind of difficult to pass up, and yes, suprisingly, they are decent seats, though there aren't many seats in RFK that aren't decent, not like old Riverfront where you'd sometimes see Jesus sitting on a cloud next to you. We had tix only two sections over from where I normally sit if I choose to sit in leftfield, which I did so I could watch Barry. Of course, the normal moving to better seats closer to third base happened.

Bottom of the ninth, home team down 3-2, a walk, a walk, a hit by the rookie! A game winning sac fly by Austin Kearns! Bang zoom go the fireworks!

It seems like the discrepencies between the announced crowds and the actual number in attendence are growing. There were not 30,248 bodies at RFK last night, unless there were about 5,000 in the new food court who left when it closed in the FIFTH INNING. (Not that I'm going to be spending $11 for a miniscule crab cake when I am supposed to be eating a HOT DOG at a baseball game, but the closing time is ridiculous.)

In light of yesterday's brief memoir of baseball card collecting, I think I should go out and buy every Ryan Zimmerman card out there since he is going to be the best third baseman of all time. (Michael Jack Schmidt from Dayton, Ohio, eat your heart out.) I keep forgeting he's a rookie on account of his veteran-like clutch hitting. It may have been Austin Kearns' sac fly that won the game, but it was Zim's hit that tied it.

What a game! What a night! What a show!