Cathryn (formerly catslash) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remindmeofthe) wrote2005-10-10 01:34 pm
remindmeofthe) wrote2005-10-10 01:34 pm
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I'm going through my sports blog round, which of which is about the Red Sox, and I find myself going, "Oh, yeah, them. I forgot about them." What can I say, eighteen inning victories give me tunnel vision liek WO.
(With both the Tigers and the Red Sox, though, I am much looking forward to offseason moves. Can't wait to see who we'll ditch and who we'll acquire. This is gonna be fun. And potentially breaky, but I'll deal with that when it comes. I cannot think of a single thing that could hurt worse than trade deadline did, anyway. And that seems to have worked out nicely for me in the long run, but I'll get to that.)
My sparing post yesterday, while probably more interesting than the drivel I am about to burst out with, was because I simply couldn't do anything more. There needed to be a commemorative post, but I was still processing that game and I could not dig any deeper than a list of statistics and a few overwrought adjectives. So I decided to save the more personal post for today. And here it is.
Having been on a four to midnight work schedule the past few weeks, my sleep schedule is all askew, so I rolled out of bed, oh, half an hour before the game's one o'clock start time. There was coffee, there was chatting, and then there was baseball, and man was I excited. Getting to watch my 'Stros on TV kicks ass, and I decided that regular season superstitions don't necessarily apply to postseason - you need a whole new set for different circumstances - and thus, I was allowed to watch the Astros. Maybe it only applies to MLBTV or something. I don't know.
While I watched the game, I chatted with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beckla30, who was also watching - she got all sucked into the Braves after the Farns trade, so that was kinda fun. At one point, during the seventh or maybe top of the eighth inning, I said, "This has been a weird series. Have you noticed that none of these games have been close?"
TheFarns baseball gods must have heard me.
Okay, so it's the bottom of the eighth, 6-1 Braves, and Adam LaRoche (grand slam) and Brian McCann (gratuitous homer, brat) are on my shit list. Tim Hudson is actually not, even though he's held the 'Stros down nicely. Except now he's let two on, and here comes the bullpen, and it's RALLY CAP TIME.
The Braves bullpen is why I have not despaired in spite of the score, because the Braves bullpen? Suuuuucks. From what I have heard about it and seen of it, I think it could beat the Red Sox bullpen in a contest of suck. And the Astros have already proved twice in this series that they can bash through that bullpen and make them pay.
And oh look, it's the Farns. (beckla30: "you know your bullpen is bad when you have to bring your closer into the 8th inning.") The Farns has been the most reliable non-starter for the Braves for like the last month. The Farns has been doing in Atlanta what he did in Detroit. The Farns could shut this down.
OH MY GOD WE ARE SO GOING TO WIN.
Okay, now that the series is over, I am allowed to say out loud what I have been thinking for the past week, as unkind and traitorous as it is:
I knew the Farns would have a crucial meltdown that would give my boys the series. I just did. I knew it like the time I knew Edgar Rentería would get his grand slam off Paul Quantrill. I didn't like it, because I love the Farns, but I was utterly confident that he would give us this series. Admittedly, the specific scenario I allowed myself to envision involved my Houston boyfriend Morgan and a walkoff homer, but I'm not gonna complain.
So as soon as I saw him come out, instead of grumbling because I'd been hoping for Chris "I suck so bad even the Royals would have punted my ass by now" Reitsma, I perked right up. Because now, behind 6-1 in the eighth, with a solid closer taking over for the opposition, we had this game in the bag.
The Farns started off well, inducing a fielder's choice, but then there was this insane wild pitch that allowed Bruntlett and Ausmus to steal third and second, respectively. Then he walked Luke Scott.
And Lance Berkman came up to bat, and made history with the first-ever second grand slam in a postseason game.
Next inning? The Farns comes back out, and damn, you know the bullpen is trash when they send out the guy who just gave up the grand slam. He gets two outs, and the game is almost over, and we're almost headed to Atlanta, and I'm so spastic at this point that I cannot make words or tell you which way is up. And here's Brad Ausmus, which is kind of a surprise, everyone expected Garner to pinch hit Jeff Bagwell, because Ausmus is not so much the offensive machine, even though he has been damn productive in this series.
He hits the ball, it bounces off the wall, I'm cheering because I think it's a double, which is much better than a final out. Then I hear the word "homerun," and the reply shows the yellow line, and I scream because we're going into extra innings, and I was right about the Farns, and there's no room in my head to be sorry about that because the Astros are my boys and I cannot be sorry, I cannot see past the uniform right now. I just can't. The Brave on the mound just blew a five run lead and gave us a chance and that is all I can let myself know right now.
Oh, yeah, and Reitsma the Sucktastic? Pitched the next two innings of scoreless relief. Baseball is weird.
Two exciting moments in the bottom of the tenth:
* Luke Scott damn near gets a homerun. It's so close that he's motoring around the bases cheering, only to stop in bafflement when it's called a foul. See, the ball veered at the last possible second to wrap foul around the pole. And so the game continues.
* Jeff Bagwell finally comes in to pinch hit after an intentional walk is issued to Morgan Ensberg. The announcers are gabbling, the crowd is screaming, the poetry of the moment is perfect, Jeff Bagwell, DLed most of the season for surgery, an Astro for so long, coming in to win the Division Series in a pinch hit appearance with exactly one arm at one hundred percent . . . and he flies out. Baseball goes by its own script.
As we go into the twelfth inning, I check my watch: ten minutes of five. My mom is going to be here in about ten minutes, and we're supposed to go out for dinner. Dammit.
Now, the woman is a baseball fan, being as she is married to a man who eats, sleeps, breathes, and lives the sport, so she understood when I wanted to make plans for evening instead of our usual afternoon plans so I could watch the game. And when I call her now, she understands right away that we will not be going anywhere till the game is over. I don't have to ask, and she doesn't have to say. We both just know. Dinner can wait.
And bless her and her patience through two hours and six innings. She entertained herself folding the plastic bags I have lying around my room. She listened to me say about eight thousand times how cool it was to watch Roger Clemens pitch (apparently, I am allowed to watch him pitch as long as it's a relief appearance and not a start. How useful). She listened to my other hysterical gibberings that I no longer remember, and only made fun of my rallycap a little (of COURSE I wore it for ten solid innings, why on earth would I take it off?). She refused to listen when, in the sixteenth or seventeenth inning, I suggested that I just have a friend text my cell when the game ended, saying she would feel terrible if my boys won and I missed it.
And really, she probably saved my sanity. She made me laugh plenty, which helped relieve some of the tension of watching what became the longest postseason game in history, kept up some small talk, made jokes about how ridiculously long the game was getting, and at no point did she act put-upon for having to wait. She could have, since we'd made plans that were being delayed in favor of a game, but she didn't. She watched with me and said afterwards that she'd had fun. And when Chris Burke hit that walkoff homer in the eighteenth inning, she watched me jump around and scream for a moment before suggesting that maybe it was time to leave now.
She called my stepfather after the game, and I heard her say something about thinking I was going to burst into flames. Can't imagine why.
Just before we walked out the door, I had the presence of mind to jam a blank tape into the VCR and hit the Record button. And I am so glad I did, because now I have the champagne celebration, Phil Garner's press conference, Chris Burke's press conference, and the SportsCenter hightlight reel on tape.
What a game, what an experience, what a day.
That's not half of what I wanted to say, but I needed to start getting ready for work ten minutes ago, and also I have no time to proofread, so please pardon all typos.
(With both the Tigers and the Red Sox, though, I am much looking forward to offseason moves. Can't wait to see who we'll ditch and who we'll acquire. This is gonna be fun. And potentially breaky, but I'll deal with that when it comes. I cannot think of a single thing that could hurt worse than trade deadline did, anyway. And that seems to have worked out nicely for me in the long run, but I'll get to that.)
My sparing post yesterday, while probably more interesting than the drivel I am about to burst out with, was because I simply couldn't do anything more. There needed to be a commemorative post, but I was still processing that game and I could not dig any deeper than a list of statistics and a few overwrought adjectives. So I decided to save the more personal post for today. And here it is.
Having been on a four to midnight work schedule the past few weeks, my sleep schedule is all askew, so I rolled out of bed, oh, half an hour before the game's one o'clock start time. There was coffee, there was chatting, and then there was baseball, and man was I excited. Getting to watch my 'Stros on TV kicks ass, and I decided that regular season superstitions don't necessarily apply to postseason - you need a whole new set for different circumstances - and thus, I was allowed to watch the Astros. Maybe it only applies to MLBTV or something. I don't know.
While I watched the game, I chatted with
beckla30, who was also watching - she got all sucked into the Braves after the Farns trade, so that was kinda fun. At one point, during the seventh or maybe top of the eighth inning, I said, "This has been a weird series. Have you noticed that none of these games have been close?"The
Okay, so it's the bottom of the eighth, 6-1 Braves, and Adam LaRoche (grand slam) and Brian McCann (gratuitous homer, brat) are on my shit list. Tim Hudson is actually not, even though he's held the 'Stros down nicely. Except now he's let two on, and here comes the bullpen, and it's RALLY CAP TIME.
The Braves bullpen is why I have not despaired in spite of the score, because the Braves bullpen? Suuuuucks. From what I have heard about it and seen of it, I think it could beat the Red Sox bullpen in a contest of suck. And the Astros have already proved twice in this series that they can bash through that bullpen and make them pay.
And oh look, it's the Farns. (
beckla30: "you know your bullpen is bad when you have to bring your closer into the 8th inning.") The Farns has been the most reliable non-starter for the Braves for like the last month. The Farns has been doing in Atlanta what he did in Detroit. The Farns could shut this down.OH MY GOD WE ARE SO GOING TO WIN.
Okay, now that the series is over, I am allowed to say out loud what I have been thinking for the past week, as unkind and traitorous as it is:
I knew the Farns would have a crucial meltdown that would give my boys the series. I just did. I knew it like the time I knew Edgar Rentería would get his grand slam off Paul Quantrill. I didn't like it, because I love the Farns, but I was utterly confident that he would give us this series. Admittedly, the specific scenario I allowed myself to envision involved my Houston boyfriend Morgan and a walkoff homer, but I'm not gonna complain.
So as soon as I saw him come out, instead of grumbling because I'd been hoping for Chris "I suck so bad even the Royals would have punted my ass by now" Reitsma, I perked right up. Because now, behind 6-1 in the eighth, with a solid closer taking over for the opposition, we had this game in the bag.
The Farns started off well, inducing a fielder's choice, but then there was this insane wild pitch that allowed Bruntlett and Ausmus to steal third and second, respectively. Then he walked Luke Scott.
And Lance Berkman came up to bat, and made history with the first-ever second grand slam in a postseason game.
Next inning? The Farns comes back out, and damn, you know the bullpen is trash when they send out the guy who just gave up the grand slam. He gets two outs, and the game is almost over, and we're almost headed to Atlanta, and I'm so spastic at this point that I cannot make words or tell you which way is up. And here's Brad Ausmus, which is kind of a surprise, everyone expected Garner to pinch hit Jeff Bagwell, because Ausmus is not so much the offensive machine, even though he has been damn productive in this series.
He hits the ball, it bounces off the wall, I'm cheering because I think it's a double, which is much better than a final out. Then I hear the word "homerun," and the reply shows the yellow line, and I scream because we're going into extra innings, and I was right about the Farns, and there's no room in my head to be sorry about that because the Astros are my boys and I cannot be sorry, I cannot see past the uniform right now. I just can't. The Brave on the mound just blew a five run lead and gave us a chance and that is all I can let myself know right now.
Oh, yeah, and Reitsma the Sucktastic? Pitched the next two innings of scoreless relief. Baseball is weird.
Two exciting moments in the bottom of the tenth:
* Luke Scott damn near gets a homerun. It's so close that he's motoring around the bases cheering, only to stop in bafflement when it's called a foul. See, the ball veered at the last possible second to wrap foul around the pole. And so the game continues.
* Jeff Bagwell finally comes in to pinch hit after an intentional walk is issued to Morgan Ensberg. The announcers are gabbling, the crowd is screaming, the poetry of the moment is perfect, Jeff Bagwell, DLed most of the season for surgery, an Astro for so long, coming in to win the Division Series in a pinch hit appearance with exactly one arm at one hundred percent . . . and he flies out. Baseball goes by its own script.
As we go into the twelfth inning, I check my watch: ten minutes of five. My mom is going to be here in about ten minutes, and we're supposed to go out for dinner. Dammit.
Now, the woman is a baseball fan, being as she is married to a man who eats, sleeps, breathes, and lives the sport, so she understood when I wanted to make plans for evening instead of our usual afternoon plans so I could watch the game. And when I call her now, she understands right away that we will not be going anywhere till the game is over. I don't have to ask, and she doesn't have to say. We both just know. Dinner can wait.
And bless her and her patience through two hours and six innings. She entertained herself folding the plastic bags I have lying around my room. She listened to me say about eight thousand times how cool it was to watch Roger Clemens pitch (apparently, I am allowed to watch him pitch as long as it's a relief appearance and not a start. How useful). She listened to my other hysterical gibberings that I no longer remember, and only made fun of my rallycap a little (of COURSE I wore it for ten solid innings, why on earth would I take it off?). She refused to listen when, in the sixteenth or seventeenth inning, I suggested that I just have a friend text my cell when the game ended, saying she would feel terrible if my boys won and I missed it.
And really, she probably saved my sanity. She made me laugh plenty, which helped relieve some of the tension of watching what became the longest postseason game in history, kept up some small talk, made jokes about how ridiculously long the game was getting, and at no point did she act put-upon for having to wait. She could have, since we'd made plans that were being delayed in favor of a game, but she didn't. She watched with me and said afterwards that she'd had fun. And when Chris Burke hit that walkoff homer in the eighteenth inning, she watched me jump around and scream for a moment before suggesting that maybe it was time to leave now.
She called my stepfather after the game, and I heard her say something about thinking I was going to burst into flames. Can't imagine why.
Just before we walked out the door, I had the presence of mind to jam a blank tape into the VCR and hit the Record button. And I am so glad I did, because now I have the champagne celebration, Phil Garner's press conference, Chris Burke's press conference, and the SportsCenter hightlight reel on tape.
What a game, what an experience, what a day.
That's not half of what I wanted to say, but I needed to start getting ready for work ten minutes ago, and also I have no time to proofread, so please pardon all typos.