In all the sporting world, only the game of baseball nurtures the practice of hope on a moment by moment basis. The Dodgers' Game 2 victory over the St. Louis Cardinals in the NLDS produced this observation. If you'll recall, the Dodgers trailed 2-0 with none on and two out in the bottom of the 9th when left fielder Matt Holiday dropped a fly ball that would have been the third out. Every baseball fan in Los Angeles, St. Louis, and every where else had the same thought: "Uh-oh! Is this the start of something?" And it was.
Think about it: Your team trails in the bottom of the 9th by a couple of runs with two outs, just as the Dodgers did and the third batter quickly falls behind 0-2. . . . "Ball one" and hope, however faint, is still alive. Maybe he fouls a couple off and you begin thinking that he's starting to catch up to the pitcher's fast ball. He works the count full and now your hope is even higher. One more ball and the tie run comes to the plate. Ball four. Fans begin to look at each other. Maybe?
The next batter falls behind and the hope ebbs, but he lines a single to left and now the tie run is in scoring position.
The next batter walks after a 10 pitch at-bat; every pitch eliciting a groan or a cheer. Hope now runs through the crowd like the wave. The bases are loaded when the sixth batter of the inning runs the count full. The crowd is in a frenzy, yet, one more pitch could end the game as if the rally had never occurred and all that hoping would be for naught. It doesn't matter. It's the hoping that counts. Hope is a human function that needs to be exercised just like one's muscles.
These things don't happen in football. If your team trails by three touchdowns with 2 minutes left, you've lost! You might even score two touchdowns, but you're not going to score a third. Even if you trail by only one touchdown late in the game and the quarterback drops back for a bomb downfield, your hope will be rewarded or dashed in an instant. No one moves to the edge of his seat in anticipation because the halfback was sent in motion before the snap. Baseball fans, on the other hand, will cheer the fact that the pitcher has stepped to the back of the mound, removed his cap, and wiped his brow.
"It's a sign he's in trouble!"
As for the hypothetical baseball game which I just described, if you're a baseball fan, you already know what happened.
In my mind, as a fan, there is nothing as thrilling as winning a game I considered lost. In September of '08, the Cubs were playing a rubber-game in a series against the Brewers. Milwaukee was ahead 6-2 going into the bottom of the ninth, and their pitcher (Salomon Torres, I believe it was) got two quick outs to start the inning. We're down four runs with two outs in the bottom of the ninth and have nobody on base. Game over. Or at least it probably should have been. Before anybody knew what was happening, Aramis Ramirez doubled, Jim Edmonds and Mark DeRosa hit back to back singles, and Geovany Soto knocked a three-run homer to tie it. The Cubs ended up winning in extras. In baseball ANYTHING can happen and, yes, that is a huge part of what makes it special. It's also why I refuse to leave any game until it is over.
On the flip side, nothing stings like being on the other end of an improbable comeback. I certainly know how that feels, too, and I will admit to feeling for the Cardinals after that game in the NLDS. That ain't no fun and I think I'll always sympathize with anybody who has that happen to them in the postseason.
Posted by: Lizzy K | November 03, 2009 at 10:42 PM
Lizzy, it's amazing how you remember exactly what happened in that game! Baseball makes an impression like that. Is it April yet?
Posted by: Austin | November 04, 2009 at 08:03 AM