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Four Homeruns |
by James Pyle
"The season's over," I called before turning off the TV and dropping the remote on the floor.
"Oh," came my wife's voice from the kitchen. "I thought it didn't end until September."
"It doesn't."
Well that was true. The baseball season wouldn't end, technically, until October 1st when the Dodgers would play their final game against the Giants at Pac Bell Park, or SBC Park, or ATT Park, or whatever the hell they were calling that stupid stadium in San Francisco.
"Then why are you saying the season is over?" she asked sweetly.
Apparently, glaring at someone who's in another room with her back to you doesn't accomplish anything because she didn't shriek in pain or tell me to stop making a face.
"They just lost...again," I said, trying my best to emphasize the final word.
"So?"
"So they've played 14 games since the all-star break and they've lost 13 of them. They were in first place two weeks ago and now the freakin' Rockies have a better record."
"But there's still a lot of games left, right?"
I shook my head, biting back the venom threatening to erupt from my mouth. She didn't get it. 10 years on, and she still didn't understand how it worked. There might be a bunch of games left but there was no possible way the Dodgers could pull themselves out of the hole they'd dug over the last two weeks.
"Trust me, it's over."
"So you won't be watching any more games," she couldn't keep a hopeful tone from creeping in there at the end.
"Might as well stop eating," I snorted.
She didn't appreciate the sarcasm and took a moment to turn away from the dishes and grace me with one of the "you're being absolutely ridiculous" looks she tossed my way two or three times a week.
"Don't look at me that way."
She turned back to the dishes and refused to respond to every comment I made that night about baseball in general, and the pathetic Dodgers, in particular.
That was July 26th, 2006, eight days before the birth of our first child. Those next eight days would be chock full of false labor and doctors appointments. Of course, as the due date came and went, and our anxiety over the impending birth kept getting worse, wouldn't you know it, the Dodgers started playing like they cared, winning 19 of their next 22 games. Thanks to an emergency c-section on August 4th, and the subsequent "stuff" associated with having a newborn in the house, I watched exactly 4 1/3 innings of those 22 games.
Seems petty, I suppose. I had a brand new baby girl at home and I'm complaining about missing some stupid baseball games. But let's put it into perspective, the last time the Dodgers won any 19 out of 22 games was in 1894 (yeah, 1894) when they were known as the Superbas (and no, I don't know what the hell a "Superba" is). So even if you hate the Dodgers or couldn't care less about baseball, we're talking about something that happens with less frequency than Haley's Comet for christ's sake.
But don't get me wrong, the baby was awesome. I mean, except for the total lack of sleep, the realization that both my wife and I had absolutely no idea what the hell we were doing, the new found sense of terror that had settled on my shoulders like a lead cape after it occurred to me just how big of an infant deathtrap our house was. Other than that, yeah, everything was great. Really, that's not sarcasm.
Of course, whenever my wife caught me trying to sneak a few pitches, or an update on Baseball Tonight, she'd get a little pissed. Can't say I blame her, really. I mean, we had an actual kid in the house now, and here I am acting like one myself. Although, she did go a bit over board. She'd admit that later, or she'd half admit it, anyway. But you know, hormones and whatnot. Since the Dodgers had shot back up into first place I was able to declare that the baseball season re-opened, to which my wife's only response was a "look."
So it pretty much continued that way for a while. Gradually the kid started to figure out that darkness meant sleepy time, and by about the age of six weeks she was on a pretty good schedule. By that I mean she'd sleep about six hours at night before waking up to feed. Of course, she'd go down for good around 10, which meant she was up and cranky by 4 AM.
Then came September 19th. The Dodgers were at home playing the Padres and the boys in blue had a 1/2 game lead on San Diego. The other NL West teams had fallen back in the standings, so it was pretty clear that the division was coming down to either the Padres or the good guys (the Dodgers that is). For whatever reason, the Padres have a history of beating the Dodgers at the absolutely worst times. During the Padres' very first season, when they won something like 40 games total, they beat (and by beat, I mean absolutely demolished) the Dodgers on the final day of the season ensuring that the Dodgers finished 1 game out of first place. And this year had been no different since, up until this point in the season, the Pads had all but handed the Dodgers their asses by winning something like 12 out of 15 games. Needless to say, I was less than enthused about that 1/2 game lead.
Now, about this time my daughter had a habit of taking a nap around 6:30 in the evening until about 8. That was fine with me because I could let her sleep in my lap while I watched the first two innings of a game.
"Fuck you Mike Piazza!" I half shouted at the screen.
"Hey, watch the potty mouth, dad," came my wife's voice from the bedroom.
"But he just hit an RBI double," I pleaded, "and it's only the first inning. They're losing this game in very first god damn inning."
"You're daughter is trying to sleep on your lap," she reminded me with a hiss.
I looked down at the now restless small person in my arms and gently rocked her for a minute before spitting, "Jesus Christ."
"Now what?" my wife had an exasperated look on her face as she paced into the living room.
"Mike Cameron just hit a triple, two more runs scored. Brad Penny wants me to have a heart attack."
"I seriously doubt Brad Penny cares one way or the other about your heart," she replied levelly.
"Why else would he be throwing meatballs then, huh?" Well, that must have stumped her because she had no response.
In all, the Padres scored four runs that first inning, and I admitted defeat. My wife pointed out, something she must enjoy doing because she does so at every possible opportunity, that I have no faith in my team.
"Trust me," I said, "since 1988 there really hasn't been any reason to trust them."
"What happened in 1988?"
I tried to mask the sheer horror this question caused me…but I must have failed.
"Don't give me that look just tell me what happened."
"That was the last time the Dodgers won the World Series."
"Oh."
Oh she says! Offhandedly no less! Like it's no big deal winning the World Series. Well, maybe if you're a Yankees fan, but for the rest of us a World Series title doesn't come along every day. Just ask any Cubs fan. Hell, the Astros have never won it!
Despite my very real belief that this current Dodgers roster was secretly plotting to see me have a stroke by the end of the season, they actually battled back; one run in the bottom of the first, another in the second, two more in the third we had a tie game.
That's about when my daughter woke up looking for some dinner. My wife sat down in the big chair to breastfeed and after a little daddy daughter raspberry contest I handed over the kid. The wife, claiming she wouldn't have her nipples sucked sore AND watch baseball, made me turn the station.
After a while I flipped back to the game. Bottom of 6th, still tied 4-4.
"Why are baseball games so freakin' long?"
She asked that question, on average, 3.44 times per game. At 162 games a season (not counting the playoffs) that's 557.28 times in six months. After the first month I stopped hearing it all together, kinda like when you're concentrating on something and you no longer hear music that's playing in the background. I'd once tried to explain to her that baseball originated in a time (the 1800's) when leisure activities were scarce. Hell, it predated TV by something like 75 years! Back then, people wanted to watch something for four hours because the only other things they had going on were working, eating, sleeping, shitting and dying.
As expected, she hadn't accepted that answer and the argument went on for quite a while. I took the stand that the purity of the game called for it to stay the way it had always been played (or at least, as much as possible), she argued that unless it updated itself people would eventually lose interest. Might as well have called the Virgin Mary a whore!
We gave the kid a bath. She was too big for the weird netting thing, so she was sitting in an infant tub, propped up by an inclined seat. We got lucky there. I've been told some kids absolutely hate the bath, even at a really young age but our girl loved it from day one, and she found it particularly enjoyable to chew on her rubber ducky. For some reason, I had always envisioned bathing a very small child as a delicate and time consuming operation. Turns out it's not that hard, and since she's so small it doesn't really take that long.
By the time we were done, though, it was the bottom of the eighth. Obviously, the Dodgers had decided to spare me the actual pain of watching them lose because they were now down by two runs. Marlon Anderson was standing on third with no outs, so that was a positive, but Wilson Betemit was at the plate, which never inspired much confidence. I stood in front of the TV for a minute while my wife finished putting the kid in some pajamas, and against all expectation Betemit hit a single to drive in Anderson and the cut the lead to one. Olmedo Saenz then came on to pinch hit and struck out, but I couldn't really fault Saenz. Pinch hitting is, flat out, the most difficult thing to do in all of sports, and he'd been pretty solid all year. Besides, there was only one out. Furcal followed Saenz and I was momentarily filled with jubilation as he hit a deep fly ball to left, but the moment faded quickly into middling depression as the ball was caught for the second out. Kenny Lofton then doubled, sending Betemit to third and I was practically bouncing as Nomar came to the plate.
My wife came out holding the kid.
"I'm going to rock her for a little bit," she said, "she's tired, but restless."
"OK," I bent down and kissed the kid on the cheek, "if you hurry you can come and watch the ninth inning with me."
"Oh joy," she said before turning back toward the kid's room.
Now Nomar isn't quite the player he once was, but he'd had a pretty good year so I had reason to be optimistic and hey, maybe the Dodgers would finally take the lead. The really great thing about Nomar is that he hardly ever strikes out. In fact, over the course of his career he's struck out only about 10 percent of the time. He takes a lot of pitches and almost always puts the ball in play. Now, I can't be positive, Nomar's always seemed a nice guy, but he must have been in on the conspiracy against me because, wouldn't you know, this time he did strike out.
Shaking my head in disappointment I walked over to the baby monitor and switched it on. The little red lights were flickering and the tinny voice of my very upset daughter erupted from the small speaker. She had been getting better about falling asleep at night, but it looked like tonight wasn't going to be easy. I walked down the hall and carefully opened the door to my daughter's room. The orange night light made it feel like a dark room. My wife was sitting in the rocker with the kid lying on her chest. She'd stopped screaming, but obviously couldn't get comfortable because she was squirming in my wife's arms.
"You want me to rock her?" I whispered.
"No, she just needs to wind herself down."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm just going to rock her for 10 more minutes. Go watch the rest of the game."
"OK, just call me if you need anything."
I couldn't have been in the room longer than a minute, really. Although, sometimes I catch myself staring at my daughter's face and time just sorta slips by. That must have happened here because when I got back into the living room the Padres had the bases loaded with one out. And god damn it, Takashi Saito was on the mound! If the best pitcher in the Dodgers bullpen (and one of the best closers in the National League, no less) couldn't keep the Padres from loading the bases then there really was no hope. A wild pitch, a sac fly and a single later and the Padres had put up three more runs. Saito finally got the third out, but going into the bottom of the ninth the Dodgers were trailing 9 to 5. Three outs to score four runs. Just as the commercials came on the lights on the baby monitor started jumping. I shut the TV off, no point in watching anyway, and went back into my daughter's room.
One look at my wife's face and I knew she was done. People will say that you're always tired during the first few months with a new baby. But simply saying you'll be "tired" is a bit like saying Mt. Everest is tall. It's true, I guess, but doesn't adequately explain the reality of the situation. You are tired every second of the day. But sometimes, such as was the case with my wife right at that moment, exhaustion would hit you like a brick in the face. Add to that a screaming, inconsolable infant, and well, you kinda know what hell must be like.
"Let me take her," I said.
"You sure?"
I don't know if all mothers are the same way, but my wife had a hard time admitting that sometimes, she needed a break.
"Yeah, you need to sleep and I'm not that tired."
"But you have to work in the morning."
"And you have to take care of the kid tomorrow, come on, I've got her."
I took my daughter, she wasn't fully screaming now, more like forcefully declaring her dislike of the current situation. My wife lumbered up out of the rocker, half-heartedly kissed my cheek and lurched out of the room. I didn't sit down. Sometimes, I don't know why, the kid wanted to be walked around. In fact, she fell into a fitful sleep almost instantly, but I knew the second I tried to sit in the chair or, god forbid, put her in the crib, she'd be up and screaming in a second flat.
It was like a test of endurance. Could I walk around slowly, holding this (surprisingly heavy) baby, patting her back until she fell into a deep sleep before I tumbled over from fatigue? Luckily, all the screaming must have really gotten to the kid because it seemed only a few minutes before she had stopped wriggling and was breathing the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Very slowly, I laid the kid down and patted her tummy for a minute while she got comfortable, and once satisfied that she really was down I carefully left the room. My wife had been so tired she hadn't shut the door to our bedroom. I was pretty tired but since another five minutes of sleep wouldn't make a real difference in the end, I turned the TV back on. Might as well find out the final score.
"Fuck me in the ASS!"
"What?" my wife's head whipped up, "what's wrong."
The couch in our living room is about 3 feet from the door to our bedroom, and my wife was lying down about another foot inside the room. Add to that a new mother's instinctive reaction to wake up at the slightest noise and my outburst was ill advised to say the least.
"Nothing, sorry, go back to sleep."
"Is she OK?"
"Yeah, she's fine, she's asleep."
My wife nodded briefly before her head hit the pillow. I got up and, as quietly as possible, shut the bedroom door before turning back to the TV. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was 9-9 and the Padres were batting in the top of the 10th. Somehow, inexplicably, the Dodgers had scored 4 runs in the bottom of the ninth to tie the game.
Dave Roberts (a former Dodger, in fact) was leading off the inning but he lined out to center. As I turned up the volume on the TV I heard the voice of Vin Scully say, "...an improbable turn of events as the Dodgers hit four consecutive homeruns in the bottom of the 9th inning to tie the game."
What the fuck?
Did I hear that right, or is ol' Vin finally going senile? I mean, dude's been doing this since the team played in Brooklyn for christ's sake, maybe he finally snapped?
But then, in between batters, they show the highlights. Vin was right. Jeff Kent led off the inning with a shot to center, JD Drew followed with a bomb to right. The Padres then brought in Trevor Hoffman, only the guy with the most career saves EVER, but Russell Martin crushes one into left anyway. Next up, Marlon Anderson, on the first pitch he sees, goes yard to right.
Shit.
I can't remember the last time anyone even mentioned a team going back to back to back to back homeruns. And I know a thing or two about baseball history.
Turns out, the last time that happened was in 1967 when the Twins did it to the Tigers. Of course, in that game the four homeruns didn't come in the bottom of the 9th, in September, in the middle of a pennant race, against the team's chief rival for a playoff spot.
I've witnessed only a handful of truly great things in all my years as a baseball fan. And only two of those have been connected with the Dodgers. The first came when I was ten; a gimpy, barely able to walk, Kirk Gibson hit a walk-off homerun against Dennis Eckersley (the most dominant closer of his day) to beat the heavily favored Oakland A's in game one of the World Series (the Dodgers then went on to win the series in only five games). I watched that game on TV, and after Gibson's homerun I ran around my living room "whooping" non-stop for an hour.
The second actually happened to the Dodgers. On July 28 1991 I was at Dodger Stadium to see the boys in blue take on the Montreal Expos. That day the Dodgers managed exactly zero runs, zero hits, zero walks even. Dennis Martinez, the starting pitcher for the Expos, threw only the (then) 16th perfect game in the history of Major League Baseball. Now, sure it would have been better had the Dodgers managed the perfect game, but nevertheless, watching history unfold right in front of you is pretty damn awesome. And here, in a game where the Dodgers kept coming back from seemingly insurmountable leads, I missed what was another truly special moment. Oh sure, I saw all the replays over the next couple days, but so what. It only magnified the fact that I hadn't actually seen it as it happened.
Sitting on my couch, in a state of shock, I watched as the Padres put up another run in the top of the 10th. This had to have been one of the great games of all time, didn't it? Obviously, it'd be greater if the Dodgers won, but even after seeing four consecutive homeruns hit against them, the Padres still managed to come back and score in the next inning. You had to hand it to them, the Pads never gave up in this game.
Of course, that run only helped to confirm my conspiracy theory. If the Dodgers could hit four homeruns in a row and STILL not win a game, well, then I couldn't just be crazy. They did get out of the top of the 10th having only allowed the one run, and scoring another run was certainly possible given what the Dodgers had done in the last inning. But this time I was sitting squarely in front of the TV, actually watching the game, so I didn't give them much chance.
Kenny Lofton led off the inning, and after a tough at bat finally worked the count to get a walk. All in all, it was a nice start to the inning. Lofton once hit 15 homeruns in a season, but he's never been a power guy, so getting on base is all you could really ask of him. Then came Nomar again. He was playing injured, and like I said, he'd been having a good year but had fallen off a lot over the last month due a few nagging injuries. In fact, since the All-Star break his batting average had dropped nearly 40 points. He was still hitting above .300, but I can't be faulted for not having a whole lot of faith at this point. Honestly, I was just hoping he didn't ground into a double play. Kent, Drew and Martin were all due to follow Nomar, so I was really hanging my hopes on Kent and his four previous hits in that game.
Beyond all expectation, though, Nomar crushed a fastball into deep left and the Dodgers won 10-9. My usual "celebration dance" (which I won't explain in detail, but if you think about a semi-nerdy, pasty white guy with a few extra pounds prancing around his living room with a variety of groin thrusts and fists pumps you'll get a pretty good picture) was fairly muted. I let slip a small "whoop" and froze as the red lights on the baby monitor briefly flared. Once they had died down, though, I finished off the dancing with a little "cabbage patch" action before throwing some whispered "suck it Padres" at the screen.
I shut the TV off and stood in the dark for a second letting my eyes adjust. I did my best to quietly make my way to the hall but ended up kicking the baby swing with my left foot. It went unnoticed, apparently, as neither mother nor daughter jerked awake. Once past the swing I crept back into my daughter's room. I heard some rustling from the crib and stopped at the door. Once she had resettled I tiptoed over to the crib and peered down. I tried to watch my daughter sleep for a few minutes every night before I went to bed. It occurred to me then that if I never saw the Dodgers hit back to back to back to back homeruns it really wouldn't matter. Not compared to what I'd be doing for the rest of my life as the father of this child.
Then again…if I could use some sort of mind manipulation to get this tiny little person as obsessively compulsive about the Dodgers as I was, maybe we could see the next four homerun inning together.
James Pyle has attended two different private (read: expensive) universities in Southern California and has little (other than a serious amount of student loan debt) to show for it. He generally writes either mediocre modern fantasy or mediocre web comics. You can visit his online persona Kilian at normalityrestored.com.
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