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pasternakski -> Sometimes, it's almost too good... (7/28/2006 7:53:01 AM)
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There I was, 1918 historical, playing the Yankees with the only alteration being the acquisition of Ruth. It's a mediocre team, but I'm hoping to bring glory to it as the years pass.
Through grit and determination, we're in a hotter-than-he11 pennant race, five AL teams still in contention come September. Two games out in the loss column, playing the Senators in New York (Yankee Stadium is not even a glimmer in someone's eye yet) in a do-or-die series.
I'm discouraged. Eighth inning, down 4-1 to Walter Johnson. I'm thinking about next season and the improvements I need to make. We stage a rally. Two on, nobody out. Ruth strides to the plate, hitting .280 on the season, 7 HRs, 86 RBI. The enemy's closer is on the mound, and he's doggoned good. I'm grumbling and mumbling.
Imagine my amazement and joy as the Babe lofts one into the right field seats to tie the game! I'm hopping around doing the Tiger Woods fist pump (not that one) in my den, carrying on like a madman. My girlfriend pops in, chagrined look on her face, saying, "I guess you're doing all right in one of your dumb games, huh? I've got to go over to Mom's place for awhile, bye."
I figure, "Keep it up, honey, there's a million like you and better in Latina land."
I get back to work. We scratch out another run and are up 5-4 going into the top of the ninth. Man, I feel good. I put in my hotshot closer. One on, two out. Frank Schulte pops one into right field. I watch in astonishment and consternation as the screen displays the dreaded, but seldom seen, "Fly ball turns into home run" special result. 6-5 Senators, bottom of the ninth coming up.
The depths of despair I suffered, you cannot know. I rolled and cursed on the floor, clenching my fists at unfair god in his "I don't need relief pitchers, I got the #1 savior" heaven. My dog (Beagle) poked her head in to see what was wrong. She figured I was just temporarily nuts and would come to later on, so she left me to suffer through my misery.
My first tomato can batter up in the ninth popped up. I pinch hit for my pitcher. A base hit. "Big hairy deal," I thought. I considered trying to move the runner up in order to work toward tying the game, but figured, "Nah, I'm a dead duck, let's get it over with." My leadoff man flies out to center. We're going quietly. Two down.
Then, Wally Pipp draws a walk. Advancing to the plate is the barrel-chested figure of George Herman Ruth. Bottom of the ninth, down one run, two on, two out. I can't stand it. I just know I'm in for "anticlimax city." I steady myself, click on "enter," and watch in amazement as the Babe rips a 2-1 pitch into the left-center field gap for a triple, knocking in the tying and winning runs - two desperate clutch power hits in two innings in a crucial game.
Fortunately, I am still alive. I don't know if I could take another game like that.
Woo-hoo.
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