Game 7 - World Series

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There's nothing bigger for the game of baseball than a game seven in a World Series. This is the moment when all things collide and all the patience, calm and the incorrect perception of baseball's  non-challance is challenged because of the immediacy of now. There is no tomorrow for these two teams, the Giants and the Royals. They both die tonight. One dies a champion and goes on to immortality. The other dies the runner-up, and fades from memory. All the greatness of the season, small and large, save for the winning team, won't matter after tonight.

The weather has cooled considerably. Winter is beyond knocking at the door, it's two steps inside and preparing to sit down. This is death. It is inevitable.

I've been asked by a lot of friends, family and fellow fans if I'll be cheering for the Giants tonight. After all, they're from the Bay Area, just like my beloved A's. These kind people are casual fans. They don't understand border skirmishes in sports and the particularly dire spat between the A's and Giants over a thing called "territorial rights". In short, no, I will not be cheering for the Giants tonight.

What about the Royals, then? They're the feel-great story of the season, right? A team that has been mired in mediocrity for decades that slowly began to simmer at the end of last season, scratched and clawed it's way into the post-season then flat steam-rolled the Angels and Orioles on the way to the World Series. They're also from the American League. Yay, DH, right?

No. Those Royal pissants urinated in my playoff Cheerios what seems like a year ago and last night at the same time. I despise them like a Kirk Gibson elbow pump (link intentionally left out because eff Kirk Gibson).

What will I be cheering for, then? A great game. I hope these two teams leave it all on the field. I hope the defense plays fundamentally sound, the pitchers paint the corners and a hitter or two leaves the yard to the shock and delight of all fans in a wild cacophony of black, orange and royal blue. I hope there are no injuries. I sincerely hope it's a great game. And I cheer for its end, too, so I might let go, more completely, of my ridiculous lingering disappointment over the A's not finding away to beat the Royals back in that horrid wildcard game. Cheering for death is not morbid, it's just a coping mechanism that encourages the cool darkness along so that warm, hopeful life might return again next spring.

Only if you're a fan

The Boys of Summer continues to roll along, but we need your help to complete this year's journey. Please see our site for the latest on how to contribute. Thank you!

I won’t defend or try to explain why I’m up in the middle of the night writing this when I should be in bed, asleep, preparing for another busy day of getting the kids ready, work and honey-do’s that are way past due. The only thing I can offer is I’m a fan.

Last night, my favorite baseball team, the Oakland A’s, played one of the most thrilling and heart-obliterating games I’ve ever experienced in over thirty years of loving this game. A completely impossible hero in Brandon Moss hit two monster home runs to give the A’s leads and confidence that appeared insurmountable. Jon Lester was pitching with a 7-3 lead in a way that he looked every bit the pitcher that was almost unhittable in last year’s playoffs for the Red Sox. Then came the eighth inning, which will live in my head, like a sideways eight – infinitely, horribly nightmarishly. The hits. The walk. The inevitable feeling that if a Royal touched first he’d be on third before you could blink. The A’s were defenseless against these little speed gnats. It was a death not of a thousand cuts but rather of a thousand steps. From the moment A's catcher and defensively superior Geovany Soto went out after the second inning having suffered a thumb injury, I had an awful feeling about the possibility of what the Royals might do against Derek Norris. They did all of that and worse.

But it wasn’t a complete meltdown – not yet. The A’s held a one-run lead and loaded the bases in the 9^th only to, once again, leave them loaded, something they’ve done with incredible efficiency over the past six weeks. They still had their closer for the bottom of the 9^th with the one run lead. But when a Royal bloop single found the field, it was almost a foregone conclusion that runner would find home plate. And damned if he didn’t a few minutes later. Tie ball game. Onward – if you must. I wish I didn’t. But I’m a fan.

The 10^th and 11^th went quickly, but the 12^th offered that slippery bitch named hope. The A’s squeaked in a run to take an 8-7 lead. The Royals would once again answer in their half, tying the ball game. Then they’d do one better and walk off with the win. Game over. Details are for recaps and this is not meant to be that.

This season, as a whole, has been remarkable journey for my dad and me. We saw this A’s team back in Spring Training. We fell in love with the group and were in awe of their potential. They jumped out of the gate and set the league on fire for three straight months. They were 99.9 percent favorites to make the playoffs through that run, often winning in historic, crushing fashion, doing just about everything right. During that streak, dad came down to Vegas and he had a great streak of his own, recovering bits of health and hope in his own life that led to parallel tracks between what the A’s were doing and what he was doing. It’s silly, I know, to tie this much into a game one watches and has no control over, as opposed to a life, where, although we may not have complete control, e.g. my dad sure didn’t mean to get Parkinson’s Disease, we have direct daily influence. In the irrational part of my mind (the fan part), you bet I believed a World Series win would do something to help heal my dad - to give us the Charlie Bucket Golden Ticket. Crazy, I know. But, you see, I’m a fan.

I watched the final, soul-crushing innings with my dad on facetime via our cellphones. He had the game on his television which was just ahead of my feed on the computer. He was giving me just the smallest hints with his reactions, much more subdued than mine, of the way things were unfolding. When it was all over, I felt a rush of tears flood my ducts, but they never came out. I felt sick, too, but didn’t throw up. I told my dad I was sorry. Silly, right? Like I had anything to do with the outcome. But I was sorry; I was sorry the season had ended this way, I was sorry that we wouldn’t have another game to watch like this until next year at a time when every month, week and day seems touch and go. I was sorry that this season, so wrought with possibility of finally punching in the long-awaited World Series ticket in the Billy Beane era would finally happen. And when that happened, the fan in me believed there would be some sort of storybook ending for us, too. That something else would be lifted off my dad. Again, silly, right? I’m a fan.

You could argue a million different ways to me that I’m being ridiculous, that I’m putting too much into this game I have no influence over (let alone control) and that I should calm down, let it go, whatever else. But if you said that, you wouldn’t be a fan, the way I am at least, and you wouldn’t understand. Baseball is a vehicle. This season was one hell of a ride. Right now, I’m sick because of it. But you pay your money and you take your chances – that’s life.

Will I be back next year? I have every reason to believe so. I love the A's. I have for over thirty years. But right now I’ve got nothing. I’m empty and I should be in bed. I just needed to write this first because only a fan would understand. Good night.