Baseball Thread No. 19: The Robin Yount Postseason Tour

You magnificant bastard! I'm glad you got to enjoy it in person!

Very nearly. And I died a thousand deaths of the other kind too. The Brewers were so fucking frustrating to watch through seven innings, with the most amazing payoff imaginable. A microcosm of the season.

I have to say, next to seeing the Brewers win the pennant in person in '82 when I was 11, and the Packers' Super Bowl win in '96, Braun's home run was the next greatest personal sports moment of my life.

But perhaps, it was the sweetest and most cathartic moment than either of the others, considering I've been waiting 26 years and have been put through hell both in the long view (the frustration of near misses in the 80s, followed by the misery of the 90s and early part of the 2000s) and the short-term (an epic gag going from 5 1/2 games up in the Wild Card on Sept. 1 to 2 1/2 back last Sunday) to live that moment as a fan.

Know this, I was wound up beyond belief flipping between Cubs-Brewers and Marlins-Mets in my living room. I threw my Brewers cap down in disgust when the Brewers gave up an unearned run in the first and then sat there revving in the red while the Brewers flailed away at the plate against a cavalcade of Cubs bullpen schleps. One hit through six innings? Are you freaking serious?

What a roller-coaster ride. Marlins take the lead ... some relief. Carlos Beltran hits a game-tying home run ... back to Teutonic levels of angst. The Brewers load the bases in the seventh with one out, manage to tie the game only because Craig Counsell is the only Brewer who can draw a walk, but get nothing else. FUCK!

My wife walked in at that point. And I said with all of the seriousness of a heart attack, "This is so stressful. This is so FUCKING stressful."

Before the bottom of the Brewers 8th, I flipped over to TBS just in time to watch Wes Helms jack the go-ahead home run. Wes Fucking Helms! He did more for the Brewers in one swing as a Marlin than he ever did in three years as a Brewer. I didn't even see Uggla's home run, because I flipped back to my game.

My tension was enough to give off heat haze, so my family left me well enough alone. My kids took a bath and my wife was talking to her mom on the phone when the eighth inning started. After Mike Cameron singled, Ray Durham nearly hit a home run that fell about two feet short of the wall. I yelled at the top of my lungs, leapt out of my seat, but once again ... denied.

Braun was up next. Fortuitously, I had turned the DVR on at the beginning of the inning hoping something might happen.

First pitch ... you knew it was gone off the crack of the bat.

As much of a dope as I am on this site, I'm generally a pretty measured person, a trait honed by years of having to be stoic and objective in press boxes and press rows. But for one of the few times in my adult life, I completely lost it.

When the WGN shot made it clear Braun's bomb was gone, I out of my chair at Usain Bolt-like speed and was already on a dead sprint to do an unhinged lap around my house before the ball landed.

I damn near broke my ankle on a rocking chair, careened into a dog food dispenser in my kitchen, scared the ever-living shit out of my wife in the back of the house on the phone -- her mom wondered why "the kids" were screaming, passed the bathroom where my kids were bathing, laughing their asses off and imitating the banshee screams of their crazy dad, before I sat back down in my chair.

I'm not going to lie ... the euphoria I had was what I would imagine a tantric orgasm (dry, emphasize, DRY orgasm) would be like. I don't know if it was the release of tension from the rest of the game, or the season, or what, but I definitely checked out into some sort of otherworldly haze for at least a minute or two.

When the Brewers won, I let out a few more yells and some Tiger Woods-like fist pumps gone horribly wrong, but I knew it wasn't truly over. Back to the Marlins-Mets.

Shit. Two men on, Carlos Delgado up, two out. Arthur Rhodes comes in for the Marlins. ARTHUR RHODES, WHAT THE FUCK, FLORIDA? Delgado gives me a scare, but he goes warning track.

My kids were getting entertained like never before watching me act like a fool and they asked what I would do if the Marlins won. I told them at the very least I would do another lap around the house, but would definitely continue it outside, in my backyard or down the block if the spirit moved me. My wife, also entertained by my spectacle, just told me not to get arrested.

One out. Single. Shit this won't be easy. Two outs! So close. Ryan Church coming up.

When he hit the ball, the first words out of my mouth were, "NOOOO! HOLY SHIT! YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME?" Church hit it well, but not well enough. Another warning track shot that fell into Cameron Maybin's glove. Game over. Sweet release.

Another mad dash, but not as unhinged as the Braun one. As I yelled, "It's finally over!" I grabbed and kissed both of my kids, and they chased me as I did a sort of arms-stretched out soccer goal celebration on my glide to the backyard. They couldn't keep up with me as I took a Bob Beamon-like leap off my deck (nearly breaking my ankle again) on my way to a few celebratory laps around the backyard that probably scared the hell out of the neighbors.

I couldn't stop laughing. It was pure joy. It was 26 years of frustration down the drain.

It was baseball. What a great day. (And Fernando Alonso won the F1 race, too!)

 

Congrats Bubs, you deserved that.

Shame you didn't videotape it.

 

Get a life.

 

This afternoon at Shea was one of the most depressing, emotional experiences I've experienced in the world of sports. I say that not as a Mets' fan (though I mostly enjoyed covering them for 10 years, despite the cat placenta) but as someone who couldn't get over the visceral displays of anger and disgust shared by tens of thousands of fans when their bubble burst -- again.
The "Shea Goodbye" finale helped to brighten the mood slightly -- whatever you think about Gooden and Strawberry's addictions, their presence was widely approved, and the last scene with Piazza and Seaver walking through the outfield and closing the blue doors on the park for the final time was a fitting end. But then there was Howard Johnson, current Mets coach, sobbing in back room with his '86 teammates, who couldn't bother hiding their tears (and yeah, BYH, they were genuine, and I'm a sucker for stuff like that), and the alternate reality of the current players who might have been shocked they had once again failed to make the playoffs on the last day of the season, but mostly they seemed like robots.

It's nice to come home and read Bubbler's post, to feel his joy and remember it's still possible to be a fan who loves a game. But man, what a brutal day in Queens. C'est la vie Shea.

 

Out-freaking-standing, Bubs. I tipped a few for you at Leff's afterwards.

Standing along the dugout as players came by with beer/champagne, slapping hands with us ... I felt like a kid, I felt like a fanboi looser. It felt great ... a feeling I haven't had at a professional sporting event in a long time.

And on Wes Helms, I said nearly the exact same thing when he hit the home run (listening to the Marlins-Mets game at the park on my XM).

 

Good post, gingerbread. As I watched the highlights tonight and saw the utterly dejected Mets fans, I put myself in a parallel universe of sorts, what would have happened if the Brewers scenario played out for the Mets and vice versa?

As good as I feel right now would be nothing compared to how gutted I would have felt had it gone the other way. When your team hasn't been there for 26 years, you REALLY appreciate how fleeting and rare these moments are. You feel like all of those years of loyal frustration are worth it.

That's why I wanted to savor it to the hilt.

 

Or why not take the pitching rubber and home plate to the new stadium and use them there.

From Tiger Stadium, they took the flag pole and home plate over to Comerica.

 

Congrats, Bubbler and Gutter and wi-guy, et al. I know and remember that euphoric feeling well. Enjoy it.

 

Hope I'm wrong here, but the scene at Shea would have turned ugly had the ceremonies for Shea not occurred. That's the first time I've felt the rumblings of something bad about to happen at a sporting event, ever, and I once covered an India-Pakistan cricket match.
A few cop friends who were on site said they had the same vibe.

 

I don't doubt the '86 tears were genuine. That was a true team. Even if NONE OF THEM finished with the Mets. NONE. Absolutely amazing. Once again, the Mets can't even say (or Shea) goodbye the right way.

Was a bit disappointed to see Leiter there. And I thought Gooden wanted nothing to do with the Mets.

 

Bubs, Gutter, I'm very happy for you. You both deserve to enjoy the playoffs. I hope the Brewers have a long run.

As a Mets fanboi looser, it just sucks right now. As touching as the post game ceremony was, it was tempered with the melancholy of knowing that consecutive seasons ending at Shea on the final day of the season.

 

I wonder if the Mets had to pay Gooden to show up.