Well, since Mother Nature has decided to be raging bitch lately, and instead of some steady rainfall, we’re simply getting bursts of torrential downpour that are perfectly timed to be at the most inopportune times possible. It’s beautiful, sunny, and hot, while I’m at work (which, by the way, is the mind-numbing job I was so glad to have supposedly been relieved of), but 10 minutes into my commute home, the sky begins falling, and hasn’t really stopped; and the best part is that it flares up repeatedly, knocking out my satellite several times when all I’m trying to do is enjoy the All-Star game.
So, I resort to writing, since I’ve got a lot on my mind lately.
To some it may seem a little bit silly, but I’m not going to say that I’m not a little heartbroken over recent events, but admittedly, I am heartbroken. It’s not like I was in love with the girl, but I was certainly leaning in the direction of wanting to continue building a relationship before circumstances dictated otherwise. But it’s not the kind of heartbreak that results in crippling me into oblivion. Far from it. But it is still heartbreak nonetheless. And truth be told, I have felt a similar heartbreak in my life before; but it wasn’t caused by a girl.
This heartbreak resulted in no tears. But it still resulted in a draining, emotional disappointment that caused some physical effect, like a little bit of shock, a slower step, head apt to slump forward, and a feeling of heaviness all around. There is a tiny bit of irony here, since the following story is actually one that I told to the girl, while on the topic of heartache; she told me she could tell that I really did love the game, because she could see it in my eyes, and the enthusiasm in which I told it.
September 30th, 2009.
The Atlanta Braves were not dead yet. They were playing at torrid pace all through September, rapidly closing the gap for the coveted National League’s Wild Card, the final playoff spot to keep hope alive for a shot to fight for a World Series championship. No team in baseball was hotter than the Braves during this period, but the obstacle was the hole that they were still in – might it have started too deep to overcome? As September began closing, the Braves were in a precarious situation – keep winning, or else it’s over. The Colorado Rockies were doing everything in their power to cling to the Wild Card, and it boiled down to a point where a combination of Braves wins and/or Rockies losses could result in either one of the teams going to the playoffs, but the truth of the matter was that the Rockies were the ones in the driver’s seat, and the Braves were still the ones looking up.
As fans, this was an unusual time, since prior to 2006, the Braves won the division every year for 14 previous years, so a trip to the playoffs was no big deal towards the end of the miraculous run. For the first time in quite some time, the Braves were playoff hopeful again, but actually needed to fight for it with some late-season dramatics. It was interesting, because a lot of people didn’t really know how to take it all in. The newspapers were running some fluff pieces, and stickers and posters with “BELIEVE” on it were popping up. For the first time in three years, there was glimpse, and hope again, that the Braves could pull it out, and get into the playoffs.
I cashed in a boatload of WCW ticket vouchers, and got myself some really great seats for this highly meaningful game, against the divisional rival Florida Marlins. The Braves were winners of eight in a row, but were still in the precarious position where a single loss combined with a Rockies win would mathematically eliminate the Braves from playoff contention. But as fans, and I attest to getting caught up in the momentum, had little reason to worry about this particular game; the Braves had won eight in a row, the team was playing on fire, and on this particular night, the best Braves pitcher, Javier Vazquez, was taking the hill. I was fully expecting to have an exciting night of cheering for yet another Braves victory, and keep hope alive that the playoffs were still in sight.
Unfortunately, fate had different plans. Vazquez, who was more or less run out of New York City for his inability to perform well in meaningful games, gave Braves fans plenty reason to think that he had turned things around, by his ice-water, precision pitching all through the rest of September. But on this night, ghosts from the past came to haunt Vazquez, as he was pitching sloppily, allowing too many hits, and in the third inning, three runs were hung on him. An uncomfortable feeling came throughout the stands amongst the fans. Ricky Nolasco, the pitcher for the Marlins, that the Braves have typically had a slight advantage over, was pitching effectively; a combination of his pitching combined with the suddenly chilled bats of the Braves resulted in a 5-2 deficit going into the 9th inning.
Also worth noting, is that the Colorado Rockies had won their own game earlier in the afternoon.
Leo Nunez, the closing pitcher for the Marlins took the hill, and pretty much, he’s either adequate, or he’s wild, and can’t find the strike zone to save his life. Upon walking Brian McCann immediately, hope begun to rise in the stands that maybe it was wild Nunez tonight. Incumbent left fielder Garret Anderson rolls into a costly out, but a throwing error by the Marlins defense allows McCann to scamper onto third base, with only one out in the ninth. Fans are growing restless. Yunel Escobar, the Cuban shortstop who had won the 2009 fans over for his cannon arm, and more importantly, torrid hitting with runners in scoring position, does it again, as he ropes a clean single that brings McCann home, the score is now 5-3, and the fans begin to turn up the dial, and that once-familiar feeling of late-game, heroic, Braves magic started to materialize. Adam LaRoche burns the second precious out, but still manages to move Escobar over to third base.
Now this is where Matt Diaz, the guy shown at the start of my post, comes up to plate. To those who don’t follow baseball, Matt Diaz is the type of guy that out of uniform, if you were to see him, would never imagine is a professional baseball player. He hardly looks like a professional athlete. But he’s the type of player that all fans love, because he works his ass off, all day, every day, and when he takes the field, he’s the guy hustling, and giving the overrated 110%. Momentum works in mysterious ways. It is unexplainable, it is intangible, and cannot be quantified in the mammoth legions of numbers that most other baseball events can be explained. Matt Diaz hits a ball to the second baseman Dan Uggla, which, if not for the mysterious phenomenon of momentum being in the Braves’ favor at this time, would have resulted in an easy play at first for the game-ending third out, Braves officially dead. But no, Uggla bobbles it, and botches the throw altogether, Matt Diaz is safe, and the Braves are still alive. Myself, and the other fans in the stands are going bonkers at this point. We can win this game, and keep hope alive.
The sentiment is multiplied by twenty, when dependable Omar Infante comes off the bench and loops a pinch-hit single into right field, scoring Escobar, and moving Matt Diaz to second base. We the fans are explosive, and despite a chilly-er (for Georgia) September evening, and the overall attendance numbers lower, with schools back in session, those of us there are screaming, clapping, and cheering with the hope of twice of those in the stands. The score is now 5-4, and the game-tying and game-winning base-runners are both in scoring position. Marlins manager, Fredi Gonzalez has had enough with Nunez’s incompetence, and demands the intentional walk of Nate McLouth to avoid the lefty-vs-righty matchup, and promptly pulls him out of the game. We’re still going crazy during the pitcher change; with the bases loaded, the Braves next batter is Martin Prado, who was without question the biggest surprise of the season, and especially in this playoff surge, the best hitter that the Braves had.
New pitcher, Brendan Donnelly takes a huge breath, and then uncorks his first pitch – it is a ball; and not even close. Marlins catcher, Ronny Paulino practically has to shoryuken to fish the pitch out of the air from sailing past him, and allowing the base-runners to advance, worse, tie the game up. Every fan in Turner Field is now on their feet. Their best hitter up, and a pitcher who just might be struggling. Donnelly sets up again, takes a deep breath, and then fires again – and once again, it’s wild! The pitch is off the mark, and bouncing towards the backstop!
. . . . . .
This is what makes sport beautiful at times. In the blink of an eye, fractions of seconds, do decision teeter from being great ideas, to bad ideas. A moment’s hesitation, literally changes everything.
Matt Diaz, on third base, lunged towards home plate upon seeing the pitch go wild. But for some unfathomable reason, a lapse in his judgment must have doubted whether or not he could actually make it home before the catcher and pitcher could recover, and get him out at home. Maybe it was the pressure of knowing that the game’s outcome was hanging in the balance. Maybe it was the pressure of knowing that the season’s fate was hanging in the balance. But for whatever reason, Matt Diaz, hesitated.
It turns out that the pitch was thrown too hard, and caromed off the backstop a little too quickly. And before Matt Diaz could recover, he turned and retreated and headed back to third. Martin Prado, the Braves’ best hitter, didn’t even get the chance to be the hero or the goat. The catcher gunned the ball to third, and Matt Diaz was caught for the third out. The third out that ended the game. The third out that ended the season.
In the blink of an eye, the entire ballpark went into a state of shock. There legitimately was a few seconds where I could hear absolutely nothing but the rejoice coming from the Marlins players, still on the field celebrating. The Braves were devastated. The fans were devastated. I was devastated. Just like that, the ride was over. Like being on a roller coaster, the anticipation of good times, as you sit, rambling with friends as the clink-clink sounds of the chains pull the coaster carts up a really, really big incline; but instead of what-goes-up, must-come-down, at the very peak of the roller coaster is instead the exit kiosks, where you gather your loose belongings, and walk back to the park.
But honestly, the worst image of the entire scenario was Matt Diaz. Here is a guy who was more or less one of the key hearts and souls of this Atlanta Braves ballclub, who put more hustle, more heart, and more effort than his slightly physically superior teammates. And he was standing there, at third base, as devastated as all the fans were. Silent, dazed, and shocked. He knew he had royally fucked up, and as much hatred there was being directed at him from the fairweather, bad-excuses of “fans,” there was nobody more infuriated, more sad, more disappointed in Matt Diaz, than, Matt Diaz.
This, was heartbreak.
. . . . . . .
And this is kind of how I’m feeling as result of recent events. Some might think it’s silly to compare to a sporting event, and maybe some might simply get it as well. But none of those arbitrary opinions do not change the fact that I am, feeling some heartbreak as of late.
But it’s okay. What really helped alleviate that particular heartache was a pretty fun trip to Minnesota just days later, where I distracted myself with food, meaningful baseball, exploration, and booze. I’m going to Chicago in less than two weeks.
