As humans we attempt to rationalize everything that goes on in our lives. It’s how we work. It keeps us sane. It’s comforting. Yesterday, as I was walking with a friend to dinner, bird feces dropped from the sky and landed on his hand and wrist. I found this incredibly amusing, but my friend, however, did not. As we searched frantically for the nearest restroom (we eventually landed in the campus ministry building) we tried to make sense of his misfortune. We realized that above the scene of the crime was a power line where dozens and dozens of birds were congregating. Still, though, this was amazing to us. Of all the birds lined up side by side, one decided to defecate and my friend happened to be directly under the trajectory of the feces. How could this happen? Incredibly poor luck we reasoned; my friend is probably safe from airborne bird poop for the rest of his life. That’s how rare it is, once you get your one hit-by-flying-poop experience out of the way you’re set for forever. Just as we were leaving the building, I remarked half-jokingly, “dude, that’s a bad omen”.
This leads us to last night, a night in which four teams had everything to play for. The Red Sox were looking for one more chance to reverse a disastrous collapse, the Rays were trying to complete an epic comeback, the Braves were in a dead heat with the Sox for most embarrassing September swoon and the Cardinals were following the Rays blueprint. You’ve heard this 4,629,488 times on Sportscenter, but this is really unprecedented in Baseball history. Never has there been this much at stake on the last night of the regular season. Rarely do things like this ever live up to the hype. The Red Sox could just as easily win 11-1 and the Yankees could blow the Rays out, and BOOM, the race is over. On to October.
The night started innocently enough, as New York raced out to a 7-0 lead and Boston was hanging on by a point over the Orioles. So far so boring; I went as far as to flip the channel to ABC and watch an awfully acted show about a woman getting her revenge, cleverly titled Revenge. Three seconds before turning the television off--my hand hovering over the power button--I flipped to ESPN. 7-7. Tie ball-game. WHAT? In between terrible television shows, I missed a Tampa Bay comeback that included a home run smashed on the last out, before the last strike, literally in the last moment of the Ray’s season? We watch sports SPECIFICALLY for these moments that come along only ever so often, AND I MISSED ONE?
Bad news is usually delivered slowly…in short, measured sentences. Every syllable bleeding innuendo as the truth dawns on the recipient. You don’t say, “Hey Dad, last night I was drunk, decided to drive anyway, and smashed your 69’ Charger into a telephone pole”. It’s more like, “I…uh…made some bad decisions last night, and well, I drank a little too much, and my friends made me drive. I promise, I told them it wasn’t a good idea…but, uh, they made me, so I uh…kind of got in a little, uh, fender-bender with your car”. We probably do this because a flood of terrible news is overwhelming. We can’t process it. You know that old cliché in movies and soap operas where someone finds out a loved one is dead, they refuse to believe it, and either attempt to talk to them, call them, or otherwise act like nothing unusual/tragic happened? That’s exactly what I mean.
Sports fandom follows a similar pattern. Take, for example, last Sunday’s Pats-Bills game. I wasn’t able to watch it live (having to settle with Game Rewind after the fact) for a myriad number of reasons I won’t bore you with, but I followed along on ESPN’s Gamecast and received constant updates via text from the father. By the time New England led by 21 in the middle of the second quarter and a 250-yard, 4-touchdown Tom Brady performance by halftime was not only feasible but highly likely, I was feeling quite chipper. Take that Buffalo! We’re the MOTHER FACKIN’ Patriots. We don’t give a damn about no Havad’ graduate! But then Brady threw a pick, Buffalo gained 60 yards in like three seconds, and it was 21-10 at the break. That’s a possible 10 point swing. I’ve followed sports long enough to know that was a turning point. It’s one of those sixth senses' you get as a sports fan where you know the specific point your team lost the game, before the game is even lost.
And then Brady threw another pick. This one was particularly surreal, as it was identical to a pass Brady threw earlier in the contest that resulted in a touchdown to Tight End Rob Gronkowski. This time he didn’t get enough air under the ball, it sunk too fast and the corner leapt and picked the pass off. After an unreal ten quarters of quarterbacking, Brady finally made a mistake. This wasn’t going well. You could feel it.
Then he threw another one; this time the receiver’s fault as Ochocinco didn’t seem to run the route properly. A trio of picks—just a year after Brady threw four the entire 2010 season? Was this really happening? Then, not two minutes later, my Dad texted, “Brady picked for six”. I understood; it seemed almost logical. Over two quarters of Brady interceptions, bad defense, and a Bills comeback I slowly began to accept that the Patriots were going to lose. It was just the way the game was going; Brady NEVER throws this many interceptions. I had accepted it.
Last night was different and the same altogether. The Red Sox have looked like a defeated ball club for four weeks and Tampa Bay has looked invigorated ever since they leapt back into the playoff race. A Red Sox loss and Tampa Bay victory would be a fitting end to a confusing season. But still, even as I braced for impact, I had hope. I had even more hope when the Yankees held a sizable lead heading into the bottom of the eighth and the Red Sox were holding on by the slimmest of margins.
A drop and a crack. That’s what ended my night. It happened quickly; Carl Crawford, in the last game of his miserable season, dropped a catch a man making nine figures should make. A run was scored. 4-3 Orioles. Boston needed the Yankees to come through with a run in extra innings to force a 163rd game—a playoff between the Rays and Sox for the wildcard spot. Two minutes later, Evan Longoria—a woefully underpaid superstar—smashed a ball to left-field. A home run. The season was over. Just like that, no build up—nothing. Boom, boom, ball-game. Mouth a-gape, I crawled into bed, set my alarm and forced my brain to process what just happened. Sportscenter wasn’t much help as Scott Van Pelt and Mike Tirico were just as flabbergasted as I was. Neither was Twitter.
Just like bird crap falling from the sky, this hit everyone hard, fast, and with a poignant ‘sploosh’. Even as rational people, striving to understand everything around us, last night was incomprehensible. Sometimes, it seems like an entity upstairs is pulling all of the strings, because the way it all ended was simply too perfect.
No comments:
Post a Comment