Love and Baseball Part I

Two weeks ago, the Baltimore Orioles swept the Houston Astros in a 3-game mid-week inter-league series played at Camden Yards. To the untrained eye, it was a wholly unremarkable occurrence. A team which is showing signs of improvement after a dismal decade won three straight games against a team which, by all accounts, is coming apart at the seems and headed for a well below .500 finish. I doubt anyone at ESPN even considered any of the three games for national tv coverage. And justifiably so. Boston Red Sox pre-game stretching has more of a national draw than mid-week Orioles vs Astros.

Despite what those who would jump at the chance to watch Kevin Youkilis limber up would have you believe, The Orioles-Astros series was indeed extraordinary. All three games had dramatic finishes. All three featured lead changes, timely hitting, clutch pitching and acrobatic defense. Most importantly, I watched all three games from the 3rd base-side lower box seats with my favorite Houston Astros fan. Though perhaps not the most conflict-free dating strategy (I doubt too many Roman boys asked Christian girls to go see Lions vs. Christians in the Colosseum) I am pleased to report that after three summer nights in Baltimore, my favorite baseball fan is still speaking to me.

In what may accurately be called PUSHING MY LUCK, I have decided to write about the series sweep. Over the next few days, I intend to weave my mental notes, our scorecards, and my occasional scribbled side-comments into a narrative which tells the story of 3 games, 3 dates, and 1 very very contented Orioles fan.

The trip to Baltimore was far too smooth. Sandwiches in Georgetown. A few minutes illegally parked while my baseball companion got out of work. No parking ticket. Almost no traffic. Plenty of space at the outdoor parking lot which marks the last bastion of innocence before Baltimore Street spills eastward to a land of prurience. After a quick few minutes surrounded by Bal-mer-ians in the ticket line, we marched, tickets in hand, through the turnstiles in time to receive our size XL, orange #34 Wild Bill Hagy Jerseys. Some quick wise-cracking from my uncle about my being cheap was the only price we paid to upgrade our seats from the leftfield boonies to the lower box seats in his section along the 3^rd base line. Earl Klug played a fantastic national anthem.

The good times stopped abruptly once the contest on the field began. Michael Bourn led the game off with an infield single. Garrett Olson immediately went into his best Rick Ankiel impersonation and wild pitched Bourn all the way to 3^rd. A Kaz Matsui ground ball to shortstop plated Bourn and, before the big bats in the middle of their order even began their night’s work, Houston led 1-0.

Olson settled down and retired the Astros without further damage on the scoreboard. His counterpart, Brandon Backe, who, as an aside, was an absolute stud in MVP Baseball 2005 for the PS2, wiggled out of trouble in the first and second innings. After a 1-2-3 top half of the third, the Orioles seized a 2-1 lead as Aubrey “The Magnificent Bum” Huff crashed a Backe offering into the stands. I stood and clapped. I’ve always had the utmost respect for Huff as both a person and a player, or so I declare to anyone within earshot. Caroline, slouching in her seat to my left, knows better, but is too perturbed by the turn of events on the field to expose my lie.

I stand again and my companion slouches and cringes again as Freddie Bynum, flicks an RBI single up the middle in the bottom of the fourth to stretch the hosts’ lead to 3-1.

Olson is cruising. He’s retired 12 straight Astros when Ty Wigginton strides into the box with 2 out in the top of the 5^th. Wigginton fills out his uniform. His build suggests that he may have a future as an NFL fullback should he give up on baseball. He cracks a single. Humberto Quintero follows suit. As does Michael Bourn. 3-2 Orioles. After a Ramon Hernandez passed ball the runners advance to 2^nd and 3^rd and I declare Hernandez to be simply a Bum. Not magnificent on this night. Only a bum. With 2 men in scoring position, Kaz Matsui send the girl next to me to happy land with a 2-run double. 4-3 visitors.

I groan. In my anxiety I begin making nonsensical arm gestures towards the Orioles dugout as if to signal to Dave Trembley that the time has come to excuse Olson from further responsibilities for the evening. The Orioles skipper ignores me. Olson walks Miguel Tejada. The Astros fan with 2 X-chromosomes, sensing an opportunity for her team to go for the jugular, admonishes me to “Have Faith in my Pitcher.” I keep gesturing. Trembley heads my cries, emerges from the dugout, and summons Matt Albers from the bullpen.

As Albers trots in from the pen, my companion explains that the Orioles right-hander gave himself the nickname “Fat Albers” while with her Astros and that the Houston rumor mill was buzzing last summer that the youngster had “maturity issues.”

Issues and bad-nicknames be damned. Albers induces a ground ball from Lance Berkman which Brian Roberts plays cleanly and lobs to first for the final out of the inning.

Carlos Lee adds to my pain in the top of the 6^th with a blast into the left field stands. 5-3. Maybe Albers does have maturity issues. Maybe he is a fat idiot bent on my eternal misery. Nope. With Geoff Blum on second base, Albers fields a come backer from Quintero, and flings it to first to end the sixth.

A 1-out Adam Jones double in the bottom of the sixth gives the Orioles runners on 2^nd and 3^rd. The lovely lady to my left stirs in her seat. “Why isn’t Cooper coming out to the mound?” she wonders out loud. I encourage her to have faith in her starting pitcher.

I should have kept my mouth shut. Backe fans light-hitting Freddie Bynum and then departs the game. Tim Byrdak replaces Backe on the rubber. Brian Roberts, swinging from the right-handed box, lofts a fly ball down the right field line. Hunter Pence, who is skinnier-looking in person than on TV, dashes toward the line, leaps up against the tall green padded wall along the line, snags the ball, and snuffs out a Baltimore rally.

After the Camden Yards patrons have belted out a rousing chorus of Thank God I’m a Country Boy, Nick Markakis returns Birdland to its feel with an opposite field homer to lead off the 7^th. 2 batters later, the Magnificent Huff strokes a double; and with 2 out, Luke Scott works a walk from the recently inserted Doug Brocail. Runners on 1^st and 2^nd. 2 outs. Brocail runs the count to 2-1 against Ramon Hernandez. Then, suddenly, a fuse inside Brocail blows. For reasons not clear to the casual observer, Brocail and home plate umpire Ed Hickox enter into a heated war of words. Hickox appears to wind up and eject Brocail from the game. Cecil Cooper sprints out of the visiting team dugout. The Camden Yards partisans ho and hum and holler.

When order is restored, somehow, magically, Brocail is still in the game. I am shocked. Un-ejected? Is that possible?

No worries. The outlook has improved. 5-4 Astros. Jim Johnson enters to pitch the 8^th and promptly fans Lance Berkman. Carlos Lee singles, exits the game for a pinch runner, Reggie Abercrombie, who, is gunned down at second on a steal attempt a few pitches later. I express thanks for Cecil Cooper’s bone-headed insistence on playing small ball with a lineup of boppers. A hint of homicidal rage towards Cooper dances briefly in the Astros fan’s eyes.

The Orioles half of the 8^th plays out like so many games played by the Orioles in the years before I came into the world. Adam Jones singles. Bynum sacrifices him to second base and Brian Roberts works a walk. Go-ahead run on first base. 1 out. Cooper ambles towards the mound, removes Brocail and calls for Jose Valverde, the Astros portly flame throwing closer.

Markakis vs. Valverde. The Orioles best vs. The Astros best in a critical situation. After taking strike one. Markakis offers a feeble wave at strike 2 and then, with the crowd at a fever pitch, contorts his body and offers a still feebler poof of his wrists and wiggle of the bat at strike 3. 2 outs. Mora coming up. Air escaping fast from the Camden yards balloon.

Mora falls behind in the count 1-2 and then declares war. Dug into his trench in the right-handed box, Mora deflects Valverde's offerings, watches 2 overthrown fastball sail wide of the strike zone, and, with the count full at 3-2, rockets a double into the alley between right and center. Standing on second, a lone Oriole in a sea of red-clad disheartened Astros, Mora pumps his fists in excitement. His double has given the home team a 6-5 lead.

George Sherrill works a 1-2-3 ninth inning. The Orioles have won the first game of the series. Caroline and I rush out of the park and trek to the parking lot on Baltimore Street. Not one to pour salt on wounds, I do my best not to talk about the result and I somewhat sheepishly re-confirm our date for the following evening, “Again tomorrow night?” My favorite baseball fan, though disappointed, offers no objection.

My birds have drawn first blood. But, 1 thrilling comeback win does not a series win guarantee. The games must be played. Tomorrow night could hold anything in store…