Love and Baseball Part II

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 atmosphere at Harborplace at 6:00 is calm. Not a Red Sox fan in sight. Very few Orioles fans in sight. A Wednesday night Orioles-Astros contest does not exactly bring hoards flocking to downtown Baltimore. Not even for retro-hat night.

The last time I ate dinner at Harborplace before a game, my favorite baseball fan and I endured a 13-inning game interrupted by a series of drunken brawls in and around our section in the left-field upper boxes. Tonight, there will be no violence. Thanks to our family connections seat upgrade, we’ll have a terrific vantage point on the game from the 3^rd base side field boxes. There won’t even by much violence on the scoreboard.

But there will be extra innings.

Jeremy Guthrie is on the bump for the Birds. He dispatches the Astros in order on three ground balls. A much more agreeable opening than last night’s initial half inning.

In the bottom of the first, Nick Markakis raps a double off of journeyman Astros hurler Brian Moehler. With 1 out, last night’s hero Melvin Mora, who, despite a putrid .240 overall batting average is hitting close to .350 with men in scoring position, rolls out weakly to Wigginton at 3^rd base. Markakis takes 3^rd on a wild pitch from Moehler. 2 pitches later, Aubrey Huff has drawn a walk. 1^st and 3^rd. 2 outs. Kevin Millar laces a sinking liner towards right field. If it drops, it’s a 1-0 lead for the birds and the rally will live on. As the liner dives towards the safety of the lush green right field turf, the hard-charging string-bean right fielder, Hunter Pence, dashes forward, hurls himself earthward, and snares the would be RBI single.

Following the baseball cliché that a good play in the field will be followed by success at bat, in the top of the second, Pence crashes a double to left-center. Lance Berkman lumbers to 3^rd and the visitors threaten. Guthrie pacifies the invaders by inducing back to back lineouts by Erstad and Wigginton to end the inning. It will be several innings before the Astros touch a base again.

The veteran Moehler has overcome the first inning malaise and is really dealing. The two teams start an energetic swap of scoreboard goose eggs. 6 up and 6 down in the 3^rd. 6 up and six down in the 4^th. Only a 2-out Adam Jones single denies Moehler a perfect 5^th. As the mid-game restlessness of the Camden Yards patrons takes hold of the stadium, a brightly-colored beach ball is sent knuckling through the air in our section. It survives for several skyward bumps from obliging fans before it is snatched from thin-air and put to sleep by the 250 pound usher in our section. Some boos ring out. If the usher in question weren’t my uncle, I might have been tempted to join in.

After another silent half inning from the Astros in the top of the 6^th, the Orioles mount a rally, but, a pop-up from Huff and a fly out by Millar dash the home teams scoring chances.

With 1 out in the top of the 7^th, a new sound rings through the park. It’s the sonic boom of maple wood pummeling horsehide. Lance Berkman has just stratophered a Guthrie fastball to right field. 1-0 Visitors. Despite an error by Shortstop non-solution Alex Cintron, no further damage is done. Ty Wigginton throws a bit of a temper tantrum at home plate after he strikes out to end the inning. Cecil Cooper rushes out to defend his 3^rd baseman. For a second straight night, an Astros player, this time Wigginton, appears to get the ole’ heave-ho from the umpire. But, rather than retreating to the dugout and clubhouse, Wigginton, after a great deal of huffing and puffing, wanders to his position at the hot corner. Un-ejections on back-to-back nights?

The natives stand and sing Hymn #1983: Thank God I’m a Country Boy. Luke Scott strides into the batters box after the singing concludes. Before the former Astro has exited the hitting square, he has tied the game with a magnificent blast into the grass patch beyond the centerfield wall. A single, an error, and a walk load the bases with birds with 1 out. A change to take the lead? No. Wesley Wright fans Nick Markakis and Chris Sampson forces Mora to tap out weakly to Matsui at second. Game tied. Chance to seize the lead squandered.

Guthrie is still in command. Despite the failed rally, I think I am smiling more than my watching buddy. The visitors go down 1-2-3 in the 8^th. Guthrie walks off the mound to an enthusiastic ovation. A run in the 8^th and the under-supported Orioles ace will be in line for a victory.

The Birds go down in order.

Chad Bradford, the Orioles submarining veteran reliever enters to pitch the top of the 9^th. My companion, having read Michael Lewis’ classic Moneyball, knows a great deal about Bradford and gleefully applauds his entrance into the game. I take over the lead in the gleefulness department soon as Bradford retires the leadoff man, surrenders a single to Berkman, and then induces the slow-footed behemoth, Carlos Lee, to ground into an inning ending 6-4-3 double play.

No damage in the bottom of the 9^th. The Astros hint at a threat in the top of the 10^th, but, with 2 outs and a runner on 1^st, Brad Ausmus manages only a 30 foot tapper to the mound against Bradford’s down-under slings. The veteran right-hander fields the nubber and submarines it to first to end the inning.

Enter Jose Valverde. Nick Markakis will lead off. Last night, Markakis feebly flailed at Valverde’s fastball in one of the most 1-sided at-bats in recent memory. Tonight, the Orioles franchise player has improved slightly. A respectable ground ball to 1^st base is the first out of the inning, but, Markakis trots back to the dugout with his dignity in tact. Melvin Mora, who last night slew the portly Valverde in the 8^th inning, crashes a single to left center. Aubrey Huff follows with a roller into left field which is hit just weakly enough, and Carlos Lee is just fat and slow enough, to allow Mora to scamper from first to third. Runners on the corners, 1 out. The outfield mopes in a few steps. The corner infielders creep inward. Only the 2^nd baseman and shortstop remain on the infield dirt.

Millar raps a crisp single up the middle. Mora jogs homeward. Millar taps first base with his left foot then is descended upon by a mob of teammates. They knock off his helmet, exposing a head of dyed-yellow hair. Not even the amusing sight of a grown man with comically blonde hair can console my favorite baseball fan. It’s a second straight dramatic 1-run loss for the Astros. They have now lost 7 straight.

The great thing about baseball, I think as I see the frown on my companion’s face, is that the pain of 1 game only lasts about 20 hours until the first pitch the following night. And, may the sports gods be praised, we will be there again tomorrow night for that pain-erasing (or pain-delaying as the situation may be) first pitch.