The Astros lead the 2005 National League Championship Series 3-1. If they win this game, they shall reach the World Series for the first time in their forty-four year existence. Minute Maid Park is filled beyond capacity, literally shaking with anticipation.
The Astros are down 2-1 when Lance Berkman hits a three run home run in the bottom of the seventh inning. Suddenly the Astros are leading 4-2, and soon the game goes into the ninth inning. Brad Lidge, who has been an elite (and arguably the singular best) closer that season, comes in to finish the game. The entire crowd stands and roars. Lidge records two quick outs. Everyone in the stadium knows the Astros are moments away from their first World Series.
I watch this on television alone in my dorm room at college. With no Astros fans to help me cheer, I have Instant Messenger open on my computer, where I am dialoguing with my sister and my mother. Baseball means family to me, and this moment is no exception. We have all been waiting for this for years. The moment has come, and I am linked with my family through electric currents and wires to share in the victory.
With two outs, David Eckstein of the Cardinals hits a single.
The Astros still need only one out to go to their first World Series. The single is an inconvenience, but no matter – Lidge can get that final out.
Next, Jim Edmonds walks, putting runners at first and second.
This is trouble. The next batter is Albert Pujols, one of the greatest hitters in the majors. The crowd remains excited, but a noticeable shift in tone occurs. The fans grow uneasy, myself included even 300 miles away. This is not going as according to plan. My sister, my mother, and I maintain our optimism, although doubt has crept into our thoughts for the first time.
George and Barbara Bush sit behind home plate, in the stadium’s seats of honor. Both have been standing for some time, loudly cheering. Nolan Ryan stands a few seats over. His hands are in his pockets, feigning casual ambivalence, but he has a grin that shows joy waiting to burst out of him. Parents that have waited their whole lives for their Astros to reach the World Series stand, holding their children.
The stadium shakes with the hopes of thousands of baseball fans. The anticipation will burst at any moment. Why can Lidge not just put away that final batter?
The crowd holds it collective breath. Come on, boys. Do not get scared. Just get that last out. You can do it.
Albert Pujols steps into the batter’s box.
Lidge throws his pitch: ball one. No, Lidge, no, the crowd thinks.
Pujols is human. Pujols can be retired. This is “Lights Out Lidge” pitching. He struck out the side in his inning at the All Star Game that year.
Lidge throws his pitch: ball two.
The Astros are the team of destiny. Andy Pettitte and Roger Clemens returned home from New York to help us. This may be the last chance for Bagwell and Biggio to play in the Series.
This is for a generation of Houston baseball fans who have never seen their team in a World Series. This can show the world that, yes, the Astros can win, they can avoid the choke, they can emerge triumphant at the end of the day.
Come on, Lidge. Please just don't hang your slider.
Brad Lidge throws his pitch: slider.
Albert Pujols swings his bat and makes ferocious contact, sending the ball flying.
If the retractable roof at Minute Maid Park had been open, the ball would have cleared the left field wall and bounced onto Crawford Street in Downtown Houston.
It is the most monstrous home run I have ever seen in my life.
The Astros are suddenly losing 5-4 in the ninth inning.
Moments before, the stadium had been filled with the thunderous sound of the forty-plus years of expectation being poured out into cheers, the frustrations and disappointments of season after futile season trampled under joy and delight. I think Pujols later remarked that the loudest sound he heard as he ran around the bases was his own two feet hitting the dirt.
The camera replays video of Andy Pettitte in the dugout. As soon as Pujols made contact, Pettitte’s eyes grew wide as he followed the trajectory of the ball. His mouth dropped open, slowly spelling the words, “Oh… my… God…”
The camera then pans to Nolan Ryan. He has tears in his eyes. This is the pitcher who, when Robin Ventura charged him on the mound, grabbed his assailant and repeatedly punched him in the head, and then stayed in the game. He has tears in his eyes.
The camera surveys the entire stadium. It is somber, like a funeral – no, scratch that, everyone is too stunned, to shocked to be somber. Everyone is numb. It takes about ten minutes for almost fifty thousand Astro fans to realize that they need to start breathing again or they will suffocate.
I cannot fall asleep after watching that sickening game.
The next day, I read an article by Bill Simmons on the ESPN web site. He nails the feelings of despair in my heart and the hearts of Astros fans everywhere. Speaking of disastrous sports losses, he writes, “When you get punched in the stomach by a sporting event – I mean, truly walloped – you're never quite the same afterward… You never truly have peace. The strangest things end up triggering painful memories, the stuff you thought had been buried long ago."
I am pleased that the national media is on the Astros’ side for once. However, this is poor consolation. While it seems no one outside of St. Louis wants to see a Cardinals comeback, it also seems that no one anywhere expects anything else to happen.
Some time later, I do what many have done after suffering heartbreak: I write a song about it.
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