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Sunday, September 21, 2008
Boosted by a day at the ballpark
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
This is why I can’t quit this business. This is why I look forward to waking up each day and wondering what’s next out there. Sunday, the Braves were playing the last game of the home season, the Mets were the last item on their Turner Field menu, and the Mets were just a hare’s breath back of the Phillies for the lead in the National League East. A half game. The Braves were out of it, and had been for weeks, but they could have a say about who does win it, from the distance of 19 games back. Think of it, they could take the Mets down, the lofty dudes from Flushing.
It was a steely sky, but the stands were filled again. Saturday night 50,000 had come to see the Braves gut one out against the lauded Pedro Martinez. This afternoon over 49,000 were back again, and they came in full voice, cheering anything that moved. Scuffling for the T-shirts the scantily clad American beauties were firing into the seats, even started a wave for no particular reason. The wrong team was at bat and the home team was losing, all of which would have gotten deep under Skip Caray’s skin. (He hated the wave.) It was invigorating exercise, however, good for the pecs.
The Mets took a lead, then David Wright added to it with a home run, and the game sauntered along for several unnerving innings, and the 4-2 score was beginning to look permanent. Among the more exhilarating highlights of it all was that Jeff Francoeur was coming out of his long doldrum. Two doubles, but that was only the beginning of better things to come. It was the eighth inning, Mets still leading 4-3 when Omar Infante doubled. Casey Kotchman followed him with an excuse-me single to right field, started his swing, then changed his mind but couldn’t get the bat back in time. Score tied.
Here came Francoeur again, this time with a blast that brought back memories of the Francoeur who has been missing this season. By the time all the dust had cleared, Greg Norton, who is becoming more valuable each day, walked, Infante drove him in and the Braves led, 7-4. You couldn’t believe it. You could believe how that ball park rocked and the fans, who had been entertaining themselves all afternoon — one last sip of the nectar — rocked with it. Nobody was going home mad from this outdoor spree.
Carlos Delgado hit his 37th home run with another Met on base, but the rocking, grimacing Mike Gonzales closed the shop with two strikeouts, of Carlos Beltran and Damion Easley, pinch-hitting. Nineteen games out of first place and Turner Field had never seen such glee. The standings took you back to the days of the ‘80’s, when managers flowed through these portal like Wine, Haas, Tanner and Nixon, but these people had come to the old ball park to be joyful and they wouldn’t be turned off.
The Braves were doomed to lose their 88th game, it had seemed, but it would not be. All across town, there was joy. Georgia and Georgia Tech had won the day before, the Falcons were gutting Kansas City, and all was well elsewhere, but nowhere was there more joy than at the old ball park. Francoeur would be the Player of the Day, Jorge Julio would get the victory, the swinging and swaying Gonzales would get the save, and never in such losing circumstances (69 won, 87 lost) have you ever seen such happiness. Including, I might add, this old dude who is inoculated by such spiritual vaccine, who can’t give up such moments as these. I’m happy I was there.
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