Matthew’s Baseball Adventure

“I’m like a Phoenix…rising from Arizona!” ~Frank Costanza

CJOB Interview - August 6

“I just want to see something great. Something legendary.”

That’s what I would tell people if they asked what I was hoping for on the trip. “Something legendary.” I figured that was as good an answer as any. “Do you want to catch a ball?” Sure that would be nice, I guess, but probably more exciting if I were eight or nine. I wanted to be a witness to something amazing. Something rare and potentially record-breaking. I wanted to be able to say, “I was there.”

Maybe someone would hit three home runs in a game (or even four?). Maybe someone would hit for the cycle (a single, a double, a triple and a home run all in the same game). Maybe a pitcher would toss a no-hitter!

Sure I had seen Roy Halladay absolutely dominate the Yankees in a 2-hit shutout. I had seen back-to-back homers and game-winning shots and the same player hit two in a game (but never more). I had seen a player get his first Major League hit and another player get his first Major League home run. I had seen Justin Morneau record five hits in the same game. And don’t forget the fifteen-inning epic also known as the 2008 All-Star Game.

But was that great enough?

The truth is - I really wanted a no-hitter. In Arlington, Texas, I sat next to a couple of season ticket holders at the Rangers game. One of the guys - a grizzled baseball veteran - told me about the game he was at when Kenny Rogers threw a no-hitter for the Rangers (actually it was a perfect game, the ultimate pitching feat: the pitcher throws a complete game and doesn’t allow a single batter for the other team to reach base - it’s only happened 17 times in Major League history, the last time in 2004). He had this whole elaborate story about a friend of his not being able to make it to the game in time and he had a big old smile on his face the whole time he was talking. And I realized: I wanted a story like that.

So every game I would hold my breath and try to ward off that first hit. Sometimes it would come in the first inning and I could stop worrying about greatness and enjoy the rest of the game. Sometimes it would take a couple of innings for a team to get their first hit - just enough time to get my ridiculous hopes even higher. But it always happened. No-hitters are tough to come by. There have only been 256 in history, you know. That’s really not that many when you’re going back to the early 1900s. Maybe I should lower the bar just a tad on my expectations?

Still…there are an average of two no-hitters every season. There had already been one this year (Jon Lester of the Red Sox on May 19th against the Kansas City Royals in Boston). Why couldn’t I catch the second one? Dare to dream…

So on August 6th (a Wednesday afternoon) I settled into my seat at Chase Field in Phoenix. It was an afternoon game between the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Arizona Diamondbacks. The night before, Arizona ace Brandon Webb pitched a complete game gem for his Major League-leading 16th win (Brandon Webb is like the NL version of Roy Halladay). My uncle Kenny, aunt Lori, and I were all in attendance. But I wanted to go back the next day to see veteran pitcher Randy Johnson take the hill. Johnson once had 19 strikeouts in one game. One time, back in 1990, he threw a no-hitter. And then four years ago he threw the last perfect game in history. So I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see Johnson throw. Maybe today would be one of those memorable moments and not just another Wednesday afternoon. Like I said: dare to dream…

The dream ended in the top of the third. Jeff Karstens - the starting pitcher for Pittsburgh, of all people! - picked up the game’s first hit with a soft single to right field. So much for that no-hitter, Randy. But wait! I still had one last shot: Karstens had given up a couple of deeeep fly outs (so I was fairly sure it was only a matter of time before one cleared the outfield wall) but still no hits. Let’s go Karstens!

The D-backs went 1-2-3 in the bottom of the third. Still no hits. In fact, Karstens had a perfect game through three innings. But it was still too early to get excited. Perfect through three means it’s only been one time through the batting order.

Bottom of the fourth: Fly out…strike out…ground out. Hmmm. This is interesting, I thought. Little voice in my head: Don’t get your hopes up, Matthew. There’s still five innings to go.

Bottom of the fifth: Deep fly ball (oh no!)…caught (sigh of relief). Another deep fly ball (oh no!)…caught (a deeper sigh of relief - is this healthy?). And then a ground out. Another three-up-three-down inning. Perfect through five…

Bottom of the sixth: I guess I should mention I wasn’t alone for all of this action. I was sitting next to Delane Taylor. 32. From Edmonton. Delane decided, kind of on the spur of the moment, to take a vacation to Phoenix this week and catch some baseball games. We met the night before at the game. Delane just happened to be sitting in the row in front of us. We struck up a conversation when he overheard stories about the trip. So on Wednesday, we met up outside the stadium and sat together for this afternoon affair. Now we were counting the outs to perfection and starting to get very nervous. We still had four more innings to go, but now we were beginning to believe this could actually happen. C’mon Jeff! Let’s do this one batter at a time! Ground out (that’s one)…deep fly out (that’s two)…slow ground out. That’s three! Jeff Karstens was perfect through six! Only nine more outs to go. Both Delane and I exhaled at the same time. We could relax…at least for one more half inning until the Diamondbacks were up again.

Bottom of the seventh:

Foul out.

Strike out.

Fly out!

Wow. This was unbelievable. Delane and I were on the edge of our seats with every pitch, hoping…praying for outs. Could this be happening? It seemed kind of poetic: Jeff Karstens throws the first perfect game in the Majors since 2004 and his mound opponent was none other than Randy Johnson, the last pitcher to throw a perfect game. It was fate. The story practically wrote itself! it had to be fate. We were going to see the 18th perfect game in history. How could I be expected to control my emotions at a time like this? All I could think about was the story I would tell. Sitting in the stands for that perfect game in Phoenix. Talk about legendary. All we needed were six more outs. We were so close!!!

Bottom of the eighth:

Chad Tracy was up first for the Diamondbacks. Fly ball to center field. Caught.

Five outs away.

Next up: Mark Reynolds. He hit an easy grounder to third for the second out of the inning.

Now we were four outs away. Four outs.

Arizona center fielder Chris Young stepped up to the plate. C’mon Jeff! Let’s pack it up and get ready for the ninth. After two pitches the count was even at a ball and a strike. Then…a hard hit ball (you could tell by the crack of the bat this sounded like trouble)…a line drive down the left field line (go foul…go foul…PLEASE go foul….). Delane and I turned our heads to follow the path of the ball. Over the third base bag, towards the foul line, landed…JUST INSIDE THE FOUL LINE! FAIR BALL! NO!!!!!

Young cruised into second base with a double.

Gone was the perfect game.

Gone was the no-hitter.

Gone.

Four outs away.

We were so close.

I felt the adrenaline rush out of my body like air escaping from a balloon.

And then I felt sad and lonely and totally unfulfilled. Shriveled. Like a dried up balloon.

Ugh. We were so close.

Meanwhile, the game was far from over. The Pirates were only up by two (2-0) and the Diamondbacks just needed a couple of hits and they were right back in the game. Karstens needed to make sure not to lose his composure and throw everything away. He got the final out of the eighth and, after an uneventful top of the ninth, went back out to the mound to try to finish the game.

I didn’t even care about the game. I was dejected. Sure it was cool to enjoy the rush of near perfection, but I couldn’t help thinking how close we were. Just a few inches and that ball lands foul and maybe we’re watching history get made right here. Instead it was Augie Ojeda pinch hitting for the Diamondbacks down 2 in the bottom of the ninth. I barely noticed when the left-handed hitting Ojeda hit a foul ball in the direction of our section on the third base side of home plate. The ball was way too high for us, but at least I had the sense to stand up and turn to watch where it landed. The ball smacked off the facade of the upper deck and ricocheted back down. And then I realized: the ball was headed right for me! I stuck out my hands, kept my eye on the ball…

And watched it fall right to me.

I looked down in disbelief. The eight year-old inside me took over. I had caught a foul ball!

All of a sudden, the day didn’t seem so disappointing.

I had my consolation prize from the baseball gods.

And I had my story.

When I figured out the route in February I knew there would be one week that was going to be an absolute killer. But there could be no other way. Based on the schedules of when the home teams were in town, I had to see five cities in one week. Let’s call it the Week of Death (every four years in the World Cup of Soccer there is one round robin group that is considered so difficult because of the caliber of the teams in it that the sportswriters call it “The Group of Death”). From Monday July 27th to Monday August 4th I was set to see Washington DC, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, St. Louis, and Denver. And that’s not even the best part. In order to get from city to city in time to see all the games, I had to take a rather unconventional approach: an overnight bus from DC to Pittsburgh…a midnight train from Pittsburgh to Cleveland the next night (getting into Cleveland at 4 a.m.)…an overnight bus from Cleveland to St. Louis (leaving Cleveland at 11 p.m. and arriving in St. Louis at about 1 o’clock in the afternoon - yeah, that’s a total trip of about 14 hours).

Back on June 16th, when I started the trip, the Week of Death looked far away. I knew it would come but I had plenty of baseball to see before I could even start worrying about all those late-night trips. Then on Monday July 27th I arrived in DC. And the Week of Death had begun.

To celebrate the beginning of the Week of Death, CJOB and I did our weekly radio spot live from the baseball game in D.C. on the Tuesday night. If you missed it, click on the link to check it out: CJOB Winnipeg - Tuesday July 29

“It’s raining in Baltimore, baby, but everything else is the same.” ~Counting Crows

The game between the Baltimore Orioles and the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim was scheduled to start at 1:35 on Sunday afternoon. By 12:30 the skies overhead were grey. At 12:45 there was a giant crash of thunder, a few bright streaks of lightning, and a torrential downpour.

My date with George Sherrill was in jeopardy of being rained out.

For years I’ve been a fan of the Winnipeg Goldeyes, the minor-league baseball team that’s been in my hometown since 1994. In 2002 and 2003 the Goldeyes had this one pitcher who I really liked – a fat, chain-smoking, goatee-wearing southpaw (read: left-hander). George Sherrill. He was a relief pitcher who would come in from the bullpen late in games to get key outs, often to preserve a close lead or to get a tough left-handed hitter from the other team. And he could really throw gas. In 2003 he pitched sixteen innings for the Goldeyes and struck out 30 guys - almost two strikeouts per inning! Then one day he decided to quit smoking. He shaved the goatee. He lost a ton of weight. He picked up a few miles per hour on his fastball. And, sure enough, the best-kept secret in the league didn’t stay a secret for much longer. The Seattle Mariners heard about him, signed him to a contract, and got him a spot in their minor league system. In July 2004 Sherrill made his first professional appearance with the Mariners. This past offseason the Mariners traded him to Baltimore as part of a package for Baltimore’s top starting pitcher. And in March the Orioles named him their closer, even though he’s never been a closer before. Now he was in charge with preserving close leads in the ninth inning. Could he handle the pressure? It turned out be a good move. Sherrill is having a career year. He’s on pace for over 40 saves and he was Baltimore’s lone representative at the All-Star Game. Not bad for a guy who cut his teeth playing ball in Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Now I had made it all the way to Baltimore and all I really wanted was to see George Sherrill pitch. But didn’t you already see him at Yankee Stadium in the All-Star Game, Matthew? Yeah it’s true. But that just wasn’t the same. So what if he pitched well? It wasn’t a save. I needed to see George Sherrill in a save situation. I needed to hear the announcer call his name, watch him run in from the bullpen, and see thousands of people stand and cheer. The pilgrimage just wouldn’t be complete without it.

After about twenty minutes the rain stopped. There would be a game after all. Now we just needed the Orioles to get a lead…but not too big of a lead. Remember, three runs or less. Maybe I was asking for too much.

After six innings the O’s were up 5-1. Everyone was excited. Baltimore was on the verge of snapping an embarrassing streak: fifteen consecutive losses in Sunday games. They hadn’t won on Sunday since April 6. Just three more innings to go. The fans could taste victory.

But I wasn’t happy. A four run lead meant it wasn’t a save situation. A four-run lead meant some other pitcher would finish off the game and Sherrill would stay in the bullpen (managers these days only use their closers in save situations). I started praying – secretly – for a small Anaheim rally. They needed one more run…

Juan Rivera led off the top of the seventh for the Angels with a single. Gary Matthews Jr. followed with another single. Okay. We need the Angels to score a run or two – or even three – but they can’t tie it up and they can’t take the lead. Was I still asking for too much?

After a pitching change and a fielder’s choice there were runners on first and third with one out. Pinch-hitter Garret Anderson (who usually starts but was given the day off) came into the game and ripped a single to right field. Yes! The lead was only three. But wait…now the Orioles had to get out of the inning without any more damage being done. And the tying run was coming to the plate!

But, like clockwork, Chone Figgins hit a ground ball and the Orioles turned a double play to end the inning. The Baltimore fans could taste it and so could I. After a scoreless eighth, the announcer called his name and George Sherrill started jogging in from the bullpen. I couldn’t believe it. Now he just better not blow the lead!

Not to worry. Sherrill was perfect. The Angels went 1-2-3 in the ninth.

That’s how we do it in Winnipeg.

Now before I move on, I have to tell you about the guy who was with me at the game in Baltimore. He has nothing to do with Winnipeg or George Sherrill, but it’s a story I have to tell.

Rabbi Robert Alpert is making a strong case for “Hero of the Trip.” I’ve been on the road for over six weeks and I’ve stayed with a lot of people who have done a lot of incredible things to help out with the pilgrimage. I don’t want to offend anyone, but Rabbi Alpert is still in the lead. Let’s review the facts of the case:

1. On Wednesday morning Rabbi Alpert drove from his home in West Philadelphia to the place where Gabor and I were staying in New York. That’s a little over 100 miles. He picked us up and then drove us back to his condo in Philly…and on the way he navigated through a very intense rainstorm.

2. He let us stay with him from Wednesday all the way to Sunday (Gabor left Saturday but I stayed over Saturday night).

3. On Thursday afternoon he gave us a lift downtown and then, at the end of the day, picked us up. (Public transportation in Philly isn’t very good.)

4. On Friday he called a friend of his who was going to the Phillies game and asked if he could give Gabor and me a ride home from the game. You see, Rabbi Alpert (who is a huge baseball fan – a Yankees fan, but we won’t hold that against him) probably would have gone to the game with us if it weren’t a Friday night. Rabbi Alpert observes the Jewish Sabbath, which begins Friday at sundown, and one of the prohibitions on the Sabbath is no driving. But Friday night was the only game Gabor and I could see in Philly so we couldn’t pass that up. Rabbi Alpert understood and went out of his way to arrange a lift home. Just to put it in perspective: a cab ride back from the game probably would have cost us fifty bucks.

5. I mentioned that Rabbi Alpert is a big baseball fan (he was at Game 6 of the 1977 World Series when Reggie Jackson hit three home runs on three pitches off three different pitchers to earn the title “Mr. October” and lead the Yankees to World Series glory). He said he had to see a game with me and become part of the trip. On Sunday morning Rabbi Alpert drove us to Baltimore (that’s another 100 miles) to see a game at Oriole Park at Camden Yards. After the game he dropped me off at the place where I was staying the night in Baltimore and drove back to Philly. Another 100 miles.

The actions speak for themselves. Generosity personified. The man truly went out of his way to help me out with the trip and, on top of all that, took care of my friend, too. But here comes the best part: Rabbi Alpert and I had never met until Wednesday afternoon in New York. We got in touch through a rabbi I worked with in Winnipeg and emailed back and forth a few dozen times, but we never met until that moment on Wednesday.

Now that’s pretty cool.