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As this long winter drags on, how about we tell about some of the most beautiful and inspring we've seen in our careers as fans?
There are so many beautiful things about baseball, and one of the most beautiful is not a single play, or a single game, or a record set or broken. It's an idea. It's redemption. It can be the redemption offered when an error is followed by the erring player making a great play, or driving in the go-ahead run. In 2001 Scott Hatteberg hit into a triple play, then immediately was redeemed by hitting a grand slam. Of course the 2004 ALCS was a study in redemption (if you see it from the Boston side, of course). But one of the most inspiring instances of redemption I've seen happened in 2002.
(This got to be kind of long... I didn't mean for it to, but it got away from me.)
~~~~~~~~~
Derek Lowe had suffered through a miserable 2001. His ability to close games abandoned him, and he faltered, and blew saves, and lost games, and lost his confidence, and lost his way. Strangers cursed him, and he received venomous letters, even death threats in the mail. He began the 2002 season as a starter, trying to recapture his "stuff" and the confidence of the fans.
On a cold night in Baltimore he took a no-hitter pretty deep into the game, in what was I think his second start of the season. When it was broken up with a bunt, he was pulled, and of course all of us thought "what a shame! He'll never get that close again."
April 27th was a sunny Saturday, not too cold, a light breeze, hinting a little at May's warmth. It was Kids' Day at Fenway, and some lucky children got to announce the players, battling the park's echo and stumbling over players' names. The Devil Rays were in town, with their team of young, uncertain but nonetheless professional players. Lowe set them down easily in the first and second, then walked a man in the third, but sustained no damage from the baserunner. The Sox, on the other hand, soundly thrashed the Rays' young starter, and before long the outcome was a foregone conclusion, but the park remained packed. Lowe was pitching well, getting ground-out after ground-out, with a couple easy fly balls and pop-ups now and then.
Along about the sixth (in which Lowe easily struck out the side), I noticed that the Rays had not yet managed to get one hit. I was chewing a piece of gum which had started to go bland, but hesitated before getting rid of it. You don't change anything when there's a no-no on the line. I'd had a window open next to my chair earlier, but had gotten cold and tossed a throw-blanket over my feet. Now with the sun streaming in the closed windows, it was getting pretty warm. Did I kick off the throw? You don't change anything when there's a no-no on the line.
The announcers started getting antsy in the seventh, and the crowd now cheered each out as if it were the final out of a winning game. Other players sat far from Lowe in the dugout. Even his catcher Varitek didn't speak to him. Lowe sat by himself, shrugging into his jacket and rolling a towel around his arm, chewing his gum (was his gum as stale as mine?). John Henry, who had just bought the team a couple months before, sat stiff as a scarecrow in his front-row seat, and appeared to be holding his breath.
The Sox were retired in the seventh (my gum was pretty awful by now, and I was dying of the heat, but could I kick off that blanket? Of course not), and Lowe peeled off the towel and jacket, adjusted his cap and bounced out of the dugout to a rousing cheer. Jason Conti flied out to Manny in left -- Fenway roared. Greg Vaughn hit a foul pop snared by Jose Offerman outside of first -- Fenway roared. Brent Abernathy grounded out to Nomar -- Fenway roared even more.
The Sox half of the eighth was very frustrating. The Sox were already comfortably ahead; we wanted to see Lowe. But the Sox sent eight men to the plate in that inning, and scored twice more, making the score 10-0. After Trot made the final out, the crowd began to cheer. There was no cut to a commercial; the camera focused on Lowe, all alone in one end of the dugout, shunned for luck, as he took off the jacket, adjusted his uniform and cap, and climbed out of the shadows into the bright spring sunlight. Everyone in Fenway (except those glowering from the opposite dugout) rose and gave voice to their hopes for this game and that man skipping over the foul line on his way to the mound.
Russ Johnson stepped in, and watched a ball go by, outside the zone but called a strike with the generosity umpires sometimes give a pitcher on the brink of history. He swung at a sinker and made contact, and the ball sailed, and the crowd gasped, ready to wail in dismay, when the ball seemed to grow tired of flying and dropped easily and harmlessly into Rey Sanchez's glove. A gasp, then a roar from the crowd. Felix Escalona stepped in and he too made contact, the ball sailing, the crowd gasping, a few wails already escaping, when ageless Rickey Henderson, playing his first game in center field in at least a generation (newcomer Johnny Damon having hurt his knee), sprinted in and stuck out his glove and caught the ball about knee-high, and an even greater roar shook that old ballpark.
Jason Tyner, first man up, last man up, stepped in, and swung at a sinker, which did exactly as it was designed to do, and the ball hopped past the mound and into Sanchez's glove, and he tossed the ball to Offerman at first, and Derek Lowe, maligned, insulted, threatened just a few months before, had pitched a no-hitter.
The dust on the mound rose like a cloud of gold around him, and 35,000 fans thrust their fists into the air in unison in a gesture of complete triumph, and Lowe's teammates rushed to embrace him and share in this moment of his redemption.
I whooped, and finally cast off the smothering blanket, and jumped out of my chair, as if I too could join that happy bouncing mob on the infield.
It was a clear moment of redemtion for Lowe, whose athletic ability and mental state had been picked apart in the newspapers for most of the last year. There was a fear that he was broken, unable to pitch, unable to get his head and his "stuff" together, and would be remembered only for his spectacularly bad 2001, and would fade away into obscurity as only a footnote in the long history of The Game. But instead, Lowe had faced his fears, and faced his detractors, and with great faith in himself, had been redeemed. Instead of a footnote, he made history.
Until the nights of October 20th and 27th, 2004, when the Sox won the Pennant, and then won the World Series (in great part due to the man now so happily and publicly redeemed), I had no greater sense of relief and happiness connected with baseball.
It was such a beautiful thing -- the people in the stands pulling for a man they wanted so badly to succeed, and Lowe's teammates, all struggling under the burden of history by virtue of the uniform they wore. The setting -- the perfect spring day, the golden sunlight, the brilliant green of the grass, and the golden dust that swirled around his feet.... Then that feeling of utterly cleansing happiness....
Is there any sport as beautiful as baseball?
There are so many beautiful things about baseball, and one of the most beautiful is not a single play, or a single game, or a record set or broken. It's an idea. It's redemption. It can be the redemption offered when an error is followed by the erring player making a great play, or driving in the go-ahead run. In 2001 Scott Hatteberg hit into a triple play, then immediately was redeemed by hitting a grand slam. Of course the 2004 ALCS was a study in redemption (if you see it from the Boston side, of course). But one of the most inspiring instances of redemption I've seen happened in 2002.
(This got to be kind of long... I didn't mean for it to, but it got away from me.)
~~~~~~~~~
Derek Lowe had suffered through a miserable 2001. His ability to close games abandoned him, and he faltered, and blew saves, and lost games, and lost his confidence, and lost his way. Strangers cursed him, and he received venomous letters, even death threats in the mail. He began the 2002 season as a starter, trying to recapture his "stuff" and the confidence of the fans.
On a cold night in Baltimore he took a no-hitter pretty deep into the game, in what was I think his second start of the season. When it was broken up with a bunt, he was pulled, and of course all of us thought "what a shame! He'll never get that close again."
April 27th was a sunny Saturday, not too cold, a light breeze, hinting a little at May's warmth. It was Kids' Day at Fenway, and some lucky children got to announce the players, battling the park's echo and stumbling over players' names. The Devil Rays were in town, with their team of young, uncertain but nonetheless professional players. Lowe set them down easily in the first and second, then walked a man in the third, but sustained no damage from the baserunner. The Sox, on the other hand, soundly thrashed the Rays' young starter, and before long the outcome was a foregone conclusion, but the park remained packed. Lowe was pitching well, getting ground-out after ground-out, with a couple easy fly balls and pop-ups now and then.
Along about the sixth (in which Lowe easily struck out the side), I noticed that the Rays had not yet managed to get one hit. I was chewing a piece of gum which had started to go bland, but hesitated before getting rid of it. You don't change anything when there's a no-no on the line. I'd had a window open next to my chair earlier, but had gotten cold and tossed a throw-blanket over my feet. Now with the sun streaming in the closed windows, it was getting pretty warm. Did I kick off the throw? You don't change anything when there's a no-no on the line.
The announcers started getting antsy in the seventh, and the crowd now cheered each out as if it were the final out of a winning game. Other players sat far from Lowe in the dugout. Even his catcher Varitek didn't speak to him. Lowe sat by himself, shrugging into his jacket and rolling a towel around his arm, chewing his gum (was his gum as stale as mine?). John Henry, who had just bought the team a couple months before, sat stiff as a scarecrow in his front-row seat, and appeared to be holding his breath.
The Sox were retired in the seventh (my gum was pretty awful by now, and I was dying of the heat, but could I kick off that blanket? Of course not), and Lowe peeled off the towel and jacket, adjusted his cap and bounced out of the dugout to a rousing cheer. Jason Conti flied out to Manny in left -- Fenway roared. Greg Vaughn hit a foul pop snared by Jose Offerman outside of first -- Fenway roared. Brent Abernathy grounded out to Nomar -- Fenway roared even more.
The Sox half of the eighth was very frustrating. The Sox were already comfortably ahead; we wanted to see Lowe. But the Sox sent eight men to the plate in that inning, and scored twice more, making the score 10-0. After Trot made the final out, the crowd began to cheer. There was no cut to a commercial; the camera focused on Lowe, all alone in one end of the dugout, shunned for luck, as he took off the jacket, adjusted his uniform and cap, and climbed out of the shadows into the bright spring sunlight. Everyone in Fenway (except those glowering from the opposite dugout) rose and gave voice to their hopes for this game and that man skipping over the foul line on his way to the mound.
Russ Johnson stepped in, and watched a ball go by, outside the zone but called a strike with the generosity umpires sometimes give a pitcher on the brink of history. He swung at a sinker and made contact, and the ball sailed, and the crowd gasped, ready to wail in dismay, when the ball seemed to grow tired of flying and dropped easily and harmlessly into Rey Sanchez's glove. A gasp, then a roar from the crowd. Felix Escalona stepped in and he too made contact, the ball sailing, the crowd gasping, a few wails already escaping, when ageless Rickey Henderson, playing his first game in center field in at least a generation (newcomer Johnny Damon having hurt his knee), sprinted in and stuck out his glove and caught the ball about knee-high, and an even greater roar shook that old ballpark.
Jason Tyner, first man up, last man up, stepped in, and swung at a sinker, which did exactly as it was designed to do, and the ball hopped past the mound and into Sanchez's glove, and he tossed the ball to Offerman at first, and Derek Lowe, maligned, insulted, threatened just a few months before, had pitched a no-hitter.
The dust on the mound rose like a cloud of gold around him, and 35,000 fans thrust their fists into the air in unison in a gesture of complete triumph, and Lowe's teammates rushed to embrace him and share in this moment of his redemption.
I whooped, and finally cast off the smothering blanket, and jumped out of my chair, as if I too could join that happy bouncing mob on the infield.
It was a clear moment of redemtion for Lowe, whose athletic ability and mental state had been picked apart in the newspapers for most of the last year. There was a fear that he was broken, unable to pitch, unable to get his head and his "stuff" together, and would be remembered only for his spectacularly bad 2001, and would fade away into obscurity as only a footnote in the long history of The Game. But instead, Lowe had faced his fears, and faced his detractors, and with great faith in himself, had been redeemed. Instead of a footnote, he made history.
Until the nights of October 20th and 27th, 2004, when the Sox won the Pennant, and then won the World Series (in great part due to the man now so happily and publicly redeemed), I had no greater sense of relief and happiness connected with baseball.
It was such a beautiful thing -- the people in the stands pulling for a man they wanted so badly to succeed, and Lowe's teammates, all struggling under the burden of history by virtue of the uniform they wore. The setting -- the perfect spring day, the golden sunlight, the brilliant green of the grass, and the golden dust that swirled around his feet.... Then that feeling of utterly cleansing happiness....
Is there any sport as beautiful as baseball?
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