In honor of the Orioles Opening Day, I want to share something I wrote after going to a playoff game last fall. It was the Orioles' first time in the playoffs since 1997, and the first playoff game that I ever attended.
Brick
warehouse. Tall, wrought iron gates. The late afternoon sun will soon be gone.
A slight mist falls from the cloudy sky. The crowd is brimming with orange and
black wardrobe choices. I blend in perfectly. Snake through the crowd with
ticket out, then through the gate. Ushers hand out orange rally towels and fans
BUCKle up for Game 1.
The cool
mist turns quickly into a downpour. I eat my hotdog faster. The flood of people
shuffle slowly down the ramps, accelerating at the bottom and moving rapidly
across the bronze hero-strewn courtyard to take shelter under the grandstand
and out of the rain.
Frequent
choruses of “Let’s Go O’s” echo through the sea of slow moving fans. We look
for an open place to stop and talk but it’s hard to find. I yell over my
shoulder, “This is how it always used to be!” Just three months previous the
crowds were half as large.
Senses are
heightened, mine and everyone else’s. The cold night air seems fought off by
the collective body heat of the masses. Ballpark scents drift above our heads –
barbeque, popcorn, and plenty of cigarette smoke. Shuffle along some more,
moving through the crowd and glancing up at section numbers…76, 73, 69…close
enough. Squeeze out of the river of people and join the smaller group moving
through the concrete tunnel to our section. The lights get brighter; emerge into
the open night air.
My stomach
tightens and releases almost simultaneously. Is this real? Playoff ball returns
to the Yard, and I’m in the stands? The buzz of people is quieter out here in
the open, but even more electric. Across the stadium I hear distant cheers,
nearby shouts of excitement and high-fives exchanged.
Sixty-eight,
almost missed our section. Row 19…stairs…26, 25, 24…. don’t trip, don’t
trip…20…19. Check the ticket, seat 13, wet from the rain, and mine for the
night. The rain has stopped, 30 minutes to game time. It’s really happening!
Take some photos, big grin.
A slight
mist begins again. It’s still surreal, trying to take it all in. Without
warning I hear it, slow taps become rapid drumming. As the heavens open we join
the mass exodus up the stairs to hide back under cover again. I guess I dried
off my seat a little too quickly.
The game
will be delayed; the rains come harder. The crowds buy more beer, eat more
nachos, smoke more cigarettes. Now it feels cold. A biting, stinging wind hits
my face. Legs grow stiff. Hands grow cold. Nearly two hours past game time. Fears
of a cancellation start to creep in. Then a cheer erupts from inside the
stadium. Back to the seats, it’s just misting now. Tarp still on the field but
the grounds crew is waiting just undercover. They race onto the field to
thunderous applause. A new game time is announced. We’re going to see some
playoff ball tonight.
The fans
are beyond excited. This team has nearly erased 15 long years of disappointment
and embarrassment. The true test starts tonight. The hated Yankees always seem
to work their sorcery. Yet this year the numbers came out even.
The packed
house of orange and black cheers every strike, stands for every out, and
celebrates each solid at-bat. It’s passion, no doubt. Passion that even the two
New Yorkers behind comment about, “This is legit. They don’t cheer like this in
the Bronx.”
A close
game was expected, and so was delivered. Two runs a piece. Every heart beats
quicker. Legs start to ache from standing on tiptoe to see over the standing
crowd. Hands sting from clapping. The night is quite cold now. A double to
start off the bottom of the eighth ends up being wasted and no run tallied. If
we can just hold them here we have one more shot. Or even force extra innings.
I like our odds in extra innings this year.
Our closer
comes in; he’s the best in the game this year. He’s got this. The first batter
of the ninth connects, high fly ball down the line, down our left field line.
Stomach lurches, watch the ball. Left-fielder goes back but has no chance. Not
50 feet from me the ball lands in the stands. They’re up, we’re down. Overeager
fans throw two balls back on the field. It doesn’t’ matter, the run still
counts.
Then
suddenly the game goes from bad to worse. Five runs score. The fans are
speechless, stunned. Down one run was bad enough. Can this team come back with
five?
Groundout.
He’s only 20, what did you expect? Strike out. So much for all those late
season homers. A double with two down seems more like drawing out the loss than
a last chance rally. Strike out. It’s over. Game 1 loss in the books. Midnight
came and went. Realization of the hour, the cold begins to dawn. It’s a somber
group of orange and black that walks back past the same concessions that once
kept them warm as they anticipated victory.
It’s a loss
then. It’s another “what a waste” just like 15 years ago. But it’s not. This
was just Game 1. This team has shown their stuff when backed up against the
wall. They’ll be back tomorrow night, ready to pull the series even. The fans
have seen magic happen too many times this season to let one defeat ruin our
dreams. Something’s happening in
Baltimore. These Birds will be back.
