Part V, October 23-October 27

Meg and I spent this past weekend in Chicago, and although the driving over the past few weeks has become excessive, it was, as always, wonderful to go home. Of course the reason we went home was obvious: Don had four to Bears-Ravens, and invited Meghan and I to go. That’s a no-brainer…never turn down Bears tickets. Going home would also mean that I would get to see Sven for the first time since January, and probably watch Game 1 of the Series with him. We picked up Wendy’s on our way out of Indy, and then headed out for what would end up a truly incredible weekend of Chicago sports.

A burger with the folks Friday night before a showing of Good Night, and Good Luck, followed by Saturday C.J.’s. Always good. About midway in, I saw that NU was up 21-7 on the 22^nd ranked Michigan State Spartans. Northwestern has been looking real good this year—we’ve already blown out ranked Wisconsin and put a hurt on Purdue—and a win against the Spartans would probably mean a national ranking for our Wildcats. We polished off lunch—as Nana would say, I was a part of the “Clean Plates Club”—and headed home to watch the rest of the Northwestern game.

When we got into the car, we turned the NU game on the radio, and to our surprise and delight the Cats had not let up, pushing their lead all the way to 35-7.

Dad and I turned the game on at home, just as Basanez was handing off to Tyrell Sutton, who darted nine yards for another Northwestern score. We sat back and smiled. I called Sven.

“Don’t know yet. My dad’s going, and my mom’s going to be out with some friends.”

“Alright. I’m going somewhere on the South Side with Don, Meghan, and maybe one of Meg’s friends. You wanna go?”

“Alright.” I begin to coordinate. “Pick me up after this game’s over.”

“Come over after the game, and we’ll hang out and watch high-definition football.”

Michigan won the game in overtime 23-20, and my parents drove me over to Sven’s. It was great to see him after eight months. We swapped stories from Europe/Road Trip, and he showed me his scrap book/photo album. He was working at a home for mentally retarded adults, and one page featured pictures of each one of the adults wearing Sven’s beat up dusty Sox hat.

Along with pictures were his monthly emails, hilarious reports of German culture—“In America, (I know this because Michael Jordan tells me), it’s not summer until you’ve had your Ball Park Frank, but apparently in Germany it’s not summer until you’ve had your asparagus.”—along with “quick hits” about whatever else was going on, filled with Sven’s classic dry humor and big laughs. My favorite, taken from the May report:

“The White Sox are off to the best record in baseball, which means that we can start thinking about the possibility of the Sox winning their first playoff series since 1917, the same year as the Bolshevik Revolution. The Soviet Union has also never won a playoff series.”

We had a couple of Berghoff darks and watched some high-def college football that I did not care a lick about. We got a call from Meghan, who reported, via Don, that the South Side was locked down “like a war zone,” and thus they were thinking about going to an Evanston bar, probably Prairie Moon.

“True. Baby, Sven doesn’t want to downgrade. Plus, their TV is behind a pool table.”

“That’s true. Dad!...” she yelled, “Prairie Moon’s TV is behind a pool table…well, people will be playing pool…well that’s no good.”

We watched some more football, and then both used the bathroom, and then, before we left…

“One second,” Sven said, walking into his room. “I have to put on my shorts.”

Sven came out wearing a pair of blue basketball shorts. He stood proudly in front of me.

“Ah,” I said in understanding, waiting for the rest of the story. “Go on.”

“I was wearing these for all three games of the Red Sox series, and then Will and I went to Game 1 against Anaheim, and I wore pants. Naturally, we lost, and I realized that it was probably because I wasn’t wearing my shorts. So I wore the shorts to Game 2, and I’ve been wearing them for every Sox playoff game since.”

When Sven and I got to Champps, there was already a pretty good crowd. Meghan was sitting at a round table near the bar with her parents, her sister, and Swami. Don was wearing a Sox hat and Sox jersey, FOX 2 ironed onto the back for his favorite player, Nellie Fox. As they’d already had appetizers, Sven and I ordered a plate of mozzarella sticks to split.

We wait patiently for Game 1 to start, and unfortunately the game is on FOX, which means we have to slosh through lots of ridiculous intros, including a reenactment of Shoeless Joe Jackson being confronted by the “little boy” outside of the courthouse…you know, the one who supposedly said “Say it ain’t so, Joe. Say it ain’t so.” Later, FOX reminds us that the White Sox have not won a World Series since 1917, pounding that storyline into the ground like Pedro Cerrano. I would’ve gone mad if I didn’t have Sven to catch up with, because FOX is pretty much turning the World Series into “Super Bowl Lite”…or is this worse, since we’ve got at least four games? I can’t tell. No matter, catching up with Sven and rapping baseball is a great time, and before I know it, Game 1 is beginning.

Jose Contreras rolls through the top of the first, and then Clemens takes the mound for Houston. This guy is unbelievable. When he walked off the field in Game 6 of the 2003 World Series, everybody thought that he would retire. And he did…only to return a few months later with the Astros. In his first season with Houston, the then 41-year-old went 18-4 with a 2.98 ERA (his lowest since 1998) to win his record seventh Cy Young…and then this season he went 13-8 with a sparkling 1.87 ERA, his lowest ever. To quote Blumberg: Reeeeee-diculous.

So yes, he’s very good at baseball, but he’s 43, making him the second oldest pitcher to ever start a World Series game. I know this because FOX tells me.

Joe Buck: “Roger is the second oldest pitcher ever to start a World Series game. Jack Quinn was 46 in 1929…with Philadelphia.”

But maybe there’s something to that, because two innings later, Clemens would be sitting in the dugout nursing a hamstring injury and a 3-1 defecit…

· Mr. Splitty (which is, apparently, what McCarver calls Clemens’ split-fingered fastball)

· As Good Now As Ever (which is what FOX posts, despite the fact that they have plenty of room to turn that last point into an actual grammatically-functional sentence.)

So it’s Contreras against Clemens, teammates with the Yankees in 2003, two guys who have defied expectations and emerged as (arguably) the best starting pitchers in their respective leagues…

…but the Sox jump on Clemens early, getting it going in their half of the first when Jermaine Dye smokes a solo shot over the right field wall. It’s a weird hit; Dye had already fought off eight Clemens pitches, and after yet another foul ball, Dye pushes this out to right. It doesn’t look like much from the swing, but I guess it plays differently live because the crowd at the Cell knows immediately, their voices pulsing suddenly in excitement. The 43-year-old Clemens turns, and that is that.

We’re celebrating the Dye home run when Ben walks in. He is greeted by high fives and fist pounds (me and Sven), hand shakes (Don and Bonnie), and hugs (Meghan, Swami).

“Solo home run Jermaine Dye off Clemens one-nothing Sox,” says Sven in one breath, eyes on the screen.

“Alright, I’m ready,” I tell her. “Cheeseburger, medium, American cheese, and most important…” I look her right in the eye, “…no, veggies.”

“Hey, I’m the same way. I know what you’re saying.” And then, just to show me that she truly does know what I’m talking about, she gives me the close, tight, important eye-to-eye look. “Nothing.”

“Exactly!” We shake hands, keeping the eye contact of two people who are clearly understanding each other.

Even though the White Sox won eleven more regular season games than did Houston, Game 1 is proof that these two teams are much closer.[1] A tie game on Mike Lamb’s bomb to center, untied with A.J.’s fielder’s choice and Uribe’s fading double that floats majestically away from Houston’s outfielders. Pierzynski scores, and it’s 3-1 Sox.

(Meanwhile, FOX continues on with their spectacularly dumb broadcast, dropping this gem during Rowand’s at-bat: OZZIE GUILLEN-1^st White Sox manager to win postseason series since 1917. Really? You mean while the Sox were busy not winning a postseason series over the past 88 years, their managers also did not win one? You sure?)

Podsednik comes up with two outs and Uribe on second, and FOX tells us that the three runs given up by Clemens ties his World Series career high. And then they flash over to the Houston pen, where Wandy Rodriguez is warming up.

But the Astros come right back in the third, and with two runners on Lance Berkman doubles to deep right to tie the game at three apiece. The inning ends, and FOX cuts to the bullpen cam, which follows Wandy Rodriguez towards the mound.

Sven laughs. “Bruised ego.” I was thinking the same thing. Some jokes never get old.

Rodriguez gets out of a jam in the third, and then Crede homers to left-center in the fourth to give the Sox a 4-3 lead,[2] and that’s where we stand when, after a leadoff double for Taveras in the eighth, the White Sox finally go to their pen after four straight complete games vs. the Angels.

“Cotts,” says Sven, who is staring so far into the screen that I’m surprised his eyes aren’t bulging out of his head Total Recall-style.

The lefthander Neal Cotts jogs out of the pen as Contreras exits to a standing ovation.[3] Cotts had a terrific season, 4-0 with a 1.11 ERA in 60.1 innings of relief work, the kind of guy every contending team needs. The left hander stares down the switch-hitting Berkman…BAM! Single to left, runners at the corners with nobody out for Morgan Ensberg. Awww nuts. The restaurant is certainly rocking, and yet everybody in the joint is focused. We lean in, a tidal wave of focused patrons eyeing Ensberg as he comes to the plate. If I wanted to right now, I could break a stool over Sven’s head and he wouldn’t shift his eyes from the game.

Ensberg swings at strike one and everyone claps. Not Sven though. Sven’s not moving. He’s just staring deep into the screen, rubbing his hands together and bouncing his head slightly from side to side. Two balls, and the count is two and one. Ensberg takes a pitch that smacks the mitt for a strike…we pump our fists, the crowd at the Cell stands, and we’re all waiting, everyone waiting, and then Cotts hits, blowing the next pitch by Ensberg as he swings hopelessly. One out. Everyone breathes. Next man up is Mike Lamb, the man who homered in the second. Lamb works the count even at two, and again we stand, anticipating, and Lamb goes down swinging, and we all scream. Sven is now clapping his hands, Let’s go Sox!, but before Cotts can face Jeff Bagwell to finish the inning, Ozzie comes out to make the most memorable bullpen call I’ve ever seen.

Normally a manager points to the pen or taps his arm to request the services of a reliever, but not Ozzie. Nope. As Guillen walks out to the mound to take the ball from Cotts, he motions twice with his arms, first putting them out as wide as they can go like he’s playing an accordion, then extending his right arm up over his head as far as possible while bringing his left arm down, like a kid doing a gator-chomp.

As soon as we realize that Cotts is coming out, we give him a hand. As soon as we see Jenks shoot out of the pen, we holler in anticipation. And then, as soon as we put it all together and realize what Ozzie’s hand signals meant, we laugh, and smile, and lock that image up in our minds, where we will forever be able to locate it so that when our children ask us, “Why does everyone love Ozzie Guillen so much?” we’ll be able to give them an answer.

Jenks, the 24-year-old closer who was unemployed at the start of the season, hustles out to the mound to warm up while the fans at the Cell cheer him, laugh with Ozzie, and salute Cotts for a job well done. Jenks came up late in the year but ended up as the White Sox closer, going 1-1 with six saves while compiling a 2.75 ERA. Chris Burke enters the game as a pinch-runner for Berkman, and with two outs in a one run game in the bottom of the eighth inning of Game 1 of the World Series, the rookie pitcher loads up and fires a pitch to the veteran Bagwell. He swings.

We stand, clapping, slapping the tables, screaming our lips off. Sven is now jumping, still focused, and I pat his back a few times for encouragement. Bagwell fouls off the second pitch. 0-2. Jenks throws a ball, and Burke steals second to move both runners into scoring position, but Jenks isn’t worried about Burke. He, like the rest of us, is focused solely on the batter. Another pitch, another ball. Count is even, and we start to get nervous. Can the rookie cut it? Will the borderline Hall of Famer and sentimental favorite Bagwell deliver here in Game 1? Another pitch, and this time Bagwell fouls it off. The count remains 2-2, but that one got the crowd and everyone in the restaurant jacked up. Now we’re all swaying back and forth, waiting for the pitch, and here it comes…

Jenks pumps his fist emphatically, swinging it upwards, and everybody screams. As I slap Sven on the back with my flat palm, Don begins shaking me by the shoulders, and Sven is high-fiving the White Sox fans at the table next to us. Sure that only ended their half of the eighth, but it feels much more important, almost as if the Sox had just won a fierce Game 5 rubber match, with Game 6 now returning to Chicago.

We go to the bottom of the eighth, everybody charged up as the Sox hold on to their 4-3 lead, and coming to the plate is the emotional blood pump of the White Sox this postseason: A.J. Pierzynski. After working the count to 2-0, A.J. singles to right to start the inning. Crede and Uribe fly out for back-to-back outs, but with two down and Podsednik up, Pierzynski steals second just before Pods ropes a two-out triple into center. Pierzynski scores easily, Pods slides into third, and when Iguchi flies out to end the inning, everybody in the restaurant applauds and then sits down to compose themselves, mentally preparing for the ninth.

Jenks comes back to the mound, Jason Lane comes to the plate, Sven stands up, and here we go. The big guy works fast, throwing a strike past the frozen Lane before getting him to foul off pitch number two. I look over at Meghan, who is clapping her hands, yet since she’s on the other side of the table I had almost forgotten that she was here. The restaurant prepares for the next pitch, eyeing the screen, and bang! Jenks shoots a diving curve right past a swinging Lane. Strike three. One out.

Now it’s Sven who pumps his fist, high-fiving me and Ben and Don and a Sox fan to our left. Ben and I look at each other, and as we put out our fists to celebrate the punch out we duck beneath the noise and waving arms and say quietly to each other, “Go Cubs.” Brad Ausmus comes to the plate with one down, and the Cell is rocking. Like Lane, Ausmus looks at strike one, but instead of pushing Jenks, Ausmus swats quickly at the next pitch, hitting a roller to short. Uribe fields it, throws it, and hits Konerko’s welcoming glove. Two outs.

Sven is now bouncing in place, his legs bending up and then back down, his head bobbing like Rain Man. Ben and I each give him a fist, and then one to each other, and another “Go Cubs,” just as a reminder to ourselves as to where we really stand.

Now it’s Adam Everett, Houston’s rangy short stop. 5-3 White Sox. Top of the ninth. Game 1 of the World Series. Two down. Nobody on. The rookie closer on the mound. The Cell swaying back and forth, the folks in the restaurant doing the same. Jenks digs in. Everett looks determined. Like the first two batters, Everett looks at strike one. We cheer and clap and yell as the umpire motions the strike sign. Two out. Nobody on. Top of the ninth. 5-3 Sox. Sven is beating on the small, round table which is near collapsing, and since we’ve been compiling drinks and dishes for about three hours, everything on the table is bouncing just a little, creating a nice glass-jangling sound to go along with the clapping and yelling. Jenks sets and fires, and Everett is late. He fouls it off: a quick strike two. Houston down to their final strike. Everybody cheering, Don holding onto the table, ready to burst. The Sox fans to our left clapping, all eyes square on the game. Everybody in the restaurant has the same look of focus in their eyes. But our hands and our feet and all other parts are pumped full of excitement, awaiting release. Two out, nobody on. Top 9. 5-3. Here comes the pitch…

Another emphatic fist pump from Jenks and from Sven, who after high-fiving me, Ben, Don, and Meghan is now high-fiving every single Sox fan at the table to our left, going all the way around so he can share this moment with as many Sox fans as possible. Don is doing the same on the other side, triumphantly pointing to the FOX 2 on his back so that everyone will see. Sox win! Sox win! Sox win! Ben and I look at each other, and smile. “Go Cubs.” And another fist pound to cap it.

On January 19, 2002, I was home from Bloomington for the Bears-Eagles playoff game, the Bears’ first home playoff game in ten years. On that same day, Michael Jordan was playing at the United Center for the first time since Game 5 of the ’98 Finals, though this time as a member of the Washington Wizards. Needless to say, it was a big day in Chicago. There was a feeling that even though some were at Soldier Field while others were at the UC, everyone was united, so if you were at either game you were watching it for anybody else who couldn’t be there. As it turned out, the Bears and the Bulls both lost…and of course Michael Jordan won, but what else is new?

This past Sunday had a similar feel, the Bears taking on the Ravens at Soldier Field as the Sox prepared to play Game 2 at Comiskey. There was almost no way anybody was going to reasonably attend both games, and so all of us at Soldier Field were representing for all the Sox fans who (understandably) chose Game 2 over Week 7. And all of us were there for the many fans watching both on TV.

Before Dad and I left the house to pick up Meghan and Don, I gave Sven a call, because around the time when we would be leaving Soldier Field, Sven would be heading to The Cell.

Dad drove the four of us into the city. We parked in the underground lot at Grant Park, and instead of taking a shuttle to Soldier Field, we walked. It was a cold day with a relaxed wind and a sky that was threatening to drown us at any moment. Still, the walk to the massive stadium was nice, and as we got closer we were near more and more Bears fans, until finally they were all around us, all of us headed in a sea of navy and orange to Soldier Field to watch our Bears take on the Baltimore Ravens. We were all pumped for the game as Bears fans always are, but with Game 2 up ahead there was an additional level of excitement. Outside the gate, FOX’s baseball sideline reporter Chris Myers was standing around talking to somebody, and as we passed him the two guys walking in front of us had the following exchange:

As we got to the park, jerseys were everywhere. I was in my ROBINSON 88, and there were others like me, stuck in old jerseys. SALAAM 31, THOMAS 35, and KRAMER 12 were around, as were the current ones, most notably URLACHER 54, BROWN 30, TILLMAN 33, T. JONES 20, and KREUTZ 57. There were even a few ORTON 18’s. But the Sox gear was also in abundance, as any Sox fan who couldn’t be at Comiskey wanted to make sure that everybody knew where his heart was.

Before the game began I went into the bathroom, where, as always, the moods were palpable. “Go Bears!” chants were still outnumbering “Go Sox!” but it was only about three to one, and there was as much anticipation for later as there was excitement for right now.

“Marcus Robinson?” I heard from behind me as I rinsed my hands. “When did he last play for us?”

Our seats were up in the north endzone, around the same place where I sat for my first Bears game at New Soldier Field, and as I sat I thought about that day. It was, in many ways, the same situation: I was in town from Indiana, I was at my first Bears game of the season, I was up in the north endzone, and a Chicago baseball team was playing a playoff game later that day.[4] After the players were introduced, the captains for both teams met at midfield for the coin toss, and I was delighted to see the honorary captain and guest coin tosser: Connie Payton, Walter’s widow.

Every time I see Connie Payton, before and after Walter’s death, she is smiling, and as she walked out to midfield and waved at the crowd, the fans in the stands went nuts. It was a true show of respect for her and for her late husband, a man who gave us everything he had. We settled into our seats, cheered madly as Jerry Azumah pumped up the crowd for the opening kick, and began watching our Chicago Bears.

It was a cold, almost blistering rain, not too hard or too much to start, but certainly enough to let us know who was boss. Still, that’s part of what I love about football, and Bears football in particular: you have to be a fan to dig it. Gone is the college crowd, the kids who show up at Wrigley to hang out and drink. Gone are the college girls, the ones with their new Cubs hats and new (yet a year late) Sosa jerseys, the ones who couldn’t tell you when the Seventh Inning Stretch was. Gone are the business men, the suits who show up to the United Center with a client and leave in the middle of the fourth to beat the traffic even in a close game. There’s nothing cute or fun about forty degree rain and a swift wind. There’s nothing socially impressive about being outdoors in a Chicago October, even when it’s not raining. Bears games are for Bears fans, and Bears fans only.

As to be expected, it was a slug fest, both teams playing with backup quarterbacks. Ours is Orton, a fourth round rookie. Theirs is Anthony Wright, a journeyman who led Baltimore to the playoffs in 2003 but is still a middle-of-the-road option. Great defenses and terrific running games all around, and if there is any way that this weather was perfect, it was as a compliment to those football elements.

By halftime, the rain was pounding, hard and consistent, and the Bears had played a solid half of football, leading 7-6 on an Orton to Marc Edwards touchdown pass. I was going to walk around the stadium and try to buy some gloves, but as we headed down the aisle, the p.a. announcer began talking about the ’85 Bears, and all of a sudden every living member of that team who was available was walking onto the field to thunderous applause. It turns out that they were celebrating the twenty-year anniversary of that great team, and we were there to see it. This was a delightful surprise and a funny coincidence, as ten years earlier Dad and I—along with MJ and Luke (at his first ever Bears game)—had seen the ten-year anniversary during a Bears-Oilers game, and like this one, we did not know ahead of time.

Many players attended that ten-year anniversary, and the twenty-year one was the same. Each player received cheers from the crowd, and each one had a smile on his face. Connie Payton walked in place of Walter, and she was given another big hand. After everyone was announced, Dan Hampton was introduced specifically as the most recent Bear to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Fans yelled loud for Hampton, quieting as he addressed the crowd. He began talking about that great team, about all the support they received from Bears fans. He talked about his teammates, and about his coaches, and then he talked about their leader, a man beloved in the city, a man who they wished was here today. He talked about Walter Payton. And as a video ran commemorating Payton and his wonderful career, the entire stadium stood and applauded, screaming and yelling in joy for Walter, saluting Sweetness, number 34. It was a true sports moment, one not about yards and touchdowns, but about memories.

We’ve had some amazing players and coaches in Chicago. Papa Bear, MJ, Sayers, Butkus, Banks, Hull…these are names renowned not just in Chicago, but around the leagues in which they played. But none of them left a mark the way Walter Payton did. On the day the Bears used the fourth pick in the 1975 draft to take the little-known running back from Jackson State, Payton delivered a quote that only he could make good on: “When I’m done, they’re going to love me in this town.”

That might sound cocky, but everything I know about Payton tells me it was a simple honest assessment. And you know what? He was right. Nobody else combined skill and character like Walter Payton. Nobody else captured our imaginations and our heads and our hearts the way he did. Michael may have been the greatest basketball player of all time, and certainly we love him for what he did, but he never connected with the city the way Walter Payton did. There was a disconnect with Michael, as would be expected with a guy known and loved throughout the world. Not Payton, though. He was always ours.

Walter was joy, as a player and a person. He was love, happiness, beauty, truth, exhilaration, and hope in the form of a football player. He was grace, power, speed, and balance. He was hard work, dedication, and desire. He was an incredible solo performer who was committed to his team. He was great when the Bears were bad, and he was great when the Bears were great. He was the best and most beloved player on the best and most beloved team in Chicago history. He was a part of the ’85 Bears, yet in his own way he stood above them. Among all of the star players on that team, Walter’s legacy is the one least tied to it. There was only one blemish on the 1985 season, and it wasn’t the loss to Miami. It was Walter not scoring a touchdown in the Super Bowl. I don’t get too hung up on it though; in fact, I’m almost glad it played the way it did, because it makes him that much more special. The outrage of fans over that decision speaks to the love and respect we all have for him.

In a way, it was a metaphor for his life and death, because when Walter was having kidney failures in the late ’90s, he didn’t use his celebrity to jump ahead on the donor list. He could have, but he didn’t. Instead, he lived his life, and when he died on November 1^st, 1999, it was truly a sad day in Chicago. I remember hearing about it. We knew it was close, but when it happened…I broke down and cried. And it wasn’t because a man who rushed for an NFL record 16,726 yards had died. It was because Walter Payton gave everything he had to the Bears and our city, not just his skill and talent, but his heart, his soul, his love, his respect, his time, his patience, his courage, and his care. We felt every last bit of it. Walter performed for us, entertained us, fought hard on the football field for us, and he did it in such a distinctive manner with such a high level of talent, that there was nobody else like him.

He was only 45 when he died, yet he lived as full a life as he could live, and because of that he will live forever in the hearts and minds and imaginations of Chicagoans. On Saturday November 6^th, 1999, the day that I turned 18, a public memorial service was held for Walter at Soldier Field, and before I went out to C.J.’s to begin my birthday celebration with my family, I sat at home and watched the service and celebrated the life of a man who was as much a hero as any athlete I’ve seen. He didn’t battle racism like Jackie Robinson, Jesse Owens, or Hank Aaron. He didn’t use his athletic status affect social change like Muhammad Ali or Jim Brown. And he didn’t overcome cancer like Lance Armstrong or Mario Lemieux. He just played, hard and true, with class and character, with humor and humility, with pride and personality. All he did was play football.

The Bears added a field goal in the third to make it 10-6, and when we went to the fourth the rain was still a-stormin’. I looked south, over the opposite scoreboard, and took a peak at the sky.

“Doesn’t look like a good day for baseball,” I said, and judging by the conversations in the stands, that was the general sentiment. But it was a great day for football, and with Thomas Jones leading the offense and the defense stuffing the Baltimore run and beating down on Wright, the Bears won the game convincingly…10-6. After a solid but limited 45 yards on nine carries in the first half, TJ took over in the second gaining 105 and carrying the team on his back in the fourth with 83 yards on 12 carries, including a spectacular 42-yard breakout dash down the right sideline that broke Baltimore and sent the fans home smiling and full of cheer. During the Bears-Eagles playoff game, I didn’t realize how cold it was until the final gun, and then it all caught up to me in a blast of brutal chill. This game was the opposite, with me shivering a bit all throughout until Orton sealed the win with a kneel down, at which point I felt energized and refreshed and oddly warm. Most importantly, I felt ready for baseball. Of course that ended up being the adrenaline; when I really down, I was pretty damn cold.

“They’re alright,” I said, as I used them to cover my ears. “How are you feeling?”

Dad drove the three of us back to Meghan’s, dropping us off and then heading to pick up Mom. They headed over to a friends’ to watch Game 2, while Meghan, Don and I warmed up in their TV room. Bonnie was making some food, and promptly brought me in my cheeseburger just as I like it.

If watching Game 1 was like watching the Super Bowl, everybody’s energy way up for every play, watching Game 2 was more like watching a golf match, everybody relaxing until The Big Moment. Of course that probably had a lot to do with the circumstances under which I watched both games: I was dry and warm and in a restaurant with lots of people for Game 1, wet and cold and in a house with three people for Game 2. But still, even without those circumstances, I just felt different. Game 2’s’ll do that to you.

Things began with the intriguing pitching matchup of Mark Buehrle and Andy Pettitte. Lefty against lefty, the old standard of the Sox rotation against the man who finally started doing this year what he was supposed to do last. The first run came in the top of the second when Morgan Ensberg delivered a solo shot for the Stros but the run did not seem like such a big deal because it came off the first pitch after the break. We felt as if Houston had simply started the game with a 1-0 lead.

Jason Lane followed Ensberg, and after he ripped a base hit that scooted past Uribe, FOX posted their Lunesta Trivia Question: Who was the last pitcher to start the All-Star Game & a World Series game in the same season?

Then in the bottom of the second with Rowand and Pierzynski on base, The New Mr. October Joe Crede singled to right to score Rowand.[5] That was followed by Juan Uribe blooping a ball to right, and like straight out of the “growing pains” montage in Major League, Lane, Biggio, and Berkman all closed in on the ball he missed. Biggio got under it, but he was backpeddling as he extended, and the ball bounced off the tip of his glove, dropping behind him as Pierzynski scored.

2-1 Sox…still, we weren’t getting excited. It seems like every game of this White Sox postseason has been an up and down affair, and so while the lead was a good sign, we were waiting it out.

Willy Tavares tripled in the top of the third leading to a Berkman sac fly. Then in the fifth, a double from Ausmus and a single from Tavares put two on for Berkman, who ripped a two-bagger into deep left field. Both runners scored. The Astros led 4-2.

The Sox looked like they might challenge in their half of the fifth with Uribe slicing a lead-off double down the left field line. But Podsednik popped out leaving Uribe at second, and then Iguchi smacked a comebacker to Pettitte, who caught Uribe off the bag and ran him down at second. Two outs, and then it was Pettitte once more, this time picking off Iguchi at first for the inning’s final out. Now the wind was picking up. It was blowing hard and the rain was coming down and I couldn’t help but think of Sven, and how, along with being cold and wet, his team was now losing.

But these were the White Sox, the 2005 White Sox, a team that has benefited greatly from an acute sense of timing, and so it was in Game 2. After out-pitching Buehrle for six innings, Pettitte (6 IP, 8 hits, 2 earned runs, 4 K’s with no walks) left the game with a 4-2 lead, leaving reliever Dan Wheeler to take over. We were pretty quiet at this point; Meg and I were sitting on the couch in sweats and socks covered by a blanket, Don was nearly sleeping in his La-Z-Boy, but when the bottom of the seventh began with Pettitte in the dugout instead of on the mound, it seemed like a possible turning point. Crede fouled out, Uribe doubled, and then after Pods K’d, Iguchi waked, and then…

Dye had been clutch all year for the Sox, particularly in the postseason, and when he worked the count to 3-2, you just knew something good was going to happen. Visions of Dye roping a game-tying double into right center danced in my head, and after he fouled a pitch off, Wheeler fired one high and tight, and…it hit him.

“Oh man!” I said, sitting up quickly. Not exactly the heroic at-bat we envisioned.

“Got him right on the hand,” said Don, but then, as we watched the replay, we weren’t too sure. Neither were the announcers. They showed the replay, and it wasn’t clear, but we didn’t have time to watch it because the bases were now loaded and Paul Konerko was coming to the plate. I could hear Luke’s voice as he delivered one of his favorite Sox phrases: “Come on Konerko! Konerk one out of here!” He loves saying that, and I almost did, but I was still thinking about the possible phantom hit by pitch, and then a comment flashed through my head—“Well, what do you think? Grand slam time?”—but I kept it to myself because it just didn’t seem like a smart thing to say, but damn, did it feel right, and then, on the first pitch to Konerko…

BAM! GRAND SLAM! GRAND SLAM! GRAND SLAM! A no-doubt-abouter from the moment it left his bat, and Don shot out of his chair yelling and screaming and nearly tripping over the audoman in an effort to high-five us. Holy cow! Like Thomas Jones’ 42-yard dash—only much more important—Konerko’s blast sent everybody out of their seats, and while I can’t be sure, it probably made everybody at the Cell a little bit warmer, if only for a moment. 6-4 White Sox.

The inning ended, and while Cliff Politte was busy polishing off the Astros in a 1-2-3 eighth, all FOX could do was show the ball hitting Dye again and again, except the more everybody looked at it the more we became convinced that the ball didn’t hit Dye’s hand at all but rather the shaft of the bat, and quite obviously. Whoops. First Pierzynski’s phantom dropped third strike, and now Dye’s phantom HBP. Two That Play’s in one postseason.

The Sox didn’t score and so the rookie Jenks came in for the ninth to close it out.

First up for Houston: Jeff Bagwell, who singles into center. Jenks then strikes out Jason Lane with an 0-2 fast ball that “climbes the ladder,” so to speak. One out in the ninth. FOX goes to a dugout shot of Ozzie, and then they flash up a graphic that reads WORLD SERIES FACT: 11 OF LAST 12 TEAMS WITH 2-0 SERIES LEAD HAVE GONE ON TO WIN THE SERIES, and I can hear my dad scoffing at that one—“So what? What does that mean? That doesn’t mean anything. Just stupid.” Jenks walks Burke, missing high on 3-0, and Don Cooper comes out to the mound. Next up Ausmus, who tries to check but can’t hold out and so he chops one down to Konerko at first. Konerko steps on the bag, the runners advance, and now it’s second and third with two outs for the pinch-hitter and former Cub Jose Vizcaino, who enters the game for Adam Everett. Not good.

“This is not good,” I say. And then, out loud, yet really to myself because I’m pretty sure neither Don nor Meghan will know what I’m talking about, and yet I still deliver the sentence as a question: “Didn’t Vizcaino came through with that hit in the Series for the Yankees? 2000, I think. His kind of spot.”

The big, cold face of Jenks fills the screen, and Vizcaino ambles up to the plate. Jenks throws, and BAM!...the former Cub sprays a ball into left field. Bagwell scores easily, and as Burke rounds third we stand, anticipating the throw to the plate, and Pods plays the ball off one bounce and fires home. Crede skips out of the way, Burke charges, Pierzynski sets up to field the throw, but the throw is wide to the first base side and as A.J. turns, grabs it, and swings back around to his left to make a play on Burke, the Astros’ rookie slides in beautifully and touches the plate with his left hand just before Pierzynski applies the tag. Boom! Burke leaps up as the home plate umpire motions safe, the Houston rookie barking as he runs over to his dugout to greet his enthusiastic teammates.

6-6, two outs, Cotts replacing Jenks. Mike Lamb to bat, and as Cotts pitches to Lamb, Joe Buck and Tim McCarver talk about Vizcaino, who stands dutifully and patiently at second.

Buck: “The 37-year-old (dramatic pause), has played in the big leagues in three different decades.”

McCarver: “And harken back to the 2000 World Series in Game 1, when Jose Vizcaino singled to left field…almost in the identical spot to win the game for the New York Yankees...”

“Uch,” Don snorts in disgust. “I can’t believe the kid blew that one.” He slaps his hands together in disappointment, knowing an opportunity was missed. “Damn.”

Brad Lidge enters to pitch for the Astros, and when I see him, I perk up once more. This guy was lights out for Houston the past two seasons, and until Game 5 of this season’s NLCS his postseason career had been stellar: 21 IP on thirteen appearances, (all coming in ’04 and ’05), with two earned runs allowed on 12 hits, 8 walks, and 31 strike outs. His ERA in 2004 was 1.90. This season it was 2.29. Lidge pitched in Games 2, 3, and 4 of the NLCS, recording saves in all three outings. I mean, this guy had been unhittable…and so it was with much confidence that the Astros handed him the ball to close out Game 5, the game that, if won, would send Houston to their first ever World Series. Lidge struck out the first two batters he faced, then allowed a single and a stolen base to David Eckstein. He walked Edmonds on the “unintentional” intentional walk, and then Albert Pujols.

After missing the first pitch, Pujols absolutely obliterated Lidge’s next, the stone-faced right hander sending it above the train tracks at the top of the wall at Minute Maid Park. I tell you: I’ve never heard a stadium fall completely silent after having reached a frenzic pitch just moments earlier as quickly as it happened in last Monday’s game. The Astros went down in order in their half of the ninth, and all of a sudden they found themselves going back to Busch Stadium for Game 6. What a nightmare…but it wasn’t. Remarkably, the Pujols home run did not put Houston in the kind of super-funk that the California Angels found themselves in after Dave Henderson’s blast in ’86; Houston came out roaring and won 5-1 behind Biggio (2-5, run/RBI) Ausmus (3-4, run), Lane (1-4, solo HR), and Oswalt (7 IP, 3 H, 1 ER, 1 BB, 6 K).[6] The Pujols home run could have landed Lidge on the short list with Mitch Williams, Donnie Moore, and Bob Stanley; instead, it was a road block, one that the Astros easily overcame…

…and yet, I felt immediately that the Pujols at-bat would be with him, somehow, in some capacity, that the baggage from that home run would work in the White Sox’ favor. McCarver chimes in to that effect, just to be sure that Houston fans have not yet forgotten: “The last time Brad Lidge pitched in a game was in Houston—the Pujols home run…met with silence as he left…and tonight he comes into the game, met with silence here in Chicago because of that remarkable hit by Jose Vizcaino.” Thanks Tim. A sound connection. (“So? What does that mean? There was silence…wow. That doesn’t mean anything. This guy’s an idiot.”)

Joe Buck is still fawning over Vizcaino, and then Crede sends a ball to Taveras. One out. The rain is falling. Podsednik (0-4 with a strikeout) comes to the plate. Lidge misses away, and then low, and the count is 2 and 0 on Podsednik.

And then, in classic announcer style, Buck dribbles out a sentence that begins as a question and ends as a flat, monotone statement:

Buck: “Do you sir, buy into the theory…people said in regard to Lidge: ‘Woulda been nice to get Lidge in the game in Game 6 in St. Louis in the NLCS to get that taste out of his mouth, from the Pujols home run.’”

McCarver: (as Lidge delivers the 2-1 to Podsednik) “I don’t think that taste is there.”

Only one home run all season for Podsednik, and now he lashes out and ropes his second of the playoffs into the right field stands, and I’m not sure but I think I see Sven and his blue shorts leaping up and down with the rest of the crowd. Oh man! Sox win! Sox win! Sox win!

When Podsednik connects, Don catapults himself out of his chair, nearly flying into the TV before lunging at Meghan and me for high fives. And the Sox’ dugout clears, gathering around home, awaiting Podsednik, and Pods ducks under their hands to touch home and tip off the leaping-baseball-mob celebration. Jenks comes out to join them, rubbing Podsednik’s head in celebration; he’s off the hook. Lidge walks to the dugout; he has failed again. White Sox 2, Astros 0, heading to Houston.

That’s right folks: one of the most historic and exciting games in the history of baseball, and Meghan and I fell asleep before it was over. I feel like my grandmother.

As Houston ace Roy Oswalt warmed up on the mound just before Game 3, two storylines had everybody talking:

1. Oswalt pitching Game 3, which seemed to surely mean, even to the biggest Sox fans, that the Astros would go into Game 4 down 2-1. The line on Oswalt: 20-12 with a 2.94 this season...and in the playoffs, three wins against no losses, five earned in 21 and a third for a 2.11 ERA. He was also named MVP of the NLCS. Yowza.

2. Major League Baseball’s decision to force the Astros to leave the roof at Minute Maid Park open, despite their objections.

By game’s end, Oswalt was long gone, and nobody could even remember the “roof controversy.” That’s what happens when you play the longest game in World Series history in both time (5 hours 41 minutes) and innings (14).

We began watching the game in our TV room, and for a while it looked as if we would finish there. The Astros jumped all over the Sox with a run in the first, two in the third, and one in the fourth. 4-zip, Stros. Oswalt was cruising, Garland was struggling, and it looked as if Houston was headed to a Game 3 win. It was to be expected. After all, a White Sox win in Game 3 would put the Sox a game away from a World Series sweep, and that would give them a mark of 11-1 in the postseason. No way that could happen, right?

No sooner did the Astros trot out to the field in the fifth did the White Sox stake their comeback. The New Mr. October cranked a solo shot to right to lead off the inning. A Garland strike out was sandwiched by singles from Uribe and Podsednik, those followed by back-to-back singles from Iguchi and Dye. 4-3 Astros. The Sox dugout was pumped: even Big Frank was clapping it up, shouting “Here we go! Here we go!” Konerko flied out to center for the second out…Houston fans settling, feeling better…and then it was Mr. Controversy A.J. Pierzynski smoking a double to deep center to score Tad and Dye. 5-4 Sox.

It is a powerful hit by Pierzynski. I know all big hits are powerful, but this is not simply a physical power. It feels powerful, the way the president feels powerful. The hit itself embodies power…or perhaps control is the word I’m looking for. It feels controlled, like the Pujols shot last week, or Sammy’s homer that tied Game 1. That kind of power.

Then came the Rowand at-bat. This was weird because nothing important happened, and nothing unique or interesting happened, and yet it felt like both of those were the case. All Rowand did was draw a walk after six pitches, and yet Oswalt, the Houston crowd, and the announcers all reacted as if Oswalt had just walked the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth of a tied Game 7 with 2002 World Series Barry Bonds coming to the plate

Maybe it really was that important. Maybe not. I don’t know. All I know is that it felt like that. Part of the reason was that it was the third long AB of the inning. First was Garland, comically working a 2-2 count with a foul that nearly chopped through first base coach Tim Raines before ultimately striking out. Then with two on and two in, Jermaine Dye battled through a seven-pitch AB that ended with an RBI single to center. And then Rowand:

2. (Disparaging FOX graphic comparing Oswalt’s numbers in his last two postseason starts against his numbers in the fifth inning.)

5. (Shots of Houston fans praying—these people look like they truly believe that you can lose a postseason best-of-seven in the fifth inning of Game 3.)

7. (Houston fans standing and applauding to support their pitcher on an important two strike, two out pitch…anticipating the punch-out…getting ready…)

10. Low and away, Rowand resisting the pitch, tossing his bat, walking to first.

With that, the crowd moans, like they’ve just been punched in the stomach. Oswalt himself looks guilty, grimacing like a kid who breaks a vase while playing ball in the house, realizing suddenly “Uh oh. I’ve done it this time.” Then Oswalt plunks Crede inside to load the bases, and now Oswalt really looks bad, and Crede is pissed, and the crowd is going into actual shock, and then Carl Everett nearly climbs out of the dugout to yell at Oswalt, and then the Astros’ dugout starts yelling at Everett, and there is Oswalt in the middle, freaked out of his mind, standing on the mound, and though the attention is off him momentarily he knows it won’t last, because the bases are loaded and he loaded them.

It was amazing. I kept looking at Oswalt throughout the entire ordeal. The look on his face was the same as that of every Astros fan in the house—“How can this be happening? Oswalt is our ace. We’re at home. Are we really going to go down 3-0 in the World Series? Did I fail to mention that Oswalt is our ace??!!! This should have been his game!”—except that Oswalt had the added pain of actually being Oswalt, which meant that while he was objectively asking all of those same questions, he was also suffering through the indignities of actually pitching. Even when he popped Uribe out to finally escape the inning, things did not feel calm.

(Then, just to intensify things, FOX came back from the break to remind us that “on this date in 1986,” Bill Buckner made his famous error in Game 6 of the World Series. This was one of the all-time spookiest games of any sport in the history, right there with the ’72 USA-USSR gold medal basketball game. Again, does this mean anything? Not necessarily. But it’s like walking through a graveyard. Just eerie.)

Oswalt is fine in the sixth, but when he walks Konerko to lead-off the seventh, his time is up. Garner gives him the hook, Russ Springer comes in, and as Oswalt leaves, Minute Maid Park feels like a funeral. FOX goes back to the pitcher-coming-off-the-field wide shot, but instead of being majestic, this one had the feel of watching a six-year-old who just fell and scraped his knee (Oswalt) scampering into his mother’s waiting, sympathetic arms (the crowd and dugout). Ouch. Springer retires the next three in order, and Game 3 completes its biggest pregame storyline: Roy Oswalt, Astro Ace.

So Garland out-pitches The Great Roy Oswalt, and when Politte replaces the tall, slender righty in the bottom of the eighth, the White Sox still lead 5-4. Politte does a nice job, retiring the first two batters of the inning (including a monumental strike out of the nearly unstoppable Berkman on a 3-2 change), before walking Ensberg. This brings up Lamb, in what is the biggest at-bat of the game, and maybe of the series (up to that point). It is time for one of baseball’s biggest joys: managerial chess matches.

If I had to point to one aspect of the game that the designated hitter ruins for me, it is these late game situations in which managers strategize (and sometimes, over-strategize) by getting into their bench and bullpens. The White Sox only used one relief pitcher in the ALCS, made possible by the fact that Contreras, Buehrle, Garland, and Garcia did not have to hit. And in the first two games of the World Series, the Sox had yet to go to their bench for either a pinch-hitter or a defensive replacement. But now, in a National League park…

Ozzie pulls Politte in favor of Neal Cotts, and now we are in the midst of Situational Baseball, the game at its best. The Big Baseball Situation (BBS): Game 3 of the World Series, 2-0 Sox in the series, 5-4 Sox in the game, bottom of the eighth, runner on first, two outs, here comes the pitch...

Lamb walks on five pitches. First and second now, two outs, 5-4 Sox, and Ozzie goes back to the pen. This time he sets his hands about a foot apart, moves them up and down, and then sets his hand up at his waist, requesting the “skinny small guy.” Cotts sits down, Dustin Hermanson comes in. Out comes Mike Lamb, in comes Eric Bruntlett to pinch-run. Ball, swinging strike, swinging strike, and the 1-2…

BAM! Jason Lane doubles to left, Ensberg scores, the Astros win the situation and tie the game at five.

The next BBS comes in the top of the ninth. Dye grounds out to short to start the inning, and then Wheeler hits Konerko on the wrist. One on, one out, and in comes Mike Gallo to face Pierzynski. A.J. grounds out to second, advancing Konerko a base. Runner at second, two outs, Lidge coming in. They go to commercial, and when they return FOX has a Brad Lidge montage, with clips of the Pujols home run in Game 5 and then the Podsednik walk off in Game 2, all set to “I Won’t Back Down” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Yikes. Lidge to face Aaron Rowand. Ball outside, strike looking, ball up and away, strike swinging down and away, and once again the Houston crowd is on its feet, sucked back in, giving themselves to their team, and Rowand waggles his bat in his stance, and Lidge delivers…

El Duque enters for Pierzynski on the double switch with Chris Widger entering to catch, and with Hernandez on the bump, visions of Game 3 against Boston dance in our heads. (Luke, screaming at me in a maniacal joy…) El Duque pops Everett out to Uribe on one pitch. One out for Chris Burke, who walks on four pitches. Ninth inning of Game 3, one out, game tied, winning run at first, Craig Biggio to the plate, and then after a pick-off attempt on Burke that misses him by this much followed by a pitch out to Biggio—B!G!O! B!G!O!—Hernandez turns to fire back to first. Burke slides head first and the low throw bounces off of Burke’s body and into foul territory. Winning run now at second base, one out, Biggio still up…and Burke steals third! Holy crap! What a ballsy move by Burke, who made it easily to the bag. Widger can’t believe it. He just stands there. Houston’s crowd is teaming—This is it! We’re gonna do it! We’re going to win Game 3! This will turn the series around!—and with the count already at two balls and one strike, El Duque goes head-high for ball three, shoulders-high for ball four.

First and third now, one out, tie game, infield in, winning run in scoring position, Orlando Hernandez on the mound and Willy Taveras to the plate. Two strikes, and then a sailing ball high, and then a sailing ball higher, and then a breaking ball moving away from Taveras, and the rookie reaches and misses. Two outs. Berkman to the plate. Ozzie to the mound. Talking…talking…talking…and now back to it, with El Duque pitching to Berkman. A close pitch. Berkman doesn’t move. Ball one. Burke waiting at third, itching to score, like a kid silently and desperately waving his hand in class so the teacher will call on him. The pitch. Head high, moving Berkman away. Two balls, no strikes, and now Widger stands and extends his glove, and Berkman is walked intentionally for Morgan Ensberg, the power hitting third baseman. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, tie game, bases loaded, El Duque on the mound, Ensberg at the plate.

El Duque checks the runners, and throws a slider that tails away from the swinging Ensberg. 0-1. Fastball belt high, and Ensberg fouls it straight back. 0-2. El Duque checks the runners again, then delivers a breaking ball over the plate that Ensberg fouls back. The lanky Cuban pitcher walks around the mound, adjusting his hat. He returns, and sets, and sails a pitch high for a ball, and then another with the same result, and now the count is even at two, and the bases are loaded, and the game is tied, and it’s the bottom of the ninth of Game 3 of the first World Series game ever played in the Big State of Texas, with the Astros trying to win…

…and he gets Ensberg swinging on the changeup! Strike three. End of nine. We go to extra innings.

“…OK then,” I say. It’s the first time either Meghan or myself have spoken since Lane’s run scoring double in the eighth.

For the next three innings, base runners were scarce. Orlando Palmeiro and Adam Everett each walked in the tenth, Podsednik singled in the 11^th, and Konerko was intentionally walked in the 11^th. From the tenth to the 12^th, that was it. All four were stranded on base. The Sox used two pitchers during that time, while Houston used one. We were now entering Random Out Of Nowhere World Series Hero Mode; this was the type of deal that turned Francisco Cabrera into a name. In fact, just two weeks earlier, it was then-little known Chris Burke who won Game 4 of the NLDS against Atlanta with a walk off solo shot in the bottom of the 18^th.

Three times batters took to the plate with two on and two outs. Three times they failed to drive in the winning or go-ahead run. Burke entered the Potential Hero’s Role first,[7] but he grounded out to the pitcher. Timo Perez had a chance for the Sox, but he swung on the first pitch and grounded out to Berkman at first. Then it was Orlando Palmeiro’s turn for Houston, and he promptly grounded out to Jenks.

The game was nearing Historically Long status. Before the bottom of the 11^th, FOX showed a graphic of the LONGEST WORLD SERIES GAMES:

It was now past midnight. Chad Qualls and Jenks traded 1-2-3 innings in the 12^th, with Jenks striking out the final two batters of the inning...

She starts her cutsy voice. “Um, baaaaaaaaby. Maybe we could go cuddle up and watch the rest of the game in bed.”

Once we were in bed and the game was on, I felt pretty confident that I would make it. I couldn’t be sure about her, but I was pretty sure that if I stayed seated upright, I’d be fine. Plus, how could I possibly fall asleep while watching a tense, late-inning, home city World Series game? I couldn’t.

After a double play, Iguchi falls behind 0-2. Two outs, two strikes, Iguchi against Qualls in the 13^th…got him swinging. Houston rejoics.

“Cool, we could get a 14^th inning stretch,” I remember saying. “I love those.”

FOX comes back from the break with the sound of an old fashioned gold-plated circular bell alarm clock, the kind the cartoon characters always smash with a giant mallot that they pulled out from under the covers. WORLD SERIES FACT: Tonight is longest game by time (4:57). Another great sentence. That very good.

Double switch…Marte pitching to replace the closer Jenks …Geoff Blum replacing Iguchi at second base and batting fifth…

Ooh, Marte just struck out Biggio looking. He looks really sharp right now…now that guy’s out…bouncer to short…cool, 14^th inning stretch…I think I’ll scoot down off the wall a bit…

Dye singled to center to lead off the inning, and then Konerko pulled one down the line, hard. Ensberg snared it, stood, turned and fired to Vizcaino at second, who turned and threw to Berkman to beat Konerko by half a step. Incredible.

Following the White Sox biggest two stars was Blum, the seldom used backup infielder, the guy aquired on July 31^st from the Padres for somebody named Ryan Meaux. And after staring at two bad pitches in a rather indifferent manner, Blum reached out and tagged a ball that was down and away, and it curved upwards, way down the right field line, and then it went over the fence.

I give Don back to Meghan, and while they talk I turn on SportsCenter. To my delight, they are still running all of their Game 3 highlights. It’s funny: whenever SportsCenter is running day-after Super Bowl or other big game highlights, I always laugh, wondering who in the world could possibly have interest in a monster game and yet, nearly nine hours after its completion, still not know what had transpired. Who was this person tuning into the now fifth or sixth generation highlight reel for The News?

“Oh man! It was crazy. Blum just smacked it, but it didn’t even seem like a home run. I just thought it was a hard hit double, and then it just kept flying, and then it was out. It was almost casual.”

“I know. And Blum was so chill the whole time, but everybody else—I mean, I was up and yelling at it, waving at it…I felt like Robin Williams in the Pudge Fisk scene.”

“Yeah, and then Rowand and Crede dinked out infield singles, and then they walked Uribe and Widger to give the Sox a two run lead.”

“I know, right?” He breathes. “Yeah, Damaso Marte was in, and he got the first guy, walked the second guy, and then got the third guy to pop out, and then they had it on a grounder, but Uribe bobbled it and couldn’t make the throw.”

“Yeah. Everybody safe, two on, two out, Sox up two, bottom of the 14^th, and Buehrle came in. And he got the save. They said it was his first appearance out of the pen since the 2000 playoffs. And he got—I think it was Everett—Everett to pop up to Uribe.”

“Yeah. I gotta say though, I did feel for the Astros fans. I was happy we won, I didn’t feel bad about winning or anything like that, but I did feel for them. FOX kept showing this woman on her cell phone. She was, like, literally pleading with the team itself, it seemed. And then I remember the Sox were lined up doing their post-game high five line—ya know, with just the team—and it was so quiet in the stadium that you could actually hear their hands slapping together, one after another, just a hundred little hand smacking sounds. And that was it.”

We get off the phone. Later in the night, right before we start watching Game 4, I get a call from Nana.

“Boy oh boy.” She’s very excited. “What did you think about that game last night?”

“Of course,” and she drags out the “or” sound in “course,” the way she does when you’re at her house and you ask if you can have a cookie. It’s an inviting, loving “of course,” one that suggests that you are silly for even asking. “I wouldn’t miss it. I stayed downstairs the whole time.”

“Nope. I thought about it—I thought about watching the end in bed, but I knew that if I did that I’d fall asleep.”

She’s appalled, like I’ve told her I’ll be missing Passover to celebrate Easter. “You missed it? How could you?” You were making out during Schindler’s List?

About a month ago, I got a call from my editor at NUVO. The newspaper was launching a blog section on their website, and he wanted to know if, as one of their regular contributors, I’d be interested in writing one. Now, I don’t like blogs. I don’t like the idea of blogs, and I don’t like the word blog. But I figured I could dedicate it to sports and use it to write about all of the lesser items that I wouldn’t be able to publish in the paper, like my All-NBA team of the ’90s, for example, or my five favorite video game athletes.[9] I called it “It’s Gotta be the Shoes” as a nod to one of my favorite old t-shirts: my Mars Blackmon/Michael Jordan black nike IT’S GOTTA BE THE SHOES…IT HAD TO BE THE SHOES shirt. And since I have such a strong aversion to the b-word, I decided to refer to it as a blip, something small, fun, and ultimately insignificant.

But some nights The Blip is significant, and that’s when it is documenting Significant Things, and beyond being exciting and somewhat unifying, Game 4 is Significant. The White Sox’—and the city’s—first World Series title in 88 years. That’s Significant. The Blip has been lots of fun, and as my friends have taken to reading it and leaving comments, I decided to do a running commentary for Game 4, Sports Guy style.[10] Here it is:

I just got off the phone with my grandmother. In a shocking and unsettling development, Nana stayed up for the entirety of Game 3—all 5 hours, 41 minutes, and 14 innings of it—while Meghan and I fell asleep in the 13^th.

This was a real tense at-bat. After Jermaine connected for a two-out double, Konerko and Backe went eye-to-eye. When Konerko fought off a pitch to bring the count to three and two, the Houston crowd stood and applauded; it really felt like an eighth inning at-bat. Minute Maid Park’s energy is way up.

It’s very early, but already it’s clear that Brandon Backe is going to pitch a game somewhere in the solid to good range. He was interviewed on the Score Friday night (the night before Game 1), and just from that interview I got the sense that this guy has got it together. Perhaps he’s able to be loose since he’s on a staff with Clemens, Pettitte, and Oswalt.

According to baseballreference.com, every position player for the White Sox (Pierzynski, Konerko, Iguchi, Crede, Uribe, Podsednik, Rowand, Dye) is the only guy in the majors with that last name, and except for Uribe, each one is the only guy in major league history with that last name.

Podsednik just legged out a two-out triple…very risky play by Pods, who wasn’t flying out of the box and looked to be on “doubles speed” as he rounded first, but then…BAM! He just turned it on around second and beat Biggio’s throw to third with a beautiful head first slide. Then Iguchi gounded to short on the first pitch. Still scoreless.

Ozzie Guillen is the Venezuelan, baseball version of Mike Ditka, and the only thing that will keep him from being as loved as Ditka will be that everybody is a Bears fan, but only half of the city is White Sox fans. However, the way this Sox love-fest is going, Ozzie might match Da Coach. He’s already reached first-name status.

Also, in ten years, when non-Sox fans think of this Sox team, they will think of Konerko, the four straight complete games (and the pitchers who threw them), the near collapse, and Ozzie. (Upon further review, they’ll also think of Jermaine, AJ, Pods, and probably Jenks.) (Upon further further review, they probably won’t think of anything, because they were probably being bums and not watching.)

FOX just ran a clip of an interview with Backe, and once again he gives off the impression of being talented, loose, and intelligent, with a proper sense of perspective. I think I’m starting to like him.

Backe just K’d Rowand to strike out the side. After giving up the single to Jermaine Dye, Backe took Konerko down swinging on a 2-2 breaking ball, finished A.J. on a “diving slider,”[12] and then polished off Rowand...Astros look tough...they’re very professional...

You’ve got to hand it to the Astros’ fans. They’ve been great, despite being in an awfully difficult spot, having just watched their team lose a heartbreaker/backbreaker in Game 3 less than 24 hours ago. Then to show up back at the park for Game 4 down 3-0 and come out cheering straight from the opening pitch? You gotta love that.

Sox haven’t been working the count, and Backe looks very strong...still scoreless going to the bottom of the fourth.

Garcia just walked Berkman on five pitches to start the fourth, and though ordinarily I’d be opposed to walking the leadoff hitter, Berkman’s been so good in this series (.417 with six runs knocked in [13]) and Backe looks really good right now, so perhaps it’s not such a bad idea.

Nope. Didn’t matter. Ensberg struck out swinging, Berkman was retired at second on Lamb’s fielder’s choice, and then Lamb went down the same way to end the inning.

They’re interviewing the Houston pitching coach...these are getting old. Why would Hickey even agree to another interview after the Crede HR see-you-later job that FOX put on him last time? Perhaps he’s simply excited to be In The Spotlight, particularly the national spotlight, something that is out of the ordinary for a pitching coach. Still...not as annoying as Leiter in the booth in ’03 describing a curve ball.

Backe just K’d another and got Garcia to ground out 5 to 3 to end the inning. The five consecutive strike outs were one shy of a World Series record. Backe looks terrific.

Wow! What a play by the Sox’ infield. With Ausmus taking off from first on the hit and run, Adam Everett ripped a ball down the line towards Crede. Crede knelt down and gloved it and then fired to Iguchi, the ball beating the sliding Ausmus by a step…and then with plenty of time, Iguchi turned and made a sharp throw to Konerko at first.

Also of note: Joe Buck reminded me that Ausmus’ single was the fourth time in five innings that the Astros had put their leadoff man on base. This makes the Sox’ pitching and defense even more impressive. Like a defense continuously inheriting lousy field position but stuffing the opposing offense anyways. This is how the Sox have won all year.

FOX just finished their in-game interview with Ozzie Guillen. Ozzie’s always fun to listen to, even if the merits of the format escape me.

Great play by Adam Everett on the Tad Iguchi slow-roller, with Everett making a bare-handed scoop and throw, and a nice stretch by Lamb at first to get Iguchi.

Backe just struck out JDye to end the top of the sixth. Still scoreless. Astros fans are entranced in this game; they’ve been standing for every important two out/two strike AB, and that strikeout of Dye just sent them through the roof…er, the great big opening in the top of Minute Maid Park. They look like they truly believe they’re gonna win at least the game, if not the series. I can’t help but assume that having the Red Sox comeback against the Yankees still fresh in their collective heads is keeping Houston fans optimistic. They are as optimistic now about their team’s chances as they were pessimistic yesterday during the fifth inning meltdown.

Biggest AB of the game thus far: bottom of the sixth, second and third, two out, Mike Lamb up, scoreless game...

0-2 on Lane. FOX just ran their A.D.D. “RIGHT NOW!” graphic of who’s pitching, who’s up, and who’s on.

FOX just posted a graphic that says that Jason Lane is 4-for-8 with runners in scoring position this postseason. Doo-fair.

Yes! After seven pitches that included four fouls and only a single ball, Garcia just K’d Lane to get out of the inning. What a big time at-bat. Garcia “climbed the ladder” on that one, and Lane “chased it” up in the “zone.” Just a tremendous pitch, with the normally-reserved Garcia pumping his fists Bobby Jenks-style. Now that’s a Big Baseball Situation.

FOX just showed a Sox crowd cheering at a Chicago bar called Jimbo’s...this will be a running theme. “And down to Chris Myers to check in with the locals.”

Two out, top 7, second and third, Uribe up, still scoreless. George and Barbara look nervous, though it looks as if Barbara doesn’t have quite the keen sense as to what is actually happening.

Backe K’s Uribe. Wow. This guy has been awesome. In fact, given the circumstances, I’d go so far as to say that Backe is putting up one of the best postseason pitching performances that I have ever seen.

Also…I was right about George and Barbara. They just showed their reaction to the Uribe strike out; George yippee’d excitedly, lifting up as he pumped his fist. Barbara’s face remained uniformally blank throughout. Poor George. You could see that as he got to the top of his fist pump, he was looking around for one of The Guys so that he could share the moment, and then it was like he thought for a second and remembered “Oh, that’s right. I’m the 81-year-old former President of the United States. I don’t roll with my friends. I’m here with my wife and the secret service. Damnit.”

Garcia just retired Bagwell to end the inning. HUGE at-bat. Still scoreless as we head to the eighth.

Willie Harris pinch-hitting for Freddy Garcia to start the eighth. A wonderful performance for Garcia, as with Backe. Meanwhile, Backe’s done and Lidge is in. Let’s hope for the sake of Lidge’s sanity that he can help his team this time around.

Harris just singled to start the inning. Beautiful. He’s now 2-for-2 in the postseason.

YES! Two out RBI single for JDye off Lidge, scoring Harris. BEAUTIFUL! Dye has been invaluable. Top tier in the playoffs with Konerko and Crede. 1-zip Sox.

Buck, calling Jermaine’s single: “There are over 42 thousand people packed in here, hoping Lidge can get Jermaine (Dye connects with Lidge’s 1-1 pitch, sending it up the middle.) Dye. (And immediately Buck’s voice goes up off of the word “Dye.”) That’s up the middle and the White Sox take the lead!”

Paulie just struck out to end the inning. We head to the bottom of the eighth leading 1-nil. Interesting note: the Sox have outscored their postseason opponents 20-3 in the seventh inning or later.

FOX is running a “White Sox Season Recap” clip. That can’t be good for Houston.

After a wild pitch from Politte, Taveras takes second. Now they’re putting Berkman on intentionally with one out. This is all kinds of bold, considering they’re putting the winning run on base in the eighth inning.

FOX shows Jenks staring at the field rather menacingly while warming up in the bullpen. Meghan: “Dude, Jenks looks like a junk yard dog in there, waiting to be unleashed.”

First and third, two outs in the eighth, pitching change. Cotts coming in to face Mike Lamb. Another key at-bat...

Broken bat slow roller to Uribe…back handed grab by Uribe…out at first, end of inning. We go to the ninth. Holy hell...

A.J. singles to start the ninth. Jimbo’s is pumped. The “Let’s Go White Sox” cheer is spreading, and already much louder.

Uribe grounds out to third. End of inning. On to the bottom of the ninth, 1-0 Sox, with Bobby Jenks coming out of the pen to close it up. This guy is my age, started the season unemployed, and now he is about to try to clinch a World Series for a team that hasn't won one since 1917. Wow.

Lane drops a single into center on a 3-2 count. Houston fans sounded good on the AB, and sound better now. They’re not giving up. Honestly, I’m really impressed with their fans…and with Old Bush, who stood to applaud that hit.

AMAZING! Uribe makes the catch on the Burke pop out in the stands while facing the crowd. Two down. Just incredible…he and Crede were both charging it, and Uribe just leaned in and grabbed it and then flipped over the wall. Wow.

Phone rang immediately. It’s Meghan’s dad, Don, a big Sox fan. He’s pacing.

Back to Jimbo’s...still pumped. Jenks looks great. Orlando Palmeiro pinch-hitting. Minute Maid Park blasting “We Will Rock You.” Here we go...

Back to Jimbo’s. Buck has finally verbally acknowledged them, and is now listing all of the different neighborhoods and types of people in Chicago.

And there is Biggio, standing on deck, still waiting for his at-bat, knowing it won’t come.

Frank is out celebrating. That’s awesome. He looks legitimately happy and excited, unlike Bledsoe when New England won in ’01.

Useless stat from FOX: Scott Podsednik-5^th major league season, 1^st World Series title.

On the phone with my mom, who has just walked outside of our house to see, exactly, what all the noise is: “This is insane. Everyone is outside screaming and yelling and shooting off things. Listen to this.” She puts the phone up for me to listen. “Adults are actually outside shooting off bottle rockets. This is crazy.” She’s laughing. “This is too funny. Everybody is walking outside, on their cell phones. Everybody’s on a phone. Oh, shoot, that one went towards our roof. OK, I’m going inside now.”

Jermaine Dye has been named World Series MVP. That’s awesome. He’s got a trophy, and keys to a new Chevy...Jeannie Zelasko is still annoying...JDye is awesome.

This team will be remembered like the ‘85 Bears, not as popular (I don’t think, though I could be wrong—probably not though, because of the whole half city thing), but for sure anyone who was on the roster will still be famous from it in ten years. And folks, make sure to come on out to the Schaumburg Mall this Saturday, where members of the 2005 White Sox Geoff Blum, Neal Cotts, Willie Harris and Pablo Ozuna will be signing autographs. (Clear advantage for the ’85 Bears: their abbreviation (’85 Bears) sounds a lot better than the 2005 White Sox’ abbreviation (’05 Sox).)

“This is unbelievable! I can’t think! Oh my God! I’m gonna sleep really well tonight!”

Jeannie Zelasko just asked Jerry Reinsdorf if he'll still be around for another one in 88 years. Wow...

Craig Biggio sticking around for a post game interview as fans chant “B-G-O! B-G-O!” Classy guy, great player...this is what sports is all about.

Awesome stat: Sox become first team to win three straight World Series games after taking the lead in the eighth or later. Wow.

Well, I’m gonna pack it in. Baseball Tonight is over, and I’m getting tired. What an amazing game, series, and season. CONGRATS TO ALL YOU SOX FANS OUT THERE!

Notes and thoughts: First game of regular season is a 1-0 win. Final game of postseason is a 1-0 win...Konerko, the face of the White Sox and last remaining everyday player from 2000 (besides Frank, who’s hurt), ends up with the last out in the ALCS and the World Series...Kenny Williams: great job...I don’t think that Ozzie will actually retire, but he’s just crazy enough to do it...Pierzynski was clearly cursing madly when they made the last out...Hermanson/Jenks tag team was terrific...Mags and Caballo are shaking their heads right now...this is amazing...2006 Cubs to finish the “curse three-peat?”...a great day for Chicago sports...just a beautiful day...a night to remember, and we will.

Orlando Palmeiro bounced out to Juan Uribe five hours and thirty five minutes ago to end the game, and it still counts. It’s all Official. Chicagosports.com has it. ESPN.com has it. Whitesox.com has it. Luke, Sven, Don, and my parents have all confirmed what Meghan and I witnessed.

I ask this not for myself but for my friends, as it was quite clear all the way through that the 2005 White Sox were never, at any point, close to becoming my team. Still, it was quite an exhilarating experience, watching this team play, watching them battle through each playoff game, watching them win Game 4. I was overjoyed for Luke and Sven and all the other Sox fans, happy for the city, excited to be watching such a historic moment in Chicago sports. Nothing has changed for me personally, and yet I can feel the weight of what this means for so many people. Seeing replay after replay of that final out…Jenks leaping into the air…Jermaine dashing in from right…Everett hoisting Willie Harris onto his shoulders in celebration...all amazing sights.

But for every hero there’s a goat, and for every winner there’s a loser. There were the Houston fans, sitting in their own park, watching another team celebrate a championship while their team sat dejectedly in the locker room. They had waited 44 years for a World Series appearance, and after that they still had to sit through two more games until they could watch one in their own hometown. Those first two games took place in Chicago, the Sox winning both. Now their Astros were returning home, and the fans were there to greet them. When Houston fans got to Minute Maid Park Tuesday night, their ace Roy Oswalt was on the mound. Most people assumed Oswalt would lead Houston to the win that would get them back into the series, a pivotal Game 4 at home on the way. Instead, Oswalt lost a 4-0 lead and the Astros went to their pen. Houston fans, those who had waited 44 years for this World Series game waited another 14 innings for its conclusion, a conclusion they were sure would be victory.

But no: 44 years, two games, and 14 innings brought not victory but rather defeat, defeat at the bat of White Sox’ pinch hitter Geoff Blum, himself a former Astro.

Houston fans left Minute Maid Park early Wednesday morning, their team trailing three games to none, each one knowing that only one team in the history of baseball had ever overcome a 3-0 deficit in a best of seven, and being that it was the 2004 Red Sox, the self-proclaimed “idiots” who overcame that deficit along with the Yankees and 86 years of frustrating history, it must have seemed unlikely that their Houston Astros, the team they loved so dear, would do the same. It must have seemed unlikely…yet there they were, those Astros fans, screaming and shouting all through Game 4, cheering on their team, trying to will them to victory. Even with each opportunity squandered by the Astros, the fans did not give up or give in, not even with two outs in the ninth inning. And then came the ground ball, the Uribe scoop and throw, the close play, the out recorded, the game, the series, the season, over…

But Houston’s fans stayed on, and after the game the longest Astro of them all, Craig Biggio, sat for a post game interview. Biggio has spent 17 years in the majors, every one with Houston. He came up as a catcher, a 22-year-old in 1988. He was an All-Star at that position in 1991, only to move to second a year later. There he flourished, going to six more All-Star games and winning four Gold Gloves. Then, in 2003, the Astros had a chance to acquire All-Star second baseman Jeff Kent. Not a problem, said Biggio, who knew that Kent would be a good addition to the team, and so he, Biggio, he trotted out to play center field. Then, in the middle of 2004, the Astros had a chance to acquire All-Star center fielder Carlos Beltran. Not a problem, said Biggio, and he trotted over to play left field.

And then, after last season, Beltran signed with the Mets while Kent left for the Dodgers…and so Biggio went back to second base, and finally, with the help of longtime teammate Jeff Bagwell, led Houston to a World Series. After 17 seasons, Biggio was playing for a championship. Four games later, it was over. He had lost.

But the fans were out, and the press was curious, and so Biggio did what would make them both happy, and as he sat out there at Minute Maid Park answering questions while the White Sox deliriously sprayed champagne all over each other in celebration, the fans chanted his name—“B-G-O! B-G-O!”—over and over again.

White Sox fans have waited a long time for a title. They got one this year. Frank Thomas has waited a long time for his team to play in the World Series. He got there this year. Astros fans have waited a long time for an NL Pennant. They got one this year. Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell have waited a long time to display their skills on a national stage. They got to this year. Of those four, only the Sox fans got exactly what they wanted, but don’t discount Frank’s influence on this team, and don’t discount Houston’s joy of seeing their team in the Series or Biggio and Bagwell’s joy of getting there together. It was all there, for anyone to see, and even if this was the lowest-rated Series in baseball’s history, all that means is that a bunch of lazy and careless baseball “fans” missed out on seeing what sports is all about.

A few weeks ago, Meghan told me something while we were riding home from Ann Arbor. “It’s just a game,” she told me. Now, to be fair, she only said it because my actions during the Bears-Browns game freaked her out, and with good reason. I clearly lost control of myself. I know that Meghan has a true and pure love of sports, both for watching and participating. She knows why they are important. But her comment is one that I’ve heard many times, and usually it comes from people who aren’t like her. Usually it comes from people who don’t like sports, who think that we place too much emphasis on them, who think that they are a waste of time, who think that they are “just a game.”

I know that sounds cliché, and absurd, and totally improper, but many truths do, and so I will say it again: Sports are life.

Sports are life, and if you are dedicated to either, your truest emotions will be brought to light at one point or another. We are born, and we die, and in the middle we behave as if neither were true, as if we are the most important beings ever created. In turn our actions and our decisions become the most important that anyone will ever have to do or make. But all things must pass, and all that is new must grow old, and while the Earth remains, we do not. And we know this. We deny it, but we live each day knowing it to be true. So we find ways to immortalize ourselves, to make meaning out of our actions, to hold onto something that will outlast us. A football team, for example.

And yet, it is just a game, and for that we are grateful. We, the men of the world, American men who have been taught that crying is for women and children, that emotion is for cowards, that love is for romantics with nothing better to do…we have been given a world that grants us a license to be human. Because the outcomes of games “don’t really matter,” we can experience them fully as if they do. We can cry when the Cubs lose Game 7 while being strong for our family after a death. We can be overjoyed at the success of a home run or a touchdown while being casual about meeting society’s social and financial expectations. We can acknowledge that every at-bat must have a final pitch, that every game must have a final out, that every season must have an ending be it happy or sad, all while striving for goals that suggest we will live forever.

The White Sox and the Astros showed us that this year. They played honorably and passionately, for themselves and for their fans. They played with talent, energy, and agility. They played with emotion, camaraderie, and desire. They played with professionalism and with exuberance. They played with brains and brawn. By giving their all, leaving everything on the field, and doing whatever it takes to win, they made every sportswriting cliché a reality. They competed, pure and simple.

In the end, the White Sox were the better team. There are many moments we can point to in order to illustrate where exactly the Astros messed things up and where the White Sox took control, but that would be pointless. The game must have two teams, and one will win while the other will lose. That is simply the nature of sport, and in a way, those details are incidental. Out on the field, two teams competed, and 25 men on each side showed us how to play.

That’s why Craig Biggio could sit out on the field after the game and calmly answer questions. The game was over. He had played it as best he could. A noble and heroic performance, from start to finish, for him and everyone else involved.

[1] In fact, the two teams were much closer than their final records suggested, because the Sox started fast and the Astros started slow. On July 1^st, the White Sox were a major league best 53-25, while the Astros were five games under .500 at 36-41. Their records for the rest of the season—Sox: 46-38…Houston: 53-32.

[2] The sequence surrounding Crede’s home run was classic FOX. They’re doing their stupid little in-game interview with Houston’s pitching coach, and with Crede coming up FOX goes to a split screen of the interview and Crede’s at-bat.

Jim Hickey, pitching coach: “…he’s been solid for us. He won ten ballgames throughout the course of the year, but, uh, I’d expect to see a couple more innings of what he’s done. He’s thrown a pretty good fastball, mixed in a couple of good curve balls, and thrown a couple of nice changeups.”

Joe Buck: “As a pitching coach, when you’ve got a rookie…” (Crede swings and drives a no-doubt-abouter to left center. The crowd cheers.) “…in this situation, how much do you, kinda, just not want to crowd his head with…” (Taveras leaps for the ball in center, but it clears the fence, and Taveras hooks his forearm over the wall like Vince Carter’s dunk in the 2000 dunk contest.) “…too much stuff about White Sox hitters and scouting reports…” (Taveras, still hanging from the wall, slams his hand into the wall in anger. Everyone at our table high fives. Crede rounds second.) “…and all that?”

Hickey: “Right, absolutely. Not too much about--” (inaudible due to…)

Buck: “We talked to Jim Hickey…a home run hit by Crede to left center field, and right on cue as his pitching coach is talking about not wanting to crowd his head with too much, Joe Crede will crowd his head with the sound of a home run to put the White Sox on top 4-3 in the fourth.” And then Buck starts talking to McCarver about Crede’s postseason, and McCarver “naturally” drops some background info about Crede. The Hickey interview, apparently, is over. After Rodriguez walks Uribe, Hickey goes out to talk to the young pitcher, with Buck saying : “So Jim Hickey was visiting with us, and that’s obviously the risk you run when you play an interview in the middle of an inning.” Nice job, Joe. Classy as always.

[3] This is one of my favorite shots in a televised baseball game: the wide shot of the crowd standing to applaud a pitcher who has thrown a great game and has just been pulled.

[4] And if you want to go even further, the Bears were playing Oakland in the game in 2003, and they were playing Baltimore in this game, and Baltimore beat Oakland in the 2000 AFC Championship Game. That’s what happens when you’re a sports dork: you see connections everywhere.

[5] Rowand hit a ball sharp to third, and Ensberg pulled a Roger Dorn, going to his knee and waving rather haplessly at the ball—Come on Dorn! Don’t give me this ole bullshit.—as it bounced past him. Pierzynski then sky’d a ball to left which Burke misplayed, but Rowand thought the ball had been caught and so he turned back to go to first. He then saw Pierzynski, and so he turned and went to second. A big baserunning error, but it ended up not mattering. Of course, that same play in a crucial, late-game situation—like Miguel Tejada in 2001—is a super-gaffe. Timing is everything.

[6] Concerning Bill Simmons’ brilliant “13 Levels of Losing” chart, Game 6 of the NLCS would have to be noted as the exception to the Level VIII Dead Man Walking rule, because the end of Game 5 absolutely qualifies as the type of game that would set that up.

[7] Incidentally, had Burke driven in the winning runs here and won the game for Houston, his status would have immediately jumped from Random Hero to Repeated and Expected Hero, the way Mike Brown did after his second straight GW OT INT TD on batted balls in ’01 (whew) or after Vinatieri hit both snow-kicks against the Raiders or after Papi had the back-to-back game winning hits in Games 4 and 5. In fact, I would say that before those two hits, the general baseball public knew him as David Ortiz. After those two hits, I would say that most people knew him as Big Papi. That’s what happens when you do it twice.

[8] When it first came on the air, who would’ve thought that Chappelle’s Show would become the defining live television program of our generation? For a while there in the second season, we had our late ’70s SNL. People were actually staying home to watch it, and then talking about it at night. That’s why “I’m Rick James, bitch!” got so played so fast: every drunk white guy in college in the world was saying that shit at bars, and they wouldn’t stop. Still, incredible show—and Rick James is still funny as a motherfucker, though Prince has probably caught it. I’d say this show delivered as many everyday applicable comments per square foot as did SNL, Seinfeld, Martin, SportsCenter, or any other popular show I’m not thinking of. Just look at the Prince thing. There probably isn’t a guy around who has seen that episode and not subsequently yelled “Shoot the J! Shoot it!” while boxing out in a pick-up game. It’s like going to Vegas and not asking your buddy “Whose the big winner?” or setting up for a drive, turning to your buddy—unprovoked, because that’s funnier—and saying to him: “Gambling is illegal here at Bushwood sir—and I never slice.”

[9] 1^st team: Payton, Jordan, Pippen, Barkley, Olajuwon...2^nd team: Stockton, Drexler, Mullin, Malone, Ewing...3^rd team: T. Hardaway, Miller/Richmond, Rice, Rodman, Robinson

1. QB Eagles, Tecmo Super Bowl, 2. Mike Tyson AKA Kid Dynomite, Mike Tyson’s Punch Out, 3. Nick Van Exel, NBA Live ’95, 4. Ichiro, Hight Heat Baseball 2003, 5. Tommie Frazier and Lawrence Phillips, Bill Walsh’s College Football ‘95

[10] It’s entirely possible that I would have thought of this at some point on my own; it’s just too good of an idea to float by unnoticed. But there’s no point in even suggesting otherwise.

[11] Some comments are noted in this way because they came on the re-watch late night after the game.

[12] McCarver’s words…I dug them.

[13] Here are the numbers for the rest of the Astros’ lineup thru three games: 19-102, .186 BA, all 14 runs, 8 RBI, three solo shots, 11 BB, 28 K.)

[14] This came naturally out of me, though it’s possible that it was some Simmons from my subconscious. (And as it follows a reference to the 2001 Patriots, that’s more than possible.)

[15] I just watched this play again for about the fifth time—and yes, each time has been exciting—and one of the most interesting aspects of the play comes from Konerko, who looks quickly to the first base ump for confirmation before celebrating.