There's very little chance that I'm going to be able to write anything that even approaches a sensible and/or analytical recap of last night's Game 7. No, I'm not going to completely ignore the game in this space like last weekend's loss to Auburn (Why oh why was Tebow not in on 3rd and 2 at the Auburn 6? I'll never stop believing Mullen and Meyer outwitted themselves on that play. Stop...think about last night. Ahh, yes. That's nice.). Rather, I'm still so jacked/fried from last night's emotional roller coaster to effectively sum up the events that happened late last night as I sat in my house all by my lonesome. I don't care if the NL is far inferior to the Al, that was a classic Game 7. A bonafide classic. Clutch performances by unlikely heroes on both sides in an absolutely electric atmosphere. I've been alternately pumping my fist (lightly) and smiling all morning as I read through various accounts of last night's clincher. I think I finally understand what my friend Kurt was going through when he engaged me in the most awkward man hug in recorded human history after Aaron Boone's Game 7 HR over Boston in 2003. Thank God I was by myself last night and the only thing I had the chance to hug was a frosty bottle of Jager.
In the interest of attempting to capture some of last night's emotions, I'll detail a couple of the phone calls exchanged by my father and I during the latter innings of last night's win.
10:03 pm: I was literally halfway off my couch and in mid-yell when, all of the sudden, Endy Chavez decided to make the most improbable catch since Angels in the Outfield. I immediately sat my ass down and watched the replay of Chavez's catch over and over and over. Chavez is one of the nicest professional athletes that I've ever met but I want to stab him the fucking eye right now. And I would, if I wasn't paralyzed by the agony of the emotional swing that Chavez just inflected on me. After a minute (or an hour I'm not sure) I pick up the phone and call my Dad. He answers, which is a good sign as I feared for his health, and says:
Dad: That's unbelievable. Best catch I've ever seen.
Me: "He barely even..."
Dad (cutting me off): I know. He snowconed it. That was the game winner right there.
Me: You're right. Fuck.
Dad: We really need Suppan to shut them down this inning.
Me: Yeah, we think Shea is crazy now.
I'm not sure what my Dad was doing during the bottom of the inning. Me, I was cursing Endy Chavez only to stop cursing him and start cursing Scott Rolen. As soon as the ball left Rolen's hands I was convinced the game was over. Of course, I tried to do my part by cracking yet another Budweiser (I don't even drink Bud and I bought a six pack last night in hopes of sending some good karma the Cardinals' way. Yep, I'm 29 and have a Masters degree. I'm sure this is exactly how my parents pictured my life progressing when they sent me away to college.) I don't know if the Budweiser worked but it certainly didn't hurt. Neither did Jose Valentin's complete inability to hit a decent curveball. Jeff Suppan will always have a special place in my heart after that performance in the sixth inning (ngs...okay, sgs). My Dad calls again.
Me: Can we really win this thing?
Dad: I'm not sure. I just know it's not over yet, somehow.
Cut to the top of the ninth. I'm once again cursing Scott Rolen as he quickly falls behind 0-2. However, the next thing I know he's managed a single and is standing on first. Yadier Molina strides to the plate. I wrote about unlikely heroes a couple of days ago and he would certainly fall into that ever expanding category (Suppan's already in at this point). He hits the first pitch deep, really deep. Can Chavez get to that? No. I let out a primal scream that has to have awoken at least one of my neighbors. As the inning ends my phone rings.
Dad: It's all on Wainwright now.
Me: God that's a lot of pressure for a rookie. I'm worried.
Dad: I've been worried for 5 hours. What's another five minutes.
I'll tell you what another five minutes is...excruciating. Once Cliff Floyd comes to the plate I'm practically hiding my face behind my hands. I can't stand it anymore. Wainwright shows some serious onions and gets Floyd. Reyes goes down quick (Though initially I could've sworn that ball would drop). Now Wainwright starts to lose it a bit and ends up walking Lo Duca. Here comes motherfucking Carlos Beltran and his magical mole. I hate that guy. Nobody has murdered the Cardinals in the postseason like Beltran. Ok, that's a lie. Babe Ruth gave it the Redbirds worse...that's comforting. Before I even have much time to freak out it's 0-2. Now I'm completely freaking out. Wainwright drops the hammer on Beltran as he stands there motionless. I let out another primal scream. Cards win. Are you kidding me? CARDS WIN!!!!
As I sit there in disbelief, my phone rings one last time.
Dad: How's the World Series sound to you?
Me: Pretty fucking good. What a game.
Dad: Yeah. I don't think I'll be go to sleep anytime soon. Might as well crack a Bud.
Me: One step ahead of you old man. Did you wake Mom up just now?
Dad: I think so. Who cares, the Cards are in the World Series.
We stayed on the phone going over the game for another few minutes before we finally hung up. Of course, I was a long way away from going to bed so I stayed up with a beer and a shot and watched as much coverage as possible. What a fucking night.