On Sunday, Posh left to spend the afternoon with some friends and I fell asleep listening to the game before working the evening shift at Maxie’s. I woke up a little later, with Jim Powell chirping about an CC Sabathia’s errant error, and his amazing barehanded grab of a line drive for a double play. I paused as I was setting up the bar to watch CC strike out three of the last six batters to close the game. I immediately got a text from The Other J.J.
Did sabathia pitch a no no?
It certainly looked like he did — but then it was decided yesterday that he did not. We’ve said before that manager Ned Yost is a decent manager and leader of baseball playing men, and I defy any of these “Yost bashers” to watch the tape from his post-game tirade and not walk away liking the guy.
“That’s a stinking no-hitter we all got cheated from.”
CC wasn’t as worked up about it. I’ve been on a “no-hitter watch” every time he has started, since the first game we saw him pitch in Milwaukee, and I don’t expect that will change. On Monday, I declined an invitation to the game with my friend Dan in order to hang out with Posh. She arrived at my apartment.
“So… What do you want to do? I mean, we could… go to the beach… I don’t know, uh… maybe, the game? … or, uh, a walk?”
“Babe, let’s… just go to the game,” she said, disgusted.
That’s known as an “enabler.” I asked her if she was going to get a bloody mary, and she nodded. Then I asked if that was the only reason she wanted to go to the game, and she nodded. I was holding (re: drinking some of) the bloody mary for her, and a women asked:
“Is that really worth the $10.50?”
“Almost,” I said. “It almost really is.”
We met up with Dan, and he and I banged our empty Miller Park mugs together when they played the cowbell clip at the game — but it was not enough, the Brewers could not come back after Éric Serge Gagné surrendered the lead.
“Gagné sucks,” Posh said.
But then an interesting thing happened: the Cubs lost. And the Cardinals lost. And the Phillies lost. And although the Brewers missed a great opportunity, they fared no better or worse than when the game started. It was like when you’re a kid, and you do something wrong — say, ding the car or have a party or put a baseball through a window — and you get away with it. You keep waiting to get grounded for the rest of your natural life. Another day goes by. The Brewers lose, but so do the Cubs. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it just… doesn’t.
On Tuesday night, I had planned on taking my grandpa to the game but I had to work late. I raced home to exchange the tickets for a later date while the game was still going on. I exchanged the tickets, and gathered that Salomón Torres had allowed a run. I power-walked back to the crib as folks filed out of the park in an empty mood.
As I followed the path around the outside of my apartment complex, I could see in every apartment, through the slats on the mini-blinds, that everyone was watching the game. Filtered lines of green turf and white pants legs kicking for the pitch cascaded in and out of sight. My shirt was sticking to my back — did you hear yesterday was like, the hottest day of the year? — and by the time I got to my apartment and flicked on the game, I was sweating.
I sat down in a daze and listened as Rickie Weeks came up to bat with two outs and the winning run on first base in the form of Gabe Kapler. And he meekly struck out. Yesterday the Mets finished a sweep of the Brewers on their home field. But the Astros also swept the Cubs on their home turf. The Mets are a playoff team — the Astros do not appear to be.
It’s still hot out here, and there’s still time for that other shoe to drop. Who’s sweating it?