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You want to know why that Troy Glaus double late in Game 6 stayed in the park, why it wasn't a home run? I'll tell you why: because it was carrying a truckload of weight, it was bending back time's arrow, racing headlong against the winds of history.
|  | | Troy Glaus mustered up enough strength to power past the Angels' demons and deliver the winning hit in Game 6. |
The whole plucky-but-never-great tradition, the snake-bitten Angelness of the Angels, looked to bury that ball in Barry Bonds' glove, but somehow Glaus found the strength to muscle it into a new reality, one in which the absurd, the wildly improbable, becomes a strange, simple, declarative truth: The Angels are world champions.
Nutty.
I could have written pretty much the same thing about the Giants if things had gone differently, of course -- I could have written about the beautiful strangeness of what was only Shawon Dunston's second home run of the season, and about the searing genius of Bonds' eighth of the playoffs. That's what made this Series special. Both teams were cutting against the grain of who they've been and what they've done for so long; both were carrying with them the simmering hunger of fans long-denied and ever-faithful, and the reckless energy of the bandwagon masses eager to be a part of something strange and wonderful; and both were full of guys playing
with desperate legs, keen eyes and big hearts, playing like they couldn't be satisfied with anything less than the birth of a new truth. Great stuff.
As with 1975 and '86, Game 6 will be the game folks remember from this Series years from now -- they'll talk about Russ Ortiz's great stuff, Bonds' bomb
off Francisco Rodriguez, about Scott Spiezio fouling off balls, Bonds' error, and Troy Glaus' shot in the gap -- but I'll remember Game 7, too.
Even when they don't come down to the last at-bat, like last year's Diamondbacks-Yankees game, Game 7s have a unique weight and drama about them.
Everything is on an edge, between winning and losing, joy and sorrow. The sum total of the season, all the players' thoughts and efforts, all the fans' longings, the strength of talent and the force of chance, they all gather on Game 7, like an elephant balancing on the head of a pin. Even when the game isn't thrilling in its own right -- even when it's a 4-1 game decided by a double in the third inning -- things stay with me because they took place in the charged-up air of a seventh game.
Here are some moments I'll hold onto from Sunday night:
|  | | John Lackey didn't look much like a rookie Sunday night. |
John Lackey eeking out a tiny bead of spit, just seconds before he threw the first pitch of the game. It was the sorry, dry-mouthed effort of a rookie freaking out at the prospect of throwing in the biggest game of his life and the biggest game in his franchise's history. Moments later, he let fly with the easiest, most casual, liquid delivery you'd ever want to see. The first pitch was a ball, but his motion was dead-on calm. His cool wasn't in his mouth, it was in his arm.
Bonds with his arms folded in the on-deck circle in the first. Angels pitching coach Bud Black said, "Look at Barry ... he knows if (Kent) gets on, we're gonna walk him." Black was right, Barry did look frustrated, but man, he looked formidable, too. Bunyanesque, carved in granite. What I wanted more
than anything last night was a Bonds at-bat where everything hung in the balance.
Livan Hernandez rolling his eyes after he didn't get the call on his first pitch of the night. The words "big-game pitcher" were melting right before our eyes. All the mythic power he'd been given because he pitched so well five years ago with the Marlins was buckling. Now, with the same
exaggerated force, new words were coming down on him: "nervous," "rattled," and the worst one, the one that sounds banal and non-judgmental but is
actually ruthless and damning: "ineffective."
Speaking of Livan Hernandez, shouldn't he be Kirk Rueter?
David Eckstein running the Angels out of the first inning. It was a silly mistake, going way past halfway between second and third on Garret Anderson's line drive. You almost couldn't fault him for it, though; there was so much eagerness in it, so much lucky-dog enthusiasm short-circuiting his brain.
It was one of those nights when things didn't happen. Bengie Molina reached for a Frankie Rodriguez slider in Game 6, when he should have slid over and
tried to block it down, and it got by him and a run scored. In Game 7, he kept playing low breaking balls the same way, and I just kept waiting for it
to cost him.
|  | | Nobody told Bengie Molina that he wasn't supposed to be delivering huge hits in Game 7. |
Speaking of Bengie Molina, what's he doing hitting doubles to the wall in the seventh game of the World Series? I know he's had a dream postseason, but come on, this is the crunchiest of crunch-times, shouldn't his magic have run out by now? And speaking of doubles, his in the second was just inches from being "ground-rule." If it hops the fence, Spiezio doesn't score to tie it up.
Thunder Stix. Not the sound of them, which was impressive enough, but the weird, sinister look of them, fluttering constantly in the background. My
friend Marianne said it reminded her of the creepy, flapping buzz of Mothra in the old "Godzilla" movies, like it wasn't of this world and it was coming
to get you. No telling how the strangeness of the Stix affected the Angels' opposition during these playoffs. By next year, they'll be tired and a
cliché, but this year, I have to figure, even for professional athletes trained to block out distractions and focus on the task at hand, they were
alien and disturbing.
And that's before one of the fans out in right field started batting Reggie Sanders with a couple of them as he fielded Anderson's ball near the wall. About that -- yes, it was lame and unsportsmanlike and all, but it was also kind of funny, and, in a way, sort of charming. I mean, don't you imagine she just couldn't help herself? She was just so amped and into it, she just so wanted to do something with all of her wild energy. So she hit the guy with the Stix. It was wrong, she knows that now, but she was lost in the moment, she blanked out, she heard voices. It was Game 7, she felt the weight and drama of it all. What can she say?
Speaking of Anderson's double, maybe the strongest image I have of the night is of the invisible men warming up in the Giants' bullpen with runners
on first and second and nobody out. It's Game 7, for criminy-sakes, if I'm Dusty (and I love Dusty, going way back to his big-hair days with the Dodgers
in the mid-'70s) ... but if I'm Dusty I'm warming guys up before we even get started. I want everybody warm. I'm handing out mittens and knitting
sweaters. I'm serving hot chocolate.
|  | | It was a night of cold reality for Barry Bonds. |
There was one pitch when I thought Bonds might go yard. The count was 1-1 in the top of the fourth. Straight fastball up and only a little bit in. I'm so spoiled by him, I think he'll hit everything. One of the enduring images of this Series, of the playoffs and the last two years, is Barry knowing when not to swing. His eye is as devastating as his bat right now. It's not much to watch, but his patience is truly amazing.
Rueter's four innings were great. Really great. Great enough to be the starting pitcher in Game 7.
Tom Goodwin for Reggie Sanders?
Top of seven, David Bell hits a ball deep to left. Anderson catches it at the wall. It's the kind of ball that seems like it has gone out all postseason for both of these teams. I watch it fly and feel sure we're witnessing another wacky turning of the tide, think maybe the gods are brewing up a rally and some sweet Game 7 free baseball. But the ball stays local, finds a home in Anderson's glove. Score remains 4-1.
Game 7 isn't always about what happens, it's about how much we want to happen, about the way we grab at glimmers and reach for prospects. Game 6 in this series
said that kind of hope and devotion was worth practicing, but Sunday night, the rewards just linger out there beyond our reach. If you're a Giants fan, it's
sheer torture. If you're an Angels fan, it's tightrope-walking anxiety.
Seventh or eighth, I can't remember ... Hernandez stands on the top step of the dugout, leaning against the rail. He could have disappeared into the dugout. He could have taken a cab home early, but he didn't. "Big-game pitcher" starts to sound about right again.
Francisco Rodriguez in the top of the eighth. I think what I'll remember about this night (when he was, once again, unreasonable with that slider), about
every time I saw him pitch this postseason, is the casual, hang-dog look on his face, and the way his arms hung like rubber-bands before his windup. And
I'll remember, too, the way all that cool shifted into the heat of balls whipping their way to the plate, and into arm-pumps and shouts after he closed out an inning.
J.T. Snow banging it out. In the bottom of the eighth, he makes a very good play on a ball hit by Glaus, diving across his body to his left. In the top of the ninth, he drills a single to right to keep hope alive. He hit in every game in the Series. I think if it had been one of those old-time, best-of-nine deals he would have hit in every one of those games too.
Snow had three hits Sunday night, and you got the feeling that if the game continued he just wouldn't stop; he'd keep putting good wood on the ball, keep making
plays, keep giving his team a chance, keep rescuing kids at home plate. I see him now, it's the bottom of the 11th of Game 9, he's legging out an inside-the-park home run, and on his way from third to home he sees a girl choking on a hot dog in the third row. J.T. swings wide out of the base path, delivers two perfectly placed slaps to her back and dislodges the dog, wipes the tears from her face, signs his autograph on her program, gives her his cap, wheels and heads for home, just beating the relay and the tag.
|  | | Garret Anderson helped the folks of Orange County forget 41 years of failure. |
Darin Erstad, arms wide, catching the last out in front of the Angels' 1986 American League West champions banner in right center field. Ding-dong, the demons
are dead.
Darren Baker, in his dad's arms, just moments after Erstad's catch, crying inconsolably. There has been a lot of talk about whether or not those kids
should have been in the dugout, on the field, etc. Look at that kid's face. He felt the Series the way the dads did, he expressed the feeling the way
they couldn't, he wasn't just their good luck charm, he was their emblem. I can't imagine the Series without him.
Barry leaning against the back wall of the Giants' dugout, looking blank, feeling, undoubtedly, torn-up. Remember the giddy pile of Angels jumping all
over each other in the infield, but never forget how good Bonds was in these playoffs. If he never wins a World Series, it will be our loss, because
something will seem out of whack in the order of things; there will be some illogical, incongruous feeling about it. If he never gets back to try again,
that will also be our loss, because it's been an illogical, incongruous, description-defying privilege to watch him do what he does every day.
Troy Percival during the postgame, crying. Tim Salmon crying, and his microphone going dead, like maybe there wasn't anything too articulate to say
about what he was feeling right then anyway. Percival getting it right: "We did this for Gene (Autry), for (Gary) DiSarcina, for (Chuck) Finley."
Mike Scioscia during the celebration saying his titles as a player were "much better," not because he doesn't love this moment, but because he knows
the moment is about the guys he works with more than it is about him.
And last, the perfectly awkward, doesn't-really-belong stiffness of Bud Selig handing over the trophy, mispronouncing Troy Glaus' name when he named
him MVP, and reading from a script.
It wasn't a thriller. The Giants' rally never came. But it was a seventh game; a sweet, tight capper for a season that began with talk of contraction
and survived talk of a strike. In its own way, it was full of memories, just about enough to carry me to April.
Eric Neel reviews sports culture in his "Critical Mass" column, which will appear every Wednesday on Page 2. You can e-mail him at eneel@cox.net.
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