Finally
M’s Win.
May 23
Roll Call: Scott Magner, Rick Pfeil, the spirit of Mike Selinker, the Ghost of Season Past.
Final Score: Tigers 1, Mariners 3
Today seemed doomed from the start. As previously mentioned, a sickness had invaded my usually robust body. But I dragged myself forth, put on the gear, and prepared my assault upion the Fortress of the Losing Streak.
Today, no bag. No glove, no scoring. Just my pain, anguish, and need for victory.
I’ve touched before on the importance of the hat. New Era has had a slogan for a few years that I’m on board with.
“It’s not a hat, it’s a Flag.”
And they’re right. The cap you wear out to the ballpark (and in public, for that matter) tells the world not only for whom you are cheering, but a few things about yourself.
Example: A tattered and frayed cap that sports the legend “I Love Hooters” tells the ladies a tale on first sight. Dress the same man in a battered green cap with the John Deere logo, and another type of tale is told.
But put that man in the bleachers, with the compass rose on his noggin, and it’s clear to one and all that he’s a Mariners fan.
So, when I turn my beloved opening day cap inside out, it tells the rest of the fans in attendance that I’m serious about the mojo. And when I wear it home like that, take it off in that condition, and let it soak up some mojo overnight, it lets everyone within sight know that I’m a man with a mission.
Win.
As I’m heading out the door, the afternoon’s companion calls to let me know that he just can’t make it today. No problem. Due to illness, the part of Mike Selinker in today’s story will now be played by the talented Rick Pfeil.
Young Master P agrees to meet me at the park for a beautiful game day, and the journey commences. All through downtown, the cap is soaking up the mojo. I am resolved. I’ll not change it until the Mariners score a meaningful run.
Meaningful. The condition of not being useless. Like most of the Mariners’ offense over the last week has been. Just take the lead, fellas. It’s all we want. We need to cheer for you. Its why we come out.
And right away, I can feel something different in the air. For the first time in forever, the crowd is mobbing before the game. Perhaps its the allure of little league weekend, but I think it’s something else. Having sent out the distress call, the good ship Mariners’ faithful fans have answered the call.
Our helpful seating host Tony showed us the projected attendance on Tuesday night before the game. A grand total of 27,500 fans had previously bought tickets for that contest, and inclement weather (and ailing bats on the road) didn’t promise that much more. Amazingly, Freddy’s first start of the week drew forth 29K of rain and depression soaked fans during the week.
As the days marched on, more and more of the faithful came out. Even though the M’s stank up the joint for most of the week.
So here I am, 90 minutes before game time, and I spy an amazing sight.
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Can this be? Mariners fans are lining up before the game to get tickets. Somebody gets it.
Amazing.
But this does not deter me from my task. I must focus my mojo energies on the Meaningful Run. One that doesn’t come from behind. One that sets the pace, rather than merely meeting it.
Substitute Selinker agrees with me, once I relate why my cap is rallying. As we make our way to the seats, I fill him in on what he missed while camping yesterday, and we settle in for the war.
Because that’s what this becomes. Once again preparing to get traded, Freddy Garcia takes the mound.
And he’s back to that freaking slide step.
I hate, Hate, HATE it when a pitcher doesn’t pitch. Just rearing back and throwing is not enough. The ball must sail out of your hand with a little piece of your soul attached. It must flow forth into the catcher’s glove, on wings of willpower.
Instead, Freddy just chucks it in there. He’s not terrible, but he’s not great either. I see it, Rick sees it, and the Tigers can see it as well.
Especially Freddy’s best friend, Shortstop Carlos Guillen. The batter formerly known as Out #2 becomes instead Baserunner #1. As a member of our team, Carlos’ greatest strength in the box was his incredible patience. As the second batter (what seems to me to be his natural position) he effortlessly stretches his AB, often into double digits.
Of a team of hard-hitting boppers, I fear Carlos the most, because he can outwait them a lot better than they can make him screw up.
So he walks. And Slip-Sliding Freddy is well on his way to having Pudge join him, when the opposing catcher taps a nubber back to the mound.
But Freddy’s been watching video, and seems to have remembered that glove in his hand. He snags the ball, turns, and fires a strike to Boonie at 2nd. Bret tags, then relays for the DP.
Flawless. When my cheers subside, I notice that Freddy has also adopted a form of the Baldwin Zombie Walk on his way back to the dugout. This could be a problem, in a contract year.
| But I can’t think about that now. The hat must turn, and the not-so-hot Mariners are up.
Then the Tigers bat. Walk. Single. Flyball. |
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Ichiro helps with the last, but I feel an ulcer growing in my stomach. Dan Wilson must feel it as well, because he’s out to the mound to say something to Fred.
Wilson trots back to the plate, and the clouds part as a ray of heavenly light reflects of Freddy’s upraised leg, held prefectly at waist height prior to delivery.
Strike out. Strike out. Zombie Walk.
YES!
M’s Grab their bats.
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Then the Tigers bat. Again.
1, 2, 3. I sense a pattern brewing. I am cheered by the wind-up, but then sobered as I realize that Freddy is only using it for strikes. Not for his nasty, wicked curve. Someone needs to look into this before too long, or we’ll never get him traded. |
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Top of the lineup for Seattle.
Something’s got to give. It’s not Ichiro, however, who blisters one into center field. He’s halfway to second before the ball is recovered, and the crafty, canny veteran baserunner in him decides to play a little game with Mister Sanchez. |
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Ichiro threatens to advance, making position #8 rush his routine throw. The ball goes sailing over the cutoff man, and drops in front of the pitcher. Having announced his presence with authority, Ichiro calmly walks back to first, with his back to the ball.
The Tigers are stunned, and so am I. He could have made it. He so totally could have. And he didn’t do it, just to shake up Detroit. I love Ichiro.
Spezio strikes out while Bonderman’s attention is focused on Ichiro, and then Bret Boone steps in, suddenly remembering what to do with a runner on 1st. Boone replaces him there, and the Wizard easily takes third.
I turn to Rick.
Rick turns to me.
I look at the scoreboard, and wonder if it’s too early to try Raul Mojo. It’s only the third inning, after all.
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Bleep it. We go for it.
(from the fine folks at MLB.com) |
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Raul Ibanez kicks ass. The lead doesn’t last long, but at least it means something.
Freddy is re-invigorated, and goes on to a 7 inning win (an “effective outing”, a term I dislike).
J.J. Putz (pronounced puuuutz, so he says) comes in to take the win away from Freddy. But then BoMel suddenly gets bold, and brings the closer in in the 8th.
The beginning of it. You know, just how closers used to work, when baseball was cool, and I was a kid.
Guardado deals smoke. You can see behind our friend Larry Baker the result.
Good enough for me
M’s leave town, but only after the attendance for today’s game is announced.
44,532.
It’s about time.
Record: Scott 8-12, Rick 3-2, The Spirit of Mike Selinker 1-0. Mariners 15-28.