4/15: A Night At The Ballpark (Part I, Game 3)
I can tend to be a bit cynical and negative at times when talking about various things, so I figured why not share a happy memory? No, this won’t be about my wedding or a recent holiday experience with my family – like I said, I want to talk about a joyous occasion.
Whenever a kid gets his or her driver’s license (I’m not talking about that hippie permit, I’m talking about the bona fide piece of plastic letting you drive by yourself) one of the first things they want to do is take a few friends and shoot off somewhere to cause havoc and mayhem. Well, my first experience with this passage into manhood took place back in 1992. Now before this time I went with friends on a number of trips to places such as amusement parks and parties/get-togethers, but it was always with someone else driving. This time I would be the person in charge of navigation. What was this trip, you ask? It was to Game 3 of the 1992 NLCS between the Pirates and the Braves.
Back a long time ago the Pirates were actually a good team with good players. Well, they were good until the postseason hit; that was when the Andy Van Slykes, Bobby Bonillas and Barry Bonds(s) of the world wouldn’t hit. The Pirates had lost in the NLCS the previous two years, and this year there wasn’t any reason for optimism. Sure the Bucs lost to a better Reds team in the 1990 NLCS, but they had a golden opportunity to advance to the ’91 World Series but lost to the Braves, at home, in Games 6 and 7. This year, the Braves had gotten better, and the Pirates lost several key members from their ’91 team, including Bonilla. There was no reason to think the Pirates would advance to the Series in ’92, and the first two games against the Braves didn’t leave much optimism for Pirate fans. However, even though the thought of going through another grueling summer of baseball only to see the home team come up short wasn’t too appealing for me, this year was going to be different. Why? Because I was going to go to Game 3 with one of my best friends at the time, and we were going to go unsupervised.
After school ended for the day, we engaged in the initiation of a high-school freshman we had wanted to duct tape to a telephone pole for some time, but that’s another story for another time. After this fun was over, we headed to Shittsburgh in my dad’s pick-up truck that he agreed to lend me for the weekend. We pulled into an underground parking lot and made our way to Three Rivers Stadium. Even though the Pirates got manhandled in the first two games at Atlanta, it was a pretty upbeat environment at the ballpark. You see, back in ’92 the Pirates had this “rookie” knuckleball pitcher that was an unexpected surprise for the team, going 8-1 his first year in the big leagues. Who was this newcomer that was scheduled to pitch in Game 3? Some of you BoSox fans might know him as Tim Wakefield.
When we got to our seats, the crowd, which had been criticized for being lackluster in size and noise, was near deafening even before the pre-game introductions. And when Wakefield retired the Braves in the first inning, the crowd went wild. Even when the Braves took an early 1-0 lead, there was something about this game that told everyone in attendance the Pirates were going to find a way to win. And after Wakefield got the last batter out for the 3-2 victory, every fan at the ballpark had this feeling that the Pirates had a chance in this series; they might not win, but they weren’t going to roll over and die in four or five games. And the best part of this experience is that my friend and I got to enjoy it all to ourselves -- no parents, no chaperone, no big siblings, just the two of us; this is probably the closest I’ve ever been to a Brokeback Moment.
Now even though I had my driver’s license, it was still only a Junior License, which meant I wasn’t allowed to be out on the road after midnight. Well, this game got finished pretty late, and the traffic was crazy when we got to the truck back in the underground parking lot. For a 16-year old who was driving his dad’s stick shift, I thought it would be in everybody’s best interest if my friend and I just sat in the truck and finished off the pizza we bought for dinner until the traffic lightened up. About 45 minutes passed and we decided now would be a good time to head out. By now it was after midnight and traffic was still heavy, but not nearly as congested as it was before. As I pulled out of the garage on the street a police officer on traffic patrol suddenly pointed to me and yelled at me to stop: my heart stopped – was I getting busted for driving after midnight? My friend wasn’t providing much comfort, saying out loud, “God damn pigs, why don’t that just leave us alone? Fucking cops.” When I rolled down my window, he informed me that my headlights weren’t on. With all that time spent in the lighted garage, my eyes got adjusted to the darkness and didn’t realize my need to turn on my headlights. I thanked the officer, elbowed my friend in the ribs for shooting his mouth off loud enough for me (but thankfully not the officer) to hear, and the rest of the trip home was without incident.
Game 3 of the 1992 NLCS was an experience I’ll never forget. I also went to Game 4 with another friend, and that experience was an unforgettable time as well, but for other reasons as I’ll share with you tomorrow.
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