My friend D. was my game partner for the day. Our seats weren't bad, in the upper deck, but right near third base, so we got to watch the players do absurd-looking stretches before the game started. I was feeling self-conscious because of how unfortunate my permed hair looked under my Cubs hat, like my head was exploding.
For quite a while the game was - how should I put it? - bad. The awful part was that there were three rows of Brewers fans not far in front of us and another one behind us, and their behavior was completely appalling. I've rarely wanted to hurt anyone as much as I wanted to hurt them. All the Cubs fans in our section united against them. To justify my violent impulses, I'll tell you that one man had a giant "L" flag that he was wearing like a cape. He actually turned around and addressed all the fans behind him, slobbering out, "This is for you, LOSERS. All you do is lose! Yeah!" My friend and I were laughing and feeling morally superior, but I could feel snarly rage starting inside me. "I just want to go down there and set that flag on fire," I told him. "Or push them onto the field so the Cubs can tear them apart," he said helpfully.
These horrible people were loud and triumphant throughout the first, oh, nine innings, because we weren't playing very well at all, despite a couple of home runs. I was disappointed, but glad to be at the park on such a gorgeous day, even as I tried to will the violent thoughts out of my mind.
The bottom of the ninth came around. The score was still 6-2, Milwaukee. I started getting ready to leave. Rami managed to score, making it 6-3 with two men on base, two outs. Geo, who hadn't done much in this game, came up. I was trying to figure out the best way to get home, if it were possible to somehow avoid the drunken crowds on the Red Line, as I stood up with everybody else to watch Geo's at-bat. And then - well, if you read this blog, I'm guessing you already know what happened then.
I have about ten crossed-out paragraphs in my notebook, attempts at describing what it was like to watch that ball go. There are certain moments that have become important parts of who I am that I find impossible to describe accurately, even though I think about them all the time. This is in that category now, with the going-away party the people at St. Withburga's threw me when I moved back to Chicago, or getting to read in front of a billion people at the Advent services, or even to some degree (and I don't mean to be irreverent) the Really Big Stuff, like when I was baptized last year. I think any description I could give would only make those moments smaller.
The row of women in front of me, kindly-looking middle-aged women in Cubs gear, holding binoculars, all started to cry.
And I don't think this could have actually happened, not in a ballpark that loud and rowdy, but right as we realized it was going to be a home run, I seem to remember a hush, almost a moment of silence. It was as if people wanted to stop time right then, maybe forever, just to keep that moment going.
And then, of course, pandemonium broke out. It was louder than I've ever heard it, and I've been to a game there nearly every summer since I was born. Complete strangers were hugging, high-fiving, pounding each other on the back. "I can't believe it," I kept confiding to all the people around me, "I just can't believe it." I wanted to come up with something eloquent, but I was too stunned. I don't think anyone minded.
Oh, and those Brewers fans? The game went on for three more innings before the Cubs actually won, but we barely heard a word out of them. Barely even a sound. I wish I could say I felt sorry for their destruction and humiliation. Maybe someday, when I've gotten to a more enlightened stage of life.
When I got home, I listened to Pat and Ron calling the game. "It's a miracle!" Pat shouted after Geo's home run, clearly overwhelmed. Now, let me be clear: I think if it were God's policy to regularly intervene in the world that way, He would have more important priorities than reaching down and touching our catcher. But I know what Pat was feeling, I think, and it's why I love baseball. It's like the Giamatti passage I quoted before, or this, from Nora Gallagher's book Things Seen and Unseen, where she quotes a member of her church:
I've had that happen. A lot of grace during a small event, more grace than the event justifies. I think it may be that grace is always there but it gets through when we're not paying attention. I mean, it's there for bigger things but we don't see it. To apply it or remember it during bigger things or catch it then may take intentionality. In any case, you can live on that for a long time.I was beyond lucky to be there. I'll always remember it. Now, let's see what we can do with the rest of the season.
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