That's baseball

The Chicago Cubs hosted the Washington Nationals at Wrigley Field last Sunday night.

I checked the score from my phone as we were leaving evening church services.

One to nothing, Nats.

Drat.

TG and I went home, detouring for a snack at Wendy's with Audrey, Dagny, Chad, and Erica.

Back in my own friendly confines and outfitted in my friendly comfies, I tuned in to the game on the fifty-five-incher in our TV room.

I don't remember what inning was in progress, but the score was still one to nothing. We settled back to encourage our team.

Our Cubs have have been semi-permanent riders of the struggle bus this year with regard to the bullpen, but they have a new pitcher in handsome thirty-four-year-old (ancient for a major league pitcher) Cole Hamels.

He was on the mound that night and had done a fine job, giving up only one run.

But the Nationals' pitching was brilliant -- or the Cubs' hitting was lacking, whichever way you want to look at it -- and by the top of the ninth Hamels was chilling in the dugout, watching the end of a game that looked to be all over exept for the crying unless the Bunny of Baseball Love hopped onto the scene and made some magic happen.

It was in the top of the ninth that the Nationals scored two more runs off Cubs relief pitcher Brandon Kintzler (who was traded to Chicago only two weeks ago by -- wait for it -- the Washington Nationals).

Three-zip, Nats. Who were gloating.

Double drat it all.

After that I went to brush my teeth and wash my face, getting ready for bed. I hate to see the Cubs lose and I secretly hoped that when I returned to my place on the leather reclining love seat beside TG, it would be over.

I'd fuss and fume for a minute or two, then shake it off. Cub fans are well acquainted with losing.

(TG, die-hard Cub fan for forty years, almost always says to me, philosophically and often with a chuckle, as I sputter or moan when the chips are down for our beloved boys of summer: That's baseball.)

It's come to mean more to me than the sometimes overwhelming vagaries of my favorite sport. That's baseball is an apt euphemism for That's life.

At any rate, the Cubs are famous for coming back from what appears to be a sure loss. They've done it thirty-seven times this season. So there's that.

The hundred-and-four-year-old stadium at the corner of Clark and Addison was packed and most of the fans were on their feet. We'll be there in less than two weeks and I'll do the same thing.

The Nationals' relief pitcher was on the mound to nail the thing down and secure the win for their star starter, Matt Scherzer, who, like the Cubs' Cole Hamels, was by then guzzling Gatorade in the dugout.

I am pretty sure Nats fans worldwide were counting on a win, already rejoicing.

As for me, I didn't even bother to settle back and recline with my light summer quilted throw and pat the space beside me for Rizzo to jump up and nestle at my side.

I didn't figure there'd be time to warm the seat before it was over.

So it was that as I tensely perched, the Cubs came up to bat for the final time, down by three, about to be shut out by the Washington Nationals.

But here's what happened.

One Cub gained a base. The next one was hit by a pitch, prompting a walk. Two bases with men on. A few seconds later, a third Cub was struck by a pitch. He walked.

Bases loaded.

Two outs.

David Bote (say BOH-dee), pinch hitting for injured megastar Kris Bryant (pictured in effigy above), came to the plate.

Bote's not a big name and hasn't been in the lineup for long; I don't even have his face firmly fixed in my mind.

He's certainly no Anthony Rizzo. No Javier Baez, no Kris Bryant, no Jason Heyward. He's a man who can play baseball well enough to be in the majors, and he comes to work every day and does his job.

Bote stood there wielding his bat. The count was two-two.

If he struck out, it'd be over. Head for the showers.

If he got walked, a runner would advance from the loaded bases and the score would be three to one. Not a shutout but still a loss. Probably.

Of course he could get a base hit -- a fine goal, to be sure -- but the outcome wouldn't change unless he -- or the next guy -- hit a homer before that third and final out.

Unlikely. Let's be honest.

So it was that, with two strikes and two outs, David Bote swung for the fences and hit a grand slam walk-off home run.

On September twenty-fifth it will be fifty years since a Cub player hit a walk-off grand slam for the team’s first runs of the game. On that night in nineteen sixty-eight, the Chicago Cubs came from behind to beat the Los Angeles Dodgers four to one.

At Wrigley on August twelfth, two thousand eighteen, the Cubs beat the Nationals four to three.

Pandemonium ensued:

Some have dubbed Bote's feat a Golden Homer because it was a walk-off grand slam with his team trailing by three runs and down to its last strike.

If you're not inspired by that, perhaps you should be.

Because it proves once again something important: It doesn't matter whether you're a big name. It doesn't matter if your face is recognized among a constellation of superstars.

It doesn't matter how late in the game it is, or how lost the cause appears to be.

Do what you were sent to do. Fulfill your purpose in any given moment.

Don't worry about how dismal things look; don't cave to the horrible pressure of impending doom. Blind yourself to that, somehow. Play your game to the best of your ability, to the very end.

Wonderful things can happen.

While there's life, there's hope said the Roman statesman Cicero. He was right. And that was a long time ago too but he's still right.

So don't give up. Whatever you do, never give up. You may hit the game-winning home run.

Go Cubs, go. Go Cubs, go. Hey Chicago, whaddaya say, the Cubs are gonna win today.

Fly the Dubya.

As for the Nationals, they suffered a similarly stunning defeat the very next night against the St. Louis Cardinals, again losing by one run in the ninth inning.

Their beleaguered closer, Ryan Madson, the poor guy who served up the curve ball that Bote hit over the center-field wall and into history on a summer night at Wrigley, is now on the ten-day disabled list with a back injury.

Chelsea Janes, writing for The Washington Post, summed it up it thusly:

If someone were to script devastation, to write out a plot for the near-total destruction of a weary baseball team’s morale, that script would not be nearly as cruel as the one that played out for the Washington Nationals in their 4-3 loss to the Chicago Cubs on Sunday night at Wrigley Field.

I sort of feel their pain. They'll have another chance at glory, though. And another, and another, as long as they don't quit.

But see, I thought it was awesome. I guess it's all in your perspective. I won't be apologizing either.

Because that's baseball.

And if I see Theo Epstein again when I visit Wrigley in a few days? I can say: How about that pinch-hit walk-off grand slam by David Bote? 

High fives will ensue between me and Theo, and a selfie of us together to prove that this time I had the wherewithal to actually speak to him, which photo I will of course share with you.

That would be my walk-off grand slam to win the game.

And that is all for now.

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It ain't over till it's over.

= Yogi Berra =

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Happy Wednesday

Comments

[Mari]

Wow! I'm not a baseball fan, but even I am excited by that! I can't imagine how exciting it was to watch in real time. And your thoughts on it and how it pertains to life are brilliant.

[Jennifer]

@Mari ... thanks, friend. xoxo

[Sally]

That's awesome, Jenny! And, now I want a hot dog plus singing "take me out to the ballgame". :)

xoxo

[Jennifer]

@Sally ... excellent idea! I'm right there with you. xoxo