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baseball
It was 5:22 p.m. when David Justice, his back to the right field wall and his bare left hand already raised in triumph, let the last fly ball settle gently into his glove, and a city starved for victory went politely berserk. Moments later Saturday, across the continent in Candlestick Park, the last Dodger went down and the Miracle on Capitol Avenue was in the record books. In one season, the Atlanta Braves went from the cellar of the National League West to the championship. In the stadium, 45,000 people screamed, sobbed, chanted their eerie, moaning war song and waved their foam rubber tomahawks. Across the city, in streets that had been virtually deserted at 5 p.m. on a balmy Saturday, horns honked frantically and yuppies did the tomahawk chop through the sunroofs of their BMWs. Twice before in their 26 seasons in Atlanta, the Braves have won the Western Division title, but never before did it move this city so deeply. Perhaps because it was so unexpected, perhaps because this young team spurned so many opportunities to fold, the Miracle Braves have touched Atlanta's heart like no professional team ever did. -- Atlanta Journal-Constitution, October 6, 1991
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I've always loved the game -- playing it, not following it. In late middle age, I discovered Men's Senior League Baseball.
The pitcher's mound is a lonely place for a great-bellied, gray-bearded man to confront his midlife crisis. I discovered that a few weeks ago when I found myself, at the age of 55, dressed up in baseball drag at a scruffy DeKalb County park, throwing pitches with relentless accuracy a foot above the strike zone. When I served up my fourth consecutive base on balls, a feat accomplished in the bare minimum of 16 pitches, my only hope of honorable escape appeared to be a lightning bolt or a massive coronary. What brought me to this pitiful state was the notion, bizarre in retrospect, that I could reach back through nearly four decades and recover the smoking fastball of my fondest memories. When I signed up for Men's Senior Baseball this winter, I didn't analyze my motives. It was simply something I had always wanted to do. Thinking about it, I realized that the clean, clear-cut challenge between batter and pitcher is one of the few warm memories I have of childhood. It is a memory of feeling, not of any moments in time. So I suppose it was the feeling I was looking for. What I found was something entirely unexpected. My life has been in decline since that evening in the summer of my 15th year when I showed up at the visitor's dressing room of the Texas League ballpark in Oklahoma City. I had my glove, my cleats and a letter from Max Macon, manager of the Fort Worth Cats, the Dodgers' farm club, inviting me to work out with his team. Mr. Macon was wonderfully kind to me that night. He gave me the only real instruction I ever had, and then let me pitch batting practice, right there on a field with green grass, in the uniform of a Class AA team, and with my parents and my girlfriend in the stands. Mr. Macon intimated the organization would be waiting when I left high school, but it never happened. Painful debut When I heard about a league for men 38 and over in Atlanta, I couldn't resist. This winter, 40 pounds overweight, unfamiliar with any exercise more vigorous than walking, I became part of a newly formed team. We decided to be the Braves, largely because ready-made uniforms are cheaper. We are big on style in this league; you may not be able to bend over far enough to trap a grounder but, by God, you look like a ballplayer when standing still. ....I became part of a team, not just an old turkey trying to prove something. Which was exactly what I was doing that fine Sunday afternoon when I made my first start. I had never before in my life walked in a run, let alone walked four men in a row. Try, try again The details of that day, less than a week ago as I write, are already hazy. I remember the ground single the fifth batter struck, scoring a second run. We got the side retired without further damage and I thought surely the worst was over. I opened the second inning by walking the first three batters I faced. Steve Sloan, who was managing that day, came to the mound. "What do you want to do?" he asked. Only a non-judgmental psychologist - which is what Dr. Sloan is - would ask that of a pitcher who has just walked the bases full for the second time in two innings. "Let me pitch to one more batter," I said. We got the next three men out somehow without a run scoring, and I pitched two more shutout innings - one more inning than I had been scheduled to work. When I came off the field the whole team came out to greet me. I've never felt that kind of warmth from people I scarcely knew. We've got all kinds of people -- electricians, computer programmers, businessmen - and the amount of support we get from each other is amazing. Sometimes we play terribly, booting the ball all over the lot, but it's OK. We willingly deal with things we would have resented as kids -- hunting for foul balls when the umpires run short, comforting Buddy's dog so she won't bark while he's pitching. We are the boys of winter, old enough to know it's not whether you win or lose that counts, nor even how you play the game. Just being there again is joy enough. -- Atlanta Journal Constitution, March, 1993
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After my two innings against the Silver Bullets, I joined Donna in the stands. A lady sitting nearby was very complimentary. "How do you get the ball to drop like that?" she asked. I was honest with her. "Gravity, ma'am," I replied.
Albany
That is a fact, but
there often is a difference between a fact and a truth. The truth might have
read: “The Silver Bullets jumped on Atlanta
starter Jack Warner, a kindly gentleman old
enough to be their grandfather, for four runs in the second inning. They did
not, however, jump on him for any runs at all in the first inning.”
I’ll carry that
happily to the grave, for holding the Silver Bullets scoreless for an inning is
no small thing. No matter that they are women; they play a man’s game with
grace, agility, and, above all, professionalism.
They play just the way
Phil Niekro has taught them – they’ll run over you or under you, spike you,
gouge your eyeballs out and do anything else they can to win. I love ‘em.
History will record that
on Thursday night at the Paul Eames Complex, the country’s only professional
women’s baseball team defeated the Mustangs of the 40-and over Greater Atlanta
Men’s Senior Baseball League by a score of 13-4....
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