29ERS BASEBALL: The Bigger They Come, The Harder They Fall: 29ers Topple Yeti, Losing Streak, Curse, White Unis in Comeback 11-7 Win at Beautiful Big Rec

I remember this feeling. It's a faint, distant memory of a feeling, trying to be felt, like a radio signal straining to crackle through between two stations on the dial. And it's not just the feeling of victory, which, admittedly, is fantastic. Obviously people love to win. There's a certain otherness to it, an essence, out of focus, that ironically makes the feeling felt that much sharper. I spent my time after the game going up to many of you and saying that we didn't just need a pedestrian win, we needed that win. That win.

I've played, we've played, a lot of baseball games by now. Hundreds, literally. And we've played a lot of really good, really memorable games: the first championship clincher, Mike's Potrero Hill home run, Louie's no-hitter into the seventh, Zack's first shutout, Bob gutting it out in Oakland in Game 3. And more. All of them rich, happy memories of a winning club with winning synergy; guys leaning on each other in just the right measure and at just the right time. I won't hesitate to put this game near the top of the pile, not for a second. It was that good.

Like, all-time good. I guess it's not exactly fair of me to say that I remember this feeling, because truly I don't. None of us do. None of us knew what it was like to win in comeback fashion, down five in the eighth, after losing five in a row. Certainly we all know what it feels like to win, and win big games. Championship games. There's an indirect sweetness—I guess that's called bittersweetness—to winning when you really need it.

But none of us had been there before. Even in my ancient days on Egypt '84 (and I think I can speak for Zack's time on the Cleaners), never had I rode that many Ls in a row. It's kind of hard to do, statistically. So we were all in brand new territory, uncertain and unsure of how to play. I won't lie, the last couple games I sort of felt like a toddler when I would approach the field. That is, with a kind of dumb wonder, like am I doing this right?? Are we playing by the right rules?? What are we doing wrong?

I tried to write about it, hoping that one furtive issue might lend itself to discovery. I turned things over in my head (there's not a ton to do up by where I live), scrutinizing every maneuver, each move, each bat in the lineup. While there were a couple common dull refrains (pitcher being left in too long, possibly wrong pitcher to begin with, lineup being too static), in general it seemed easiest to chalk it up to plain bad luck. Which for someone cursed with the kind of analytical mind as I have—a cerebral need to have answers and reasons rather than open-ended questions—was just so god damn unsatisfactory that I'd be back where I started: toddler-like, open-mouthed, drooling and wondering what the hell was going on with us.

Thank you all for snapping me out of that stupor. I feel awake, alive, and aware now. And I can't wait to play more games. But that's in the future. Let's talk about yesterday.

With RMac back in the fold, there was little doubt who was starting. And it seemed clear immediately that the five weeks he'd taken off had done wonders for his already explosive arm. The pitches were crisp and true, placed well and with the kind of good pace that makes even our limp catcher's mitt respond with snap and a satisfying THWACK!. He looked rested, calm, and totally unfazed, setting down most of the Ghosties' biggest threats on harmless flys or weak groundballs.

Meanwhile our own lineup was having its own share of futility against a very, ahem, "hittable" pitcher. Everyone in the league must know by now that we have trouble against soft throwers. Apparently Yeti is no different. Through seven we had just barely been able to answer the Ghosties two runs, thanks in very large part to an insane dropped popup off my bat with two outs and the bases loaded, that popup landing dull and with a pathetic little plop between the mound and second base, a gaggle of Ghosties surrounding the sad little baseball and them all with their arms raised and turning to look at one another in total collective confusion. But we had tied the game.

As I stood there on first shaking my head, I got the feeling. That singular, giddy, enraged butterflies in the stomach feeling. The Baseball Gods were looking down on us, smiling, sweeping a giant infield-dirt-dusted hand across the sky, palm opened upward, intimating that, Yes: follow us, this way, this way to the Light, out of the Darkness of this wretched losing streak. Follow us my children.

I tried to follow. It didn't last long. The Gods had one more cruel test for us. Essentially as soon as we unexpectedly and undeservedly tied the game, things in 29erlandia began to unravel. RMac's once ripe, rigid pitches began to sag, sail, and miss the same glove that had for seven previous innings been their magnet. A batter was struck somewhat above the letters. With the Ghosties having gone up again, 4-2, it was time to make the call.

The call was . . . mixed. Miles bravely entered with the bases loaded but also pitched pretty much as if RMac had just decided to start throwing with his left arm instead of his right. Three runs later, we were faced with a 7-2 deficit in the eighth, six small outs all that separated us from another loss, a poison new link in the lengthening chain of defeat.

The Gods asked that we Believe. I struggled. But in a tactful pregame aside, Miles had encouraged, insisted really, that I stay positive. And as hollow as words like that can sometimes sound, they boomed here in the top of the eighth. I cheered, I whooped, I applauded. Drill led off with a walk. Sean followed with another. This is something. Scott follows with his own. This could really be something. And with that, Yeti and his Ghosties provided a platform. But the Gods had more to say: "Here, here is your chance. We can't do much more for you than load the bases with no outs and your 2-3-4-5 hitters coming up. We can take you no further. You must travel the rest of the way on your own."

We fucking traveled.

Jesse removed his catcher's gear and walked to the mound. Pat lined a single to pull us within four and keep the bases loaded. Rickey followed with his own RBI walk to bring us within three, himself becoming the tying run at first. Up came Large. A single would have scored two possibly, putting us down by just one and still with no outs. A walk puts us down two. A sac fly even makes it a closer game. Mike had other plans. Mike was after the

2009 IBIS WHITE AUDI A4 WAGON DRIVE OF THE GAME: I had asserted that the lineup be shaken up and I won't hide the fact now that I was unambiguously trying to coax Miles into moving around not only me but Mike, too. Miles refused, staying his ground and reaffirming his faith in Mike busting out of his season-long slump. I'd point out here that was probably a good thing.

With those bases still loaded, late afternoon heavy summer sun lying thickly about, a shifting but steadily growing nebulous collection of tourist and local spectators alike intently watching on, Mike took one mighty swing. A flat, swift swing, hands adroitly kept in, close to the body, imparting full and punishing force upon the unsuspecting ball.

It flew. My GOD it flew and flew.

The left fielder stopped for a moment, seemingly paralyzed by the sudden fearful recognition that this shit is not going to go well for you. In the next beat, he hazily lifted his glove before turning his back to the infield and running like hell. The ball sailed over and beyond him. The dugout reacted like a pack of rabid baboons given high-grade liquid cocaine*. Baserunners whirled around the infield, 90 feet at a time, a chalky carousel of belief and primal salvation. This is something now, isn't it.

Mike stood, triumphant, on second. The tying run had scored from first and, incredibly, we were celebrating a new, 7-7 game.

It was the hit Mike needed, and it was the hit this season needed, a wooden, violent shock to bring us all back to the land of the living.

***

After a pitching change, Bob moved Mike over with a ground out, and BC shot a loud tie-breaking RBI single to score him. We were ahead. Zack knocked a single of his own and it was up to me to try to add on, with two outs. I hit a low liner back up the middle, scoring BC as he slid into home, and we're up by two. RMac's contact on a grounder to third and resulting bad throw let in two more runs, and so there we were: up by four heading into the bottom of the eighth.

Zack's steady hand and dominant pitching, including an especially nasty breaking ball, dashed any lingering dreams the Ghosties may have had about their own comeback. Zack's typical sangfroid became the perfect complement for the excitement from the rally. With quicker than usual throws to third after every strikeout highlighting just how close the end really was, a popup to the infield finally did really end it. The game. The losing streak. The friggin burden that the middle of the season has been. Over with. Thank (baseball) God.

I don't know. I just relived it but it remains dreamlike. It seems as implausible now as it did then. And yet, we did it. If anything, this has got to show definitively that there really is no time at all to stop believing we can win a game. One brilliant stroke (and many other composite contributions) can completely rewrite the tone of a game. And hopefully of a season.

***

There were some pretty special defensive plays in this one, from right off in the first when a ball caromed off Zack's glove to Rickey, who threw a one-hop to first (the umpire later admitting that the runner was in fact out); my own diving stop on a grounder up the middle and tagging the second base bag with a naked ball before trying to complete a double play; Rickey again with a dive into the hole and getting up with enough time to still throw to second to erase the advancing runner there. All great.

But the VALENCIA ST BUFFALO EXCHANGE SHOE CLEARANCE PLAY OF THE GAME: is Pat's multiple grabs in the outfield. It's possible that to the casual fan who happened to stumble upon our game in the park these plays didn't look as impressive as the diving infielders. But that's why he's a casual fan. Before we started Pat made it clear he was going for the ball. That he was going to be calling for the ball, and if you heard him, clear the way.

He did that. He took charge in a way most players are reluctant to do. He ranged for balls that are normally in no-man's land because nobody's quite sure who's going to go for it. He went for it. Here's to seeing more of that the rest of the way.

PLAYER OF THE GAME: Mike, duh. Were you paying attention?

*(Scandal of cocaine addict baboons; NCBI study of cocaine self-administration by baboons)