20: Driven by that championship moment

 

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by ssiscribe

ATLANTA – The ball hung in the air for what seemed like forever. It stayed airborne for just a few seconds, but those ticks of the clock felt like a lifetime.

 

Inside a stadium jammed full of people on a cold October night, throughout a sprawling metropolitan city, and around countless TVs and radios scattered far and wide, a fan base held its collective breath.

 

The moment – one born on sandlots and storytime and highlights of Octobers past, one forged through two heartbreaking near misses – finally had arrived.

 

And as Marquis Grissom gloved Carlos Baerga’s fly ball at 10:27 p.m. on Oct. 28, 1995, Braves Nation erupted in a joy that washes over only those who have just witnessed their team win the World Series. It is a moment I was so very blessed to experience in person, eight rows high in the upper deck, down the right-field line at old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium.

 

Every year about this time, as baseball players gather their belongings, end their winter slumber and head south for spring training, I think back to that magical moment that now is 12 years old. In some respects, it seems like yesterday; in others, it feels like an eternity.

 

That’s what they play this child’s game, for a chance to win it all, to run onto the field knowing the season is over and the pursuit is finished, and you have made it to the finish line. No more late-inning tension, no more clutch hitting needed, no more pleading for that ground ball to turn two and get you out of this bases-loaded jam.

 

It’s over. You’ve won.

 

You’re the champion.

 

It’s the moment fans long for, too, because a team’s fan base is an extension of the team itself. Fans live and die with every pitch. Fans hang in the balance as games go back and forth. Fans save money to take their kids to experience the game first-hand, just as their dads and granddads did for them. Fans forego sleep and rearrange plans and get in arguments with their best friend and their better half because of a team made up of people you may never meet.

 

And that’s OK. That’s what fans do. And when that team, the one that is among the few items consisting the center of your existence from February to October, wins the World Series, the euphoric feeling is one that never, every fades away. It warms the coldest winter morning. It burns deep inside your soul, and always will.

 

It’s moments like this that remind us of why we do this in the first place, why we come together with people scattered far and wide to stand united behind a jersey, a hat, a rallying chant, a manager and a franchise. It does not matter what color we are, where we live or how much money we have in the bank. Our political and religious preferences and biases are checked at the door. The day-to-day grind takes a back seat, if only for a few hours 162 times a year. Together, we stand as fans, and as the journey begins again, we know there will be heartbreak and ecstasy. We know there will be moments where we will swear off this ragged bunch of semipros forever and ever.

 

But there will come a moment when the team rallies for a victory it has no business getting, when Smoltz or Hudson or Glavine authors a masterpiece, when Chipper or Frenchy or McCann blast one 425 feet deep into the clear Georgia night, and we’ll remember why we fell in love with this team – and this game – in the first place.

 

I don’t know if the Braves will win the World Series this year. But I know I’ll be on board for every step of the journey. It’s now, in the midst of February, when the rush begins. It will end as the leaves change and the weather turns cold again. And when it does, somebody will be running onto the field, throwing their gloves high in the air like kids and celebrating a dream come true. Its fan base will jump with glee, shed tears of joy, hug total strangers and bask in the warmth of seeing their team win the world championship.

 

Here’s hoping this year, it’s our turn. Again.

 

–30–

~ ssiscribe ~

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