Rockies 19, Astros 3
W: Millwood (4-3)
L: Harrell (0-2)
As Norm MacDonald used to say, “It’s the anal rape.” Deliverance was visited on the Astros in their last Sunday game of the season, ironically falling on Fan Appreciation Day. They trotted out all their finery to excite the crowd, and it was ripped to shreds of mud and blood by the hungry jackals from Colorado.
Squeal. Squeeeeeeeeeeal!
A franchise-record 25 hits for Colorado, just one less than the Astro record for hits allowed. A tie for its largest margin of defeat. Not quite a scorched-earth embarrassment; the tiny flower sprouting among the ash is that the team did come up with three runs on seven hits, though all were singles.
Nope, this one is all on the pitchers. Starting with Harrell, who had to be too fine and ended up losing command all the way through the next three pitchers, until Abreu worked a scoreless ninth, this was a sideshow right out of Grand Guignol and no blood could be saved or spared. Harrell opened his veins for three earned and five overall; AnRod retched up four, Pendleton was hatcheted for five, Cedeno disembowelled for five as well.
Is it getting better, or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you, now you got someone to blame?
You say one love, one life, when it’s one need in the night.
One love, we get to share it
Leaves you baby if you don’t care for it.
This is my last recap of the season. Thank you so much to those involved for floating my name, approving me, putting up with my missteps and letting me ease back into writing while knocking off years of rust. Special thanks to everyone who read these, and those who found something within to comment on or relate to. They’ve been fun to put together and a weird chronicle of a piece of this season for me. I know that I come up short to the task, but I’ve tried to write up to the level of everyone on the site. I promise to do better next time.
My kitty says hi. She says thank you with her eyes.
Did I ask too much, more than a lot
You gave me nothing, now it’s all I got.
We’re one, but we’re not the same.
Well, we hurt each other, then we do it again.
You say love is a temple, love a higher law
Love is a temple, love the higher law.
You ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl
And I can’t be holding on to what you got, when all you got is hurt.
This has been such a difficult season. We’ve seen hope die far sooner than it should have, and then subjected to its carcass being dragged through the streets for months. The brief glints of hope throughout have then been snatched away and tormented in front of us – new owner not approved, ex-players seeming happier in new places with playoff teams. The new kids brought in provided light in the pit, two months of a new kind of hope even as the vulture known as the American League perches nearby and waits for its opportunity to come.
One love, one blood, one life, you got to do what you should.
One life with each other: sisters, brothers.
One life, but we’re not the same.
We get to carry each other, carry each other.
One, one.
In the off-season, think back to this journey we’ve all taken from the light, through the darkness, and hopefully back into the light. Know that we all experience it in different ways and yet the same; we’re all joined in our stake in this community. Not just as Astro fans, or baseball fans, but in a larger scope of people with different backgrounds and beliefs and yet we pull together with common elements to build and nurture something. Our campfire of humanity, that we all warm our hands over in our own ways. If you see someone in need of even a simple word of kindness, do what you can to help. Be that light of grace to lighten someone else’s burden if you can. You can make an important difference in someone else’s life just by caring.
Sometimes I feel like I don’t know
Sometimes I feel like checking out.
I wanna get it wrong
Can’t always be strong
And love, it won’t be long.
Oh, sugar, don’t you cry.
Oh, child, wipe the tears from your eyes.
You know I need you to be strong
And the day it is dark, as the night is long.
Feel like trash, you make me feel clean.
I’m in the black, can’t see or be seen.
Baby, baby, baby, light my way.
Alright now, baby, baby, baby, light my way.
I remember when we could sleep on stones.
Now we lie together in whispers and moans.
When I was all messed up and I heard opera in my head
Your love was a light bulb hanging over my bed.
Baby, baby, baby, light my way.
Oh, come on, baby, baby, baby, light my way.
Unless, of course, it’s DoRay.
After the game, they let the kids run the bases. Hundreds of pixies piled out of the stands and lined up orderly for that burst that makes childhood seem so pure and beautiful to the adults. Toddlers and preteens alike, all sharing in the joy of circling the bases, all with their individual motivations, secret loves and excitements.
If they let them run another thirty minutes, they might score as many times as the Rockies did.
