It is 10:23pm and we JUST got to our hotel at the Austin airport.
Laura and I woke up late. It was about 8:33am and we had to be downtown and parked at 10:30, no later. We packed, showered, checked email, got a hotel in Austin, and left to go to her parent's house.
On the way there, we realized there was no way. We hit an Einstein's Bagel for breakfast and hightailed it downtown.
Our lot was full. Dammit.
$7 at the Brown Center, not bad. Walked to the game with plenty of time to watch BP and work our assgrooves into those seats.
11:30am. There's no way in hell this game gets off at 12:05. They're still doing BP. Ok, there they go.
12:01pm. I always wondered what Roy's wife looked like. I imagined blonde. She looked like she was probably the hottest critter to ever live in Weir, Miss. Not sure if that's meaning much.
The game starts. Already the Astros fans around us make me wonder why I don't just watch every game again on television. Sweet Jesus, have ANY of you fucking people ever watched the Astros? or A BASEBALL GAME for that matter? Some of the dumbest shit I've ever heard.
Apparently our signs must be "fun" for everyone if we bring one to the game. Laura and I settle on:
"Bobby Cox is a wife beating, cum gurgling twat."
I don't see how anyone won't find that "fun."
The Roach hits his slam. I'm depressed. We drove all the way across the goddamn state to be there live when the Astros win their first postseason series on Houston soil EVER. I can't believe we're going to get blown out of the fucking water. I demand everyone be traded and Hal Lanier be fired. DEMAND.
Wandy comes in. The man next to me actually asks me when we traded for him and if this was his first appearance. I don't make this shit up. The HR. 6-1. I actually look at the man and say "the hell does it matter if we lose 5-1 or 6-1?"
I almost can't wait for the game to end. We need to get to my in-laws, get my daughter, eat dinner, and get our asses to Austin so we can get home Monday in time for Game 5 and to pick up our lousy dog. Let's just make this a "quick game."
Hudson gets pulled. My jaw hits the fucking ground. Is this Cox's first game as the Braves manager this season? I'd have let Hudson go until his arm was severed from his body by a wolverine. I look at Laura and actually say "this game? Just became UNover."
Farnsworth. The closer. Laura says "closers never do well in situations like this. Keep in mind, Farnsworth is especially stupid."
Lance comes up. At the same time, as the BBGs put the thought into our heads. "He's so due."
I say to the moron next to me, joking, "if Lance doesn't hit it out, we trade him after the game."
<Something happens which I have no recollection of>
I come to. I'm in Section 416, Row 10, Seat 9. The scoreboard says 6-5 and everyone around me is beating each other senseless. My wife is asking me what day it is.
Thursday.
Brad Ausmus comes up. Worst. Move. Ever. "Say, Gar. You know we need a run before we make an out right?"
The ball leaves the bat. Jones has a beat on it. He'll get it. It's off the wall. Run, Brad, run! Get a doubl.....WHAT?? IT DID WHAT??? My knee buckles. I lose feeling in the left half of my body. An image comes to me. Not man, not god, what...I'm not sure. No, I see. It's Charles. In Charge. He reaches out. I ask him where Nicole Eggert is and he kisses my forehead. I still want to know where Nicole Eggert is.
The Braves bullpen shitshow is on parade. We better score HERE because Giles Jones Jones in the next inning and we AIN'T getting THEM all out again. We better score HERE because Giles Jones Jones in the next inning and we're going to be asked to pitch soon.
Jeff Bagwell. Gar is amazing. It didn't work, but he was right as usual. That's why he gets to sleep with Carol Garner and I don't.
Clemens is warming up. "What?" Rocket. Clemens. In the pen. "Can't be." It is. He's coming in.
Throw that old bastard out of the fucking game, Gary. You can't argue balls and strikes in the 1st, you certainly can't in the 18th. Toss his ass.
Wait, wait, wait. Chris. Fucking. Burke? The Hatcher Game. The Kent Game. The BURKE GAME? THE BURKE GAME?
I stood there watching the field. Clemens horsecollared Burke to get him to the interview on tv. Ensberg came out like a college QB after a huge win (in Dallas, perhaps, over a certain awful school from the North, perhaps). Erin Andrews still seems to have her shirt on.
I kiss my wife. I have just attended the single greatest sporting event I've ever had a ticket to. The 2 grand slams. The unfuckingreal comeback that I still don't believe. Our bullpen. THEIR bullpen. Roger Clemens. Lance Berkman. CHRIS BURKE. (Erin Andrews). 18 innings. Tim Hudson. Brandon Backe. Dan Motherfuckingbadass Wheeler.
As we drove away I said to Laura "I can't believe it, but I think that was better than Game Five."
And now, 4 hours later, I know so.
