Singing in the Rain, For Once

It was raining, even pouring, but we went to the stadium anyway. It really made no sense, and we knew it, so thick were the forecast bands of precipitation. But with the scarier storm of a players' strike on the horizon, to neglect the tickets in our possession seemed suicidal.

Three seats, upper deck but right behind home plate (and sheltered from the rain), for me, my little brother, and my friend Matt. Matt was late getting to our rendezvous point at the train station, but no matter--we arrived two minutes after the 12:35 matinee was scheduled to begin, only to find the tarpaulin covering the field and security guards patrolling the dugout for lack of players.

I laughed, and said: "Good. That means they'll put up another game on the big screen for us." Two summers ago, fully half of the 14 games I attended were either wiped clean or rain-delayed, including one between these very same Braves and Expos, so I pretty much knew the DiamondVision routine.

And thankfully, the Reds and Astros were playing a barnburner in Cincinnati. Even shivering as I always am in such situations (the song and dance is always the same: "No, thanks, I'll be fine in shorts and a T-shirt"), I had to enjoy it as our little scab game went into extra innings, tied 1-1. Bagwell had a round-tripper, and when the Astros wriggled out of a bases-loaded jam in the 10th, I was settling in for an historic marathon.

Of course, the stadium seemed almost fully vacant by 3 p.m., (No chance of me leaving, hmmph.) But when the rains let up, the grounds crew danced, and baseball would be played. Alas, not on my beloved screen--into the 11th it went, but major league regulations forced it off as our own game-start neared.

But I could still follow an amazing procession of numbers on the scoreboard in left-center: 2-1, 3-1, 6-1, the wave cresting at 7-1, Astros. Had Bagwell hit another dinger, I wondered.

"Skip!" I called out from my balcony.

Oddly, it was Don Sutton that turned around, not Mr. Caray, but I figured he could answer my question just the same. "Do you know how Houston scored their six runs?"

"Sorry, we weren't watching the wire."

"Oh, OK. Thanks anyway!"

When you have meaningful dialogue with your TBS national announcing crew, you figure its going to be a good day, I guess.

Matt had class that evening at Georgia State, an unskippable chem lab at 6:30, but that didn't keep him from chilling with us during its preliminary two-hour lecture. He, my brother and I were among the maybe 10 or 12,000 still hanging around, but after the rain that actually adds to the atmosphere: You know that everyone left loves the game, and besides, there's plenty of elbow room.

Which means, of course, more foul ball territory per capita.

Marquis Grissom led the game off at 4:04 p.m., lining Kent Mercker's first pitch into the right-centerfield alley for a double. The Expos had taken the first two in this three-game series, and such a beginning boded fatally for whatever pennant prospects remained for the Braves.

But Mercker is made of sterner stuff these days, and he pitched out of both that jam and a bases-loaded nightmare in the third, both sides matching zeroes into the fourth.

Sean Berry came up for Montreal, bases empty. The calculations zinged through my head: batter righty; pitcher lefty; me on the first base side; open aisle on the right; tiny, insignificant brother on the left; room behind if needed. I had flippantly remarked two innings earlier that were I to catch a foul ball today, I could die a happy man--now, as always, I prepared myself for such an eventuality, and all the geometry favored my location.

And when you have all that down, you think you'll be prepared, and that when the ball flies towards you, you'll be poised to reach out and snatch that lump of cowhide and stitches in one hand, casually, maybe then uncaringly toss it back like some undersized fish. But when it's never happened before, and Mercker's fastball to Berry is fouled off, and you have but a second to react, calculate and react again...you lunge, desperately, with both hands, and when you catch it you're quickly grateful not to have been cascaded with a chorus of boos for letting the prize slip to the blue seats below.

It happened that quickly--just like that, I'd lost my foul ball virginity. No jumping up and down, just a dazed smile of wonderment on my face at having fulfilled a lifelong dream. And at least I got one part of my dream scenario right: when the crowd applauded my effort, I did compose myself just quickly enough to manage a pirouette to the fans behind me and a quick wave of the catching hand. The moment passed, and the game moved on, but I remained transfixed.

The Braves won, I think by a final of 4-2, with McGriff or maybe Justice belting a two-run shot to open the scoring in the sixth. Matt left early knowing that Atlanta's lead was almost safe, and after we moved to the lower deck for the final two innings, my brother actually had his hands on a foul shot of his own before it was wrenched away by stronger muscles. We traded quips about our terrible bullpen, even though McMichael actually notched a save for us, and the Braves salvaged something from the series. But all I could think about was foul balls, and strikes.

Part of me wants the strike to continue until the game cleanses itself, no matter how long that my take. There are other things to do, other games to see, and believe me, I don't miss baseball for the salaries, for the players and owners, not even so much for the pennant races or the record-breakers.

Bagwell, Gwynn, Griffey and Williams may yet have their years in the sun, but what really depresses is the realization that with every week and month of games lost, for all the fans still waiting patiently through this longest of rain delays, that many more foul balls don't get sprayed into the crowd, and kids like me, or real kids half my age, can't hold them aloft with the triumphant innocence of youth. And when baseball loses its youth, we won't have baseball.

Only rain.