One walk-off win can cure you of any emotional or intellectual ailment. The smack of the bat, the moment of anticipation as you wait to see if all you've wished for could come true, and the immediate, deafening roar of the crowd all inject you with a hope and belief that buoys you forward against all odds. To dream of two walk-off wins in one day is impossible. It is irresponsible. It is too good to imagine.
On Thursday, I attended my fourth Phillies game of the still-young season. Before then, I had been to three games where the Phillies had ostensibly played baseball, but mainly stood around on the field while the other team beat them. They didn't just lose; they were absolutely clobbered. A 13-2 loss against the Nationals. A 10-4 loss to the Cubs. A 9-0 loss against Atlanta. This team is so bad that when they attended the Flyers game on Wednesday night, the crowd booed them.
I am embarrassed to admit that, as I made the long walk from my home to the stadium, I wished in my heart for a win. I know better than to bank any emotional wellbeing on a sports team, much less the Philadelphia Phillies, but sometimes, on some weeks, in the middle of some years, you need a win—any win!—so badly it feels like hunger in your stomach. The Phillies themselves needed wins, too. Entering yesterday's game, they were 10-19: bad enough that the manager they all seemed to like had been fired as a consequence. Despite the whole season of evidence, I entered the stadium with hope in my heart. I had planned to take the day off weeks in advance to attend the afternoon game, and I felt optimistic. There are few better feelings than skipping work to go to the baseball stadium.
It was a beautiful day yesterday, the way only spring can be—temperatures cold enough to wear a satin jacket and jeans, but the sun warm enough to toast you up. The Phillies were playing two games (one at 12:35 and one at 5:35, rescheduled from the day before). We only had tickets to the first, but there's always something a little silly in the air on the day of a doubleheader. It's so juvenile to play two baseball games in one day. Plus, it was my friend's birthday! We made him wear a Phillies-branded cape, and when a woman in front of us who worked for the Phillies heard us yelling about his birthday, she returned with a free Schwarbomb Sundae for him, which included a full fried Uncrustable coated with Fruity Pebbles. It was so big, and rich, and decadent.
In the first inning, the Giants scored two runs, but Kyle Schwarber hit a solo home run, his 350th career homer. This felt like cause for optimism. In all the other games we'd seen this year, the Phillies gave up hundreds of runs and never scored any. After the rowdy first inning, though, the pitchers settled in. Cristopher Sanchez and Logan Webb both pitched well, and the bullpens managed the seventh and eighth. The score remained 2-1 Giants as they entered the bottom of the ninth inning.
"I want to win so bad," I said. How dare the team consider losing again on our friend's birthday!
Then there was a single, but after that a strikeout. The emotions peaked and plummeted. Bryson Stott hit a long, trickling triple into the right-field corner and tied the game up, 2-2. But then there were two outs. Here was Justin Crawford—a rookie, a menace, a son I have not yet adopted. I do not believe in him, so I was grumpy. But then he swung, hit a slow ball to the shortstop's backhand and ... outran it! The Phillies won!! We jumped up and down. I high-fived the man who sits behind me. They did it: a win!
The sun shone and the wind was light, and the train out of the stadium was crowded and rowdy. The momentum of the win carried us to sit outside for a drink instead of retreating home to lick our wounds before our evening birthday dinner reservation. We dawdled and yapped, and I remembered again what it is to be a person in the world—the beauty of lingering just a little too long, eating just one more bite, cheering just a little too loud.
By the time we finished our dinner, the second game was in full swing, and this game too was close. I watched the rest of it, after the rain delay, on my couch at home. Schwarber—who had a hell of a day going 5-for-6 with two home runs, two doubles, three walks, and no strikeouts—hit a double in the bottom of the ninth, and here we were again: tied! But this time, the game went to extras.
My terrible son who I love very much (Alec Bohm) has been even more terrible this season. He cannot hit. He cannot field. He is embroiled in a legal drama with his biological parents that seems to be destroying him. I have been so worried about him, and Thursday night was no different. He did not get a hit all game. But in the top of the 10th, with runners on first and third and one out, he stretched out like a cat to his left and snatched a screeching line drive out of the air. Two outs!
And then he was given a chance for redemption. Runner on third, one out, bottom of the 10th inning, and Bohm saw a pitch he could smack. He swung and sent it deep into center field, deep enough to sacrifice himself and score a run. All of his teammates ran to him in center field, picked him up, and dumped water on his head. They smiled together, and at home on my couch, I smiled too. It feels ludicrous to win twice in one day, and it feels depraved to win twice in one day on walk-off hits.
The baseball season is long, which is always so hard to remember in April. Maybe these two wins, completing a sweep of the Giants, will be a turning point I remember fondly in October. Or maybe they will be a single beautiful day in a season of misery. Either way, I'll take it.
