Ending All, And Being All

It had to end sometime.

My streak of being present for clinchings ended at two. Mother nature gave me a not so subtle sign that I shouldn't make the trek to Pittsburgh by giving me a cold right before the series, preventing me (among other things) from taking what would have been an ill advised trek to the Steel City.

Tonight was a different matter all together...you see, The Who was playing in town tonight. So I'm covering a Monday night shift so that a fellow Met fan, who has had these concert tickets for weeks, could go see them. I wonder if he's regretting that decision at this moment...at least I hope it was a rocking show. (And I hope Roger Daltrey announced the score.)

But you know if somehow they blew it tonight, I was there on Tuesday.

There are things on this earth that I'll never be able to explain. Gravity...luncheon meat...the fascination with singing "Sweet Caroline" at sporting events...and Steve Trachsel not only pitching effectively, but swiftly, when the odds and a three game losing streak to keep the magic number at one staring him square in the eye. But that's what makes baseball a funny game...and that's what makes Steve Trachsel the '06 version of Dave Magadan...because that too, came out of nowhere.

If Steve Trachsel was Steve Trachsel, and the Phillies had somehow overcome the Cubbies, I would have been there on Tuesday. But am I disappointed? Not on your life.

And that's the truth ladies and gentlemen.

Because processing it on television without being there was amazing in and of itself and it was definitely a different experience. For those that were there, there's no place you would rather be. But for me, seeing Petey dance down the tunnel, showing his N.L. East shirt to the assembled media...the same assembled media who he admitted he didn't want to talk to last Friday...and letting loose a yelp of victory? That's a feast for the eyes.

Seeing Country Time get blindsided by a full dousing by Pedro Feliciano...seeing C.T. then pay it forward to the general manager of all people...seeing SNY's Julie Donaldson get wet in the designated "dry area"...it's amazing for me to process it all. It's especially amazing for me because of what I did earlier in the day, which was go through old tape of the last lockerroom celebration after the 1988 clinching...a tape which I had never seen before. It was great to see a team forever etched in my mind as being doomed in moments of glee. I saw Kevin McReynolds with a smile on his face. I saw Tim Teufel looking a lot like he did at the 20 year anniversary celebration. I saw David Cone use the word "superlatively".

Those poor bastards never saw it coming. Neither did the poor bastard you're reading now.

It was much better to see the same kinds of sights eighteen years later in current context, without the stigma of "too bad they couldn't go any further". Fun to see Jose Valentin, who last year at this time was recovering from a bad knee, using that knee to springboard into Carlos Delgado's arms after using his arms to pump out two home runs. And it was fun to see Paul Lo Duca spray you unsuspecting fans with an industrial strength hose.

That's tape you'll look on and say "damn, us poor bastards never saw that coming."

They're the sights and sounds we'll always remember. And we'll see them again in rain delays to come...all set to the soundtrack of messrs Bachman, Turner, and Overdrive. Yes, they took care of business tonight. Finally.

So sure, I wasn't there tonight. I wasn't in the upper deck, unless you count the upper deck of the stratosphere of elation that hovered around the ballpark, because I was there in spirit. And being there in spirit is all I needed tonight...it was more than enough.

Besides, there's a slew of games in October for me to weasel my way into.