8.1.00
SAN DIEGO PADRES vs PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES
Despite having grown up a Dodger fan, I've always had a certain fondness for the Padres, one that had lots to do with the brown and gold uniforms they wore during my childhood. The color scheme was picked up, coincidentally, by the high school I eventually attended when it opened in the mid-1970s, and it's a combo that I continue to defend: I love it, and nothing would please me more than if the Padres would return to it when they move into their new ballpark in a couple years. I wasn't being completely glib when I mentioned in an earlier installment that I have at times considered ditching my Dodgers affiliation in favor of one involving their neighbors to the south; indeed, with solid ownership, a savvy and likable general manager, and a first-rate manager in Bruce Bochy, the Padres have everything the Dodgers have lacked over the last few years.
In fact, the only thing Padres fans can legitimately complain about is the club's annoying inability to settle on a uniform design for longer than a season.
Two common misconceptions about the San Diego Padres: Comparisons are frequently drawn between what happened after the team's 1998 World Series appearance and the crass disassembly of the Florida Marlins following their championship season, but only by folks who, knowing how the story ends, fail to consider the prologue. Kevin Towers and Co. had spent years building that team, convinced that a pennant in 1998 would be the only way to keep the organization in San Diego, for reasons having little to do with the usual blackmail-of-the-community-by-shamelessly-greedy-owner scenario. Everyone knew going into the season that little of the team would remain when it was over; that the Padres actually made it to the show was a testament to the guts and smarts of the front office as much as anything else. And the gamble worked: a month later San Diego citizens approved funding that would make a downtown ballpark possible.
The other myth is that San Diego baseball fans are notably “laid back,” somehow more “mellow” than those elsewhere. My only previous visit to “The Q” (née Jack Murphy Stadium) was occasioned by the above mentioned 1998 postseason, when I got to watch Greg Maddux and the cocksuckin' Atlanta Braves go down three games to none to their NL West counterparts in the single most memorable afternoon of baseball I've ever witnessed. Sixty-five thousand freaks decked out in regalia representing all eras of Padres history, from brown and gold through brown and orange to blue and orange; sixty-five thousand freaks on their feet for almost every pitch, contributing to a deafening, three-hour orgy of adrenaline that was still going strong forty-five minutes after the game ended, chants of “Sweep! Sweep!” echoing throughout still-full parking lots; sixty-five thousand freaks and not a single beach ball, and not one outbreak of “The Wave.”
I can't say this authoritatively, having never been to a Dodgers postseason game, but there's just no way on Earth I could ever imagine a similar scene at Chavez Ravine. No way, no how. Admittedly, this speaks more to the lameness of Dodger fans than the intensity of Padres followers. Still, San Diego showed me enough that day to prove that they can stand side-by-side with any fans in the country.
To tonight's game, though. My wife was in town for a week-long conference, so I went down for a night to take advantage of the hotel room and my friend Marty and I headed out to the park. Even I was a bit startled by how little of that 1998 team remains, but the new guys seemed to be doing okay: rookie Mike Darr, just up from Triple-A Las Vegas, hit a two-run homer off Phillies' starter Robert Person in the first inning, followed a few minutes later by a three-run blast courtesy of former Mariner John Mabry in his first plate appearance as a Padre.
By the end of the sixth the Padres had run up a 9-1 lead, and young San Diego righthander Adam Eaton was cruising. Consecutive hits in the top of the seventh by Mickey Morandini and Bobby Abreau knocked in two runs, however, chasing Eaton, and three more would score before the inning was over. A solo homer by Brian Hunter in the eighth further narrowed the gap to 9-7, but no one was much concerned, for the mournful tolling and opening strains of “Hell's Bells” as the Padres took the field for the ninth meant one thing: Trevor Hoffman time. And if watching him take the field before a sparse 18,000 to snuff out the desperate hopes of the last-place Phillies wasn't quite as spine-tingling as the time he came in with two out, the bases loaded, and the Padres clinging to a 2-1 lead in the top of the eighth to strike out the Braves' Javy Lopez on three straight pitches...well, it's still a pretty cool entrance.
And, much as I'd seen two nights earlier in Anaheim, everything seemed to be going according to plan—Hoffman quickly secured two outs and ran the count to 0-2 on Scott Rolen—when a funny thing happened: Rolen hit the ball out of the park. Then, on the very next pitch, Pat Burrell did the same thing. And, much as they did two nights earlier in Anaheim, everyone sat back down, incredulous.
Tonight's ending would be a happy one for the Padres, though. Darr singled to open the tenth, and with two outs, rookie second baseman Kevin Nicholson, whose error in the seventh had allowed a run to score, came through with the game-winning single.
FINAL SCORE: PADRES 10, PHILLIES 9
MEMORABLE HECKLE: Marty, his girlfriend Blair and I talked through pretty much the whole game—I don't get to see the guy that often—so I wasn't paying much attention. Sorry. There was a guy behind us who late in the game remarked that Doug Glanville's teeth seemed to get bigger with each at-bat, which was funny at the time, so that'll have to suffice.
