6.16.01 ANAHEIM ANGELS vs LOS ANGELES DODGERS
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So-Cal pundit would have you believe that the regular-season Dodgers–Angels match-ups of the last four years have epitomized all that is lame and inconsequential about interleague play. So-Cal pundit either has never actually been to one of these games or has his head so far up his ass that he wouldn’t recognize great baseball if it bit him there.
I have missed the Dodgers, it is true; no less, however, have I missed going out to the yard with my old Angel-loving buddy Chris Damore and having a good laugh at his expense. I timed my visit to fulfill both longings. Four hours after stepping off the plane I found myself in the right field bleachers of Edison Field, just a stone’s throw from that ridiculous fiberglass rock pile, accompanied by a pack of impartial friends who were there mostly to see one of us—me or Damore—suffer the humiliation his team’s defeat would bring.
Wally Joyner had announced his retirement, effective tonight, and the three-minute standing ovation this earned him, while a nice gesture, seemed slightly, I dunno, much. What did Ripken get the other night? Five minutes? Not to be cruel, but is baseball really going to miss Wally Joyner three-fifths as much as Cal Ripken? That combined with seven innings of stultifyingly dull baseball that left the Dodgers trailing 5–1 lent an air of legitimacy to So-Cal pundit’s criticisms.
It wasn’t over yet, though. In the eighth, with starter Jarrod Washburn still on the mound for the Angels, Alex Cora went the other way and managed a two-out single to right, bringing Paul Lo Duca to the plate, which gives me a chance, finally, to talk about how much I love Paul Lo Duca. (He was hurt and didn’t play at all when I saw the Dodgers earlier this season.) I loved Paul Lo Duca last year, when he would occasionally spell Todd Hundley or Chad Kreuter behind the plate. His numbers weren’t great, but it seemed like every time I saw him he did something memorable, and I always wished they would play him more. This year, if you haven’t heard, the guy’s been out of his head, hitting .350 (with power!) from anywhere in the line-up (providing, on nights like tonight, the first capable lead-off man the Dodgers have seen since sending Eric Young away), playing effective catcher, first base, and even outfield. In May he helped the Dodgers win an extra-innings game against Colorado by going 6-for-6. And he does it all with the humble demeanor of a guy who’s spent eight years in the minors and takes nothing for granted. I said it at the beginning of the season when somebody on the Sonic Enemy bulletin board brought him up: He’s nascent Piazza with a better arm. All he’s done this year is validate my optimism, again and again.
And again. Lo Duca sent the first pitch from Washburn sailing into the left-field stands. Five–three now.
A quiet bottom of the eighth courtesy of the recently called up Jeff Williams, and to the ninth we go. Enter Troy Percival. And whereas last year at this time Damore knew enough to slump down in his seat and curse the gods, this year he’s all bravado. “Oh yeah!” says Damore. Eighteen saves in 18 opportunities, says Damore. His better half is not around tonight to warn him of the dangers of Angel fans getting cocky. I sense a Dodgers–Angels moment imminent, the moment of impossible hopes/fears fulfilled, the moment of outright joy/despair spinning end over end, so inextricably tied that they accelerate in each other’s orbits. The moment So-Cal pundit has never stuck around long enough to experience.
Gary Sheffield looks at two called strikes. Takes a pitch in the dirt. Fouls one off. Takes two more. Walks. Tying run aboard, Eric Karros to the plate. “Come on, E.K., give it a ride, buddy,” I call, jestingly. Damore shakes his head.
Karros fouls a couple into the stands, looks at a pair of sliders but doesn’t bite, fouls off another, fouls off another. “Atta boy, E.K.! Way to battle! Make him work!” All for Damore’s benefit, of course. All to make the blow sting that much more. Next pitch: The blow. A towering fly ball to deep center. It’s gonna be close. In slow motion it reaches its apex and starts falling back to earth, back, back….
Our friend Nathan the gadget junkie recently bought a new digital camera that can take short movies. The evening’s first clip shows me standing, clapping, shouting, laughing my ass off, shaking my head in disbelief. As I sit down, Damore can be seen seated beside me, shellshocked, sheepish. It is the moment. It is beautiful.
Percival deflowered, his perfect save record for the season erased with one gesture. If only the story ended there. But Percy managed to make it through the rest of the inning unscathed, and this, a tie game with the Angels coming to bat in the bottom of the ninth, brought out—damn it all to hell—the Rally Monkey. And as awful as the Rally Monkey is, as horribly cheesy and dumb and, ultimately, terribly, undeniably funny as it is, there is one thing about it that is worse than everything else put together: It works.
Matt Herges faces four batters before Jim Tracy calls on 44-year-old Jesse Orosco to pitch to Garrett Anderson with two outs and runners at first and second. A ball, a swing and a miss, another ball. Next pitch, a shot through the gap into right.
Nathan’s second movie opens with Damore, arms outstretched, mid-scream, eyes wide, looking around with an expression that clearly demonstrates his knowledge, all along, that all of this was preordained. Still screaming, he directs the cameraman to follow his head around so that his ongoing celebration can be seen with Anaheim’s victory fireworks as a backdrop, the picture spoiled only by the interjected downturned thumbs and raised middle fingers of our, as it turns out, not-so-impartial-after-all friends. It is the moment again, turned upside-down. It is still beautiful, only to the other guy now. As we leave the park, the Rally Monkey reclines on the scoreboard, his night’s work accomplished, a stream of Z’s issuing from his mouth.
FINAL SCORE: ANGELS 6, DODGERS 5
FOOD CONSUMED: Nothing! I’d tanked up on nachos and tequila immediately upon arrival in southern California and wouldn’t be hungry again until midnight.