The Greatest Sports Story Nobody's Told: The Championship
The River Rats chase championship greatness with an ending many could have predicted but few would have seen coming.
The Greatest Sports Story Nobody’s Told
Part One: The Park
Part Two: The Town
Part Three: The Montage
Part Four: The Championship
Out in the middle of it all, where you can stand in God’s country and root for the corn to touch knees by the 4th and you cool down with a pop and not a soda, they played a baseball game on a July night with air heavy like a sauna and a squadron of mosquitos fighting their little hearts out versus a battalion with bug spray.
A night where the light from the moon glinted off tiny baseball trophies standing at attention on a raised platform on the pavilion behind home plate.
One more seven-inning rec league game Championship Week. One last chance for The River Rats to reach glory.
Sometimes, moments pass through our lives – and they’re as few as they are precious – when we can feel the specialness of this exact time in every ounce of our bodies and know that what we’re doing right now could never be duplicated.
For kids who grew up memorizing batting averages before learning state capitals, such moments are meant to take place on the ball diamonds where we first learned to dream and in games when the only bad part of playing is it means at some point it all has to end.
This championship game was one of those moments.
First inning through top of the 6th
There wasn’t a spare space for half an ass-cheek on the 3rd base side bleachers, and the towns folk lined up two-deep along the fence stretching down the left field foul line. Jeeps, pickups, and a Sable with a cherry bomb air freshener hanging off its rearview mirror parked in the small stretch of grass right behind the outfield fence, their headlights beaming an added layer of mystique onto the night.
And while the other squad had a healthy number of parents and people seated down the first baseline, there could be no confusing this for a neutral field game for The River Rats.
The teams scattered hits and traded outs for the first two innings. In the top of the 3rd, Scott doubled in a run. He then beat a snap throw from the catcher with a wrap-around slide and stole third. A single by Derek sent him home. The River Rats had pounced first and led 2 to 0.
The other side tied it in the bottom of the fourth, and they traded runs in the fifth where The River Rats dodged a game-changing bullet when Derek stretched and launched his cinder-block body to snatch a line-drive scorching near second before firing a rope from his knees to Scott at third to double up a runner who hadn’t tagged.
In the top of the 6th, Scott smoked one to center and didn’t stop sprinting until he stood on third base waving his arms wildly at rows of screaming fans. Two runs scored on his triple, and Scott added another when a high pitch tipped off the top of the catcher’s glove and bounced behind the plate long enough for him to scoot home.
The River Rats now led 6 to 3 going into the bottom of the sixth.
Bottom of the 6th Inning
In the infield, The River Rats warmed up fielding slow rolling grounders and throwing them over to first. In the outfield, they tossed pop-ups high into the air, moving from left to center to right and around again.
Near home plate, the ump took off his mask, wiped his face with an already damp towel, and chugged from a gallon jug of lukewarm water. The three kids due up for the other team took practice cuts.
The Closer, meanwhile, stood with his back against the fence in left-center. He waited. And waited. Then waited some more. He waited until everyone had grown tired of warming up and all eyes sought him.
Then, he threw on his brother’s orange Oakley’s. Pressed play on The Verve CD. Hoisted the large boombox he’d replaced his small CD player with onto his shoulder. And started walking.
He stopped just behind the pitcher’s mound, set down the boombox, dropped his glove next to it, and started nodding his head with the music. He looked around, pasted a scowl across his face, caught the crowd – his crowd – along the 3rd baseline, and jammed both fists in the air just as Bitter Sweet Symphony kicked into high gear.
The ground shook. The dugout rattled. Bright, big lights beamed down on The Closer, who soaked it all in. Electricity ran through the park. We couldn’t hear ourselves think.
Two minutes later, The Closer threw four straight balls and walked the first batter who he then sent to second when the ump dinged him for a balk.
“You don’t even know what a balk is!” The Closer hollered back, then threw nine straight strikes without anyone from the other team so much as fouling off a ball.
Bottom of the 7th Inning
The Closer stood at the edge of greatness, a destiny earned during all those days in the heat – summer afternoons with a ball cap stained from putting in the work and forearms caked in dust and dirt - and though this game wouldn’t get his name printed on one of those big signs for the town to see, he’d always have this stretch of post-season magic – these magnificent days and nights – to tell stories about when the time came to drink cold beers and trade memories.
“Okay, motherf****r. Let’s dance,” he said at the inning’s first batter and fired a heater high and tight. The second landed too low and too away. The third smacked the catcher’s mitt note perfect across the plate. The next pitch, a looping curve, grazed the edge of the bat and landed a few feet in fair play. The Closer grabbed the ball bare-handed, tossed it to first, and struck the Heisman pose toward his fans on the way back to the mound.
Two outs to go.
A fastball for a strike. Another. Then a third that whirred across home plate before the hitter could dream of swinging.
One out to go.
We started clapping, slowly and just a couple of us to start, but quickly gained steam. Our pace accelerated. Our fury intensified. Our sound escalated. From home plate all the way to the small foul pole in left field, we smacked our hands together, stomped our feet, and yelled with as much might as we could. We were a ball of fire waiting to erupt.
All we needed was The Closer to close one more out.
Here’s how the next 16 pitches went:
Wild pitch, wild pitch, ball, wild pitch → Runner at first
Ball, ball, wild pitch so bad the runner sprinted around second and safely into third, ball → Runners on the corners
Ball, wild pitch with one run scored, batter hit by pitch → Runners on second and third
Ball, Ball, Ball, Ball → Bases loaded
Wild pitch and another run in → Runners on second and third with The River Rats clinging to a 6 to 5 lead
Now, I don’t know if all the self-made hype finally got to his head. Or maybe he realized the girl who he’d passed a few notes with in the hallways between classes at the end of 8th grade and who he’d talked with on his family’s cordless phone a couple times about the genius of Our Lady Peace and going with to see the Austin Powers movie had shown up to watch him for the first time all season between the 6th and 7th innings.
Whatever it was, it was all over now for The Closer.
Scott stood at third. The River Rats coach looked at him. He dropped his head a bit before nodding, turning slights, and not so casually grinning at all of us pressed against the fence watching. He walked towards the mound. Derek waved him back once, but Scott kept moving. Derek put his hand up and shouted, “No!” but Scott had no choice.
They circled each other.
Scott smirked and Derek scowled.
Because, in that moment, he knew the only thing worse than melting down on the pitcher’s mound one out from youth baseball stardom and with half the town plus your first-ever would-be girlfriend watching, was having all that happen and getting replaced by your best friend who, by now, couldn’t even attempt to hide his wry smile and amusement at the whole situation.
Derek threw the baseball into the dirt at Scott’s feet, socked him above the heart with a right cross, and took his place at third.
Scott threw one pitch. The hitter popped out. And The River Rats won the championship 6 to 5.
Epilogue
An ice cream shop that isn’t open now but was open back then lived at the entrance to park. It stayed open late on game nights in the summer, and although my parents had offered to drive us all home after the game an older friend with a license said he’d get us there once the night had tired out.
We filled a handful of circle tables with turned-down umbrellas. The owner had turned on a small spotlight for us but turned off the large light inside the big ice cream cone that stood tall out front. A couple older kids on the high school team busted chops and had us near tears laughing while rehashing the night. Scott and Derek had to give fake speeches (re)accepting their champion’s trophies.
One kid had a booklet of CDs, which we cycled through on Derek’s boombox. Several girls even joined us, and I remember having more butterflies than words when they were around.
The scene felt familiar, but different. All of us friends since forever were still together, but we were spread out, too. New faces mixed with familiar ones, and new experiences loomed on the horizon. We had new moments to remember, and new memories to make.
“Maybe the boombox was too much. And, you know, maybe I didn’t need to punch you,” I heard Derek say to Scott.
Scott cocked his head. “Hey, you did dive into that damn fence to catch the last out. And you did get mobbed by the crowd. So, I guess you still kind of won the game.”
I watched a big smile spread across Derek’s face. “You’re damn right I did, didn’t I.”
“Yeah, just make sure to call me The Closer from now on,” Scott said, and they both laughed.
Friends- I hope you enjoyed reading these baseball stories as much as I did writing them. They’re dedicated to dear friends. Y’all know who you are.
We love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.