For the past several weeks, I’ve been going to bed too late,
which in turn makes me get up to late, which inevitably leads to me getting to
work late. For pretty much every game of
the Braves recent west coast swing, I would get in bed around 10:30, say I wasn’t
going to stay up late and watch the game and, after turning it on “just to
check the score” find myself still watching the 6th or 7th
inning after midnight.
Last night, I didn’t even turn the game on. When my friend Robert texted me “fucking
barves” early in the game, I checked the score and saw we were down 6-0. To the Phillies. To Halladay. Game over. A little while later, I saw on facebook that McCann
hit a grand slam. Maybe the game wasn’t
over. When I checked the score again, we
were down big again. When I got in bed,
I had another text from Robert, “if you still aren’t watching….” . I turned the game on just as we were headed
to extras. I knew immediately I was
going to be late for work today.
A few minutes after Chipper put a ball in the outfield
seats, as I exchanged excited texts with some of my friends and saw my facebook
newsfeed go crazy with exaltation over the game winner, I started thinking, “Why
does this make me so happy? Why do I
care so much?”
The answer I came up with will make no sense to sports
fans. Hell, it might not even make sense
to a lot of people who like sports.
Other than my family, the Braves have been the biggest constant in my
life. 1991, when I was seven, was a big
year for me. My family moved to Macon
and we were able to get cable (including TBS) for the first time. It was my first year of T-ball. The Macon Braves, like me, were new to town
and my parents took us a LOT. We had my
birthday party there. Chipper Jones and
some other minor league players carried my birthday cake out and sang me happy
birthday. It was a magical year for
baseball. I also went to my first major
league games, at the old Fulton County Stadium.
Nothing will ever match those summer games against the Dodgers, sitting
there next to my dad, learning the game, learning to love the game, and hating
Darryll Strawberry, Eddie Murray, Brett Butler, and Ramon Martinez with every
ounce of my soul. Being in that stadium
on the last day of the season, against the Astros, the day after I had watched
on TV as Greg Olsen jump into John Smoltz’s arms as the Braves clinched, will
probably forever be the biggest and best party I’ve ever been to. Every single night that season, I would have
to go to bed before the games were over.
I would wake up around 5:30 AM and run to the dining room table, where
my mom or dad would leave me a note with the hopefully good (but occasionally
bad news) of how the game had ended.
It has been over 20 years since that magical season. Just last week was 21 years since I sat there
and watched Chipper with that birthday cake (probably not that happy to be
doing it. Can you imagine any bonus baby
that would be? Also, that part of the
birthday party program didn’t last long.
Go figure). Chipper Jones has
never been my favorite player, I’ve always been more partial to players like Mark
Derosa, Charles Thomas, and Johnny Venter’s, but Chipper has ALWAYS been
there. The Braves have ALWAYS been
there. I cried like a baby the first
time Chipper tore his ACL in 1994. I
handled it better when I watched him tear it again two years ago. I was grownup, and grownups can’t cry about
baseball. So when I found myself
watching Chipper’s postgame interview after his walk off homer that ended one
of the best Braves games of the past 20 years, I was surprised to find my eyes
welling up as I realized that Chipper was just as excited as I was.
I’ve grown up with the Braves. I’ve moved around the state, gone to college,
worked different places, made and lost friends.
Bobby Cox, Chipper Jones, et. all have always been there. They’ve gone with me everywhere I’ve gone.
I’ve become a man and
these days I can stay up as late as I want and watch the games. I don’t have to wake up to a note on the
table letting me know if the Braves won or lost. But the Braves are like family to me. They are a part of me. And most importantly, they still make me feel
like that seven year old boy, living and dying with every strike and every
out. That is why I care so much. That is
why I love baseball.
