Experiencing 2005: One hour, 39 minutes
As the 2005 season got underway, I started to keep things — ticket stubs, newspaper articles — and I began to jot thoughts down. I started an essay after the 2005 season that I never finished. All of those writings have never seen the light of day, but here we are, 15 years later, so maybe it’s a good time to drag them out. Some of these entries will be full-length, others shorter. They represent my thoughts and feelings at the time, with very little present-day editing.
April 16, 2005
I am meeting my mother today. Dad has to work. Mom is driving up from Dwight because it's 60 degrees and sunny and a Saturday 1:05 start (she doesn't like to drive at night). She is difficult to find in a crowd, because she's only five feet tall. I used to get lost in department stores when I was a kid, and I couldn't find her, because she was shorter than the clothes racks.
They're playing Seattle today. It's my second in-person game this season, Mom's first. I finally spot her in the group around old home plate. I step on it, then buy a scorecard from the same African-American vendor from Opening Day, outside Gate 4.
Section 105, right field, a handful of seats up from the visitors' bullpen. My family always sits in the outfield. Probably because that's where the seats were cheapest when I was a kid, and we had no money. But Dad also likes to watch the location of the pitches, and the outfield is best for that.
Growing up in Oak Park, my mother was a Cubs fan who had a crush on Billy Williams. Then she met my father. It wasn't that Dad hated the Cubs; he didn't. In fact, he would go to games at Wrigley with friends or my mother's family. And he didn't "force" my mother to change her allegiance. He just loved the Sox first and foremost, and such was the courage of his conviction that my mother was swept along for the ride. She has never looked back and remains the only Sox fan on her side of the family.
We're running a bit late, and I have to be in my seat for the first pitch, so we don't have time to get our beers until the second or third inning. Mom is hungry, but can't figure out what she wants, and figures she has time to decide.
Paul Konerko hits a home run in the second. My mom loves Paulie, so other than an actual victory, that's all she needs to be happy. Then he hits another in the seventh as a bonus. That's all for the offense, though, and as well as Mark Buehrle is pitching, the other guy is, too, and I'm nervous. [Note from the future: The other guy was Ryan Franklin.]
Mark Buerhle is pitching like he's double-parked, and before we know it, it's the top of the ninth. Ichiro leads off with a triple, and an out later, scores on a groundout. The Sox lead is cut to 2-1. I know it's only mid-April, and there are two outs, but I feel queasy. But then Buerhle gets Brett Boone to strike out, and Mom and I are jumping up and down, high-fiving our neighbors.
Mom looks down at the cup in her hand, still some liquid left in the bottom. "But, I didn't even finish my beer."
I look at the clock. "Holy shit, that game was like an hour and a half." (1:39, to be exact.)
Mom also never got to eat, and all of the vendors are shut down. I finally find a pizza stand that has a few workers cleaning up. There is pizza left under a heat lamp.
"Can we buy a piece of pizza?" I ask.
"I've already closed up the register." I get that are-you-asking-me-to-do-more-work stare.
"But there's pizza sitting right there!"
"I'm not allowed to sell anything after I've closed out. I can't reopen the register."
"But, this is my mom, and she's really hungry. She couldn't get food because Mark Buehrle pitched too fast. Please? Look!" I yank my mom's hand, still holding her not-empty beer cup, into view. "She didn't even have time to finish her beer!"
The woman nods, a slight glint in her eye to indicate that Mark Buehrle cheated her out of some extra tips that day, so she has some sympathy. "Okay. Whatdoyouwant?" Fast, like we can't get caught breaking the rules.
I look at Mom. She is wide-eyed, a little flustered at the pressure. "Uh, cheese? Cheese!"
The woman slides a slice of cheese pizza onto a plate and across the counter. I hold out money, but she shoos us away with her hand.
I call Dad from the parking lot, tallying the stats on my scoresheet as I give my report. "Mark Buehrle had 12 strikeouts! Twelve!"
"Wow," Dad says. "He must really have been locating his pitches." He is wistful, sorry he missed such a performance.
[Notes from the future: Seriously, look at these two pitching lines:
I argue that this game was Buerhle's most dominant performance, yes, including the no-hitter and perfecto. No-hitters require so much luck, and often extraordinary defense, which is why they are magical. This was simultaneously un-Buerhle-like with the career-high in strikeouts and vintage Buehrle with its speed.]