Baseball in October

My grandfather loved baseball. He loved baseball unconditionally, and he was unconditionally pessimistic about his baseball teams. His doubts were, by in large, justified.

My grandfather worked for the government in D.C. so my dad grew up in a Washington Senators household. Unfortunately, opportunities for father and son to applaud the hometown nine were few and far between. From 1947 – 1960 the Senators averaged just 61 wins a season (41%). Over that same interval, Red Sox outfielder Ted Williams reached base over 49% of the time – making it more likely that Williams would reach base twice in a game than the Senators would leave the stadium with a victory.

In 1971 baseball left Washington, not to return for another 34 years. But by the 1970s my grandfather had a new team to cheer for. He was raised in Macon, GA and played baseball at the Univ. of Georgia. When the Milwaukee Braves moved to Atlanta in 1966, it made for a natural fit. Also fitting was the on-field likeness between his old team and new.

From 1972 to 1990 the Braves would finish last or next to last in their division 13 times. Over a half-century stretch, my grandfather had aligned with two of the worst franchises in major league baseball history. And thanks to Ted Turner, my grandfather (and the nation) got to see every single game on TV.

Watching the Braves on Turner Broadcasting may have been an exercise in futility for most fans, but it was a blessing for me. It was the perfect backdrop for visiting my grandfather.

Once or twice a month my dad would drop me off for a night of bungling Braves’ baseball. A bag of Nutter Butter cookies would be waiting for me, and the fridge would be stocked with 4-ounce (peel-the-seal) cans of grape juice. For me, as a budding teenager, grape nights of baseball with my grandfather beat anything out of Ridgemont High.

Admittedly, our gatherings often featured a two-headed trouncing. I would flip back and forth between the anemic Cubs, my team of choice, and the bottom-feeding Braves. I was always naively optimistic while he assured me that losing was a birthright. To my chagrin, dozens of statistical categories accentuated our teams' troubles (most notably, their records).

Then, in 1991, the unforeseeable happened: the Braves went from worst to first. A young pitching staff featuring Steve Avery, John Smoltz, and Tom Glavine was complimented by a resurgent offensive with Chipper Jones and Ron Gant. Almost overnight, the Braves began to erase decades of miserable play.

But winning doesn’t come easy to grandfathers and grandsons accustomed to 100 loss seasons. For the better part of fifty years, mediocrity had been my grandfather's upper ceiling. A 3rd or 4th place division finish was something that came along every six to eight years; October baseball was simply not a prospect to be considered in earnest.

Which made the following reality all the more unfathomable.

Starting in 1991, and for the next fourteen years, the Atlanta Braves would finish every single season 1st in their division. A feat, which in all likelihood, will never be equaled. If my grandfather had lived until 2005 he would have died in disbelief; he passed away in 2000, after the ninth year in the streak.

After each of those nine titles my grandfather was convinced the previous year was the last in the run. The Braves' pitching was getting too old. Their hitting was too inconsistent. Their bullpen wasn't quite good enough. My grandfather showered these reasons, and a myriad of others, upon me annually. The Braves were done: I could take it to the bank.

But somewhere in heaven or its proximity my grandfather is reading this and shaking his head. For another five seasons after my grandfather passed, Manager Bobby Cox kept the division titles coming – fourteen in all. Cox put winners on the field, and October in Atlanta became synonymous with baseball. After fifty years of demoralizing results, my grandfather had a team with a legacy for all-time.

Fast forward: now it’s 2007 and my Chicago Cubs have stumbled into the playoffs. Their regular season was hardly inspirational, boasting a record only eight games above .500. Somehow their marginal play still bested their division foes.

Maybe it’s a genetic thing, but my grandfather's doubting ways now belong to me. My Cubs are too inconsistent at the plate. Their bullpen isn’t quite good enough. And their starting rotation needs another reliable arm. Two of those concerns played out in Game 1 against the Diamondbacks. The ice only gets thinner from here.

Nonetheless, the Cubs are playing baseball in the only month that matters. And if history has taught us anything, it’s that anything is possible come October.

Drysdale could be perfect. Buckner might let a ball go through his legs. Schilling is capable of bleeding the Red Sox to victory. And when you least expect it, a Dodger might hobble out of the dugout and send a game-winning homer into the Los Angeles night.

Incredibly, the Gibson Game (Dodgers vs. A’s in Game 1 of the ’88 World Series) was THE SAME DAY as Notre Dame’s unforgettable football victory over Jimmie Johnson’s top-ranked Miami Hurricanes. Lou Holtz's Irish won 31 - 30 when Miami went for two and didn't make it. Combine the two classic games, and October 15th, 1988 belongs in the upper echelons of sports history.

Even more special for me -- I spent the day at my grandfather’s.

Not surprisingly, I miss my grandfather the most this time of year. As the boys of summer head for the home stretch, I’m reminded that October is without a devoted fan. Plus, I know that he would have liked the ‘07 Cubs -- pessimistic about their chances, but onboard and supportive of Lou's assembled crew.

He would have liked Theriot for his hustle, Marmol for his nasty slider, and Zambrano for being "El Toro." But above all, he would have loved the Cubs’ first baseman. He liked old school hitters who always put the ball in play. Hitters who delivered in the clutch.

He would have loved Derek Lee.

To be sure, I’ll be cheering and remembering this October. My grandfather will be with me, even if not in the flesh. It’s a great time of year for familial reunions, literal and spiritual, with sights on a three-week march to the Fall Classic.

Because in October you set your pessimism aside and commit to believing, even if it's not easy to do. You hope the ride lasts all month and ends with the timeless words of Vin Scully, which I first heard in my grandfather's apartment two decades ago: “In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened!”

I should buy Nutter Butter cookies and grape juice just in case.