Saturday, October 6, 2012

Let's Go, Os! (stomp stomp clap)

I was raised by a rabid Orioles fan (and Colts, but shhhh--we don't talk about that painful subject). My father grew up in Baltimore, and could reminisce enthusiastically, knowledgeably--and at length--about the graceful fielding of Brooks Robinson, the powerful hitting of Boog Powell, or the masterful pitching of Jim Palmer. He experienced firsthand the thrill of following a talented team's season-long campaign, all the way from Opening Day in chilly early-April, to the Pennant Race in crisp late-September. He celebrated the World Series wins in '66 and '70, and lamented the near-misses in '71 and '79. That's right about where I started paying attention, unfortunately, as I will forever have a serious loathing for the &%$# tune "We Are Family", originally by Sister Sledge, but corrupted by the Pittsburgh Pirates as their theme song that year. To this day, hearing it nauseates me. But I digress...

On the other hand, I was lucky enough to grow up during the Ripken Era, marveling at the Iron Man's overwhelming respect for the game, love of playing, and work ethic that defied understanding. I clearly recall watching the '83 Fall Classic with my Dad, and feeling overjoyed not only with the victory, but also with the selection of my favorite player--feisty, fun-loving catcher Rick Dempsey--as Series MVP.  My family never made the hour-long drive to Baltimore to watch a game in person, as my parents pretty much symbolized the idea of "homebodies." But...when I happened to attend Loyola College...in Charm City...within walking-distance of old Memorial Stadium (okay, it was a loooong stroll, through some sketchy neighborhoods, but we were young and foolish, so we did it anyway), I learned what it meant to bask in the ballpark atmosphere. (Ahem, even though at the concrete giant that was Memorial Stadium, this generally meant "greasy hotdogs, watered-down soda, and sloshed, vociferously profane Upper Deck denizens".  Ah, good times...)

Then the Orioles moved into their swanky new digs at Camden Yards, and we had a jewel-of-a-ballpark in which to cheer on our team. As an adult, I had the means and motivation to get to games whenever the spirit moved me--hour-long drive be darned! Husband (then Boyfriend) and I were in the stands for Playoff games in '96 and '97, bundled against the Fall nighttime air, unable to even talk to each other over the noise of a jammed-to-the-rafters stadium screaming its collective lungs out for the Os. It was mayhem. It was exhilarating. Who could have predicted at the time that it would be the absolute end of the Orioles contending...or even posting a winning record...for a decade-and-a-half? Suddenly the loyal constituency of Birdland had to come to grips with a team that year after year finished in the cellar of the American League East. 20 games under .500, 30 games...it got to the point where even those of us with Orange and Black in our blood couldn't bear to watch. Sometimes I gave up by the All-Star Break, and just quit paying attention for the rest of the pathetic season. Team WestEnders still made the trek to the Yard on occasion, more for the nostalgia of the still-beautiful stadium and the longing for a live game, than any actual interest in the Os down on the field.

Husband and I even dutifully introduced our kids to the glory of the American Pastime, and tried to drum up interest in the Baltimore nine. The boys happily scarfed down soft pretzels and drank cold lemonade and did their best to root for the home team...but eventually even their youthful idealism was beaten down by the endless futility of losing. It saddened me, but I couldn't blame them--not when I myself had trouble rah-rah-ing for the last-place Os. And then, finally, at long last, out of nowhere stormed the 2012 Orioles. Now, keep in mind, this is a club that has not once posted a winning record since before my kids were born, so forgive us if we approached the early success of the season with a little--make that a huge heaping keg of--skepticism. "We'll just see what happens," we cautiously repeated...in April...and May...and June...and July...and, well, you get the picture. It felt alien to us to actually set aside time after dinner to sit down and view the games together...to hold lively discussions about various players' stats...to look up the scores and standings every day lest we miss anything. Even into late Summer, though, it still seemed too fragile a thing, this "Oriole Magic" to truly believe. I think I finally realized I'd given in when we were on vacation in Mexico...and checking the SportsCenter ticker (in Spanish, no less) each morning to see what had transpired in the AL East in our absence. This collection of mostly no-names that wasn't even supposed to be relevant-- much less good--just kept rolling along, pulling out wins in one-run contests, putting away an astonishing number of extra-inning victories, climbing into the unfamiliar "over .500" territory and staying there, even with a negative Run Differential that left Sports Experts scratching their heads. It was improbable, if not downright impossible, by all rational explanation...but yeah, we're in, make space for us on the bandwagon...

The four of us, along with a group of friends, went to the very last home game of the season at Camden Yards. On a bright, sunny, coolish Sunday, the stands were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with animated, energized fans. There was supportive yelling after every strike from our pitcher. There was a huge roar after a base hit...a home run...or even just a long fly ball that might have a chance to go out. It was like Playoff adrenaline, and it was amazing. So the boys got the whole package: crunchy chicken tenders, icy root beer, memorable souvenirs, and a fantastic game--which the Os incidentally won. Whatever happens from here on out in the Postseason, I'd have to say we are one satisfied, newly-excited family of Os fans. Now excuse me,  the Wild Card game is in full swing, Os vs Rangers, and I've gotta go check the score...

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