Pirates lament

8-0 Giants, bottom of the 9th.

I sat in the left field bleachers.

Popcorn beneath my feet.

A woman spilled beer on me in the top of 6th.

I’d flipped my hat inside out, and wore it backwards since the fourth, when Crawford hit a slam.

Who’s Brandon Crawford?

The Pirates can’t hit Bumgarner.

But now.

Russell Martin cracked a drive to center –

finally, a run!

And then?

Because they’ve been running all season.

And they almost caught St. Louis in the Central.

And they’re ready to beat them in the NLCS, after last year’s division series.

1 out.

A Giants fan shrieked.

I wanted to punch him.

I’ve got a paper to write for Latin American politics due tomorrow.

80 pages of Socrates to pretend to understand.

I’ve got four midterms in three days next week.

Last week I missed a quiz in macroeconomics because I stayed in a virtual waiting room in my room, refreshing the Pirates page until I could buy a ticket to this playoff game.

I didn’t think they’d play, but just in case.

The Brewers had lost again.

The Cardinals always win.

It was time for someone new.

Starling Marte waited on a pitch.

Maybe a single.

Just a base runner, and then another.

Maybe a grand slam for us this time.

Marte lunged at a curve in the dirt.

I threw my hands behind my head.

The Giants fan shrieked again.

He wore a Buster Posey jersey.

Did he fly all this way for the game?


Someone asked.

Just in residency at Allegheny General, savoring a lucky break between the ER and Orthopedics, a perfectly timed evening in the ballpark.

Another couple hundred to a scalper on top of $200,000 in loans.

Cost of living.

But I’ve waited, too.

The Giants won in 2010 and 2012.

The Pirates made the playoffs last year for the first time since 1992.

Strike 2.

I didn’t think of this when I imagined my first playoff game.

Hard to win without scoring a run.

Neil Walker swung.

The ball toiled under the lights.

Just be done.

Posey squeezed his mitt and threw up his hands.

That Giants fan pumped his fist.

I slammed my program on the cold bleacher behind me.

Facebooktwitterredditlinkedinmailby feather