Unfinished Business: It’s Just About… Life.

Don’t tell me it can’t be done.

We’re halfway home. I’m all in. I’m heartbroken. I’m excited. I’m tired. I’m nervous. I’m exhilarated. I’m frustrated. I’m elated. I am a baseball fan. I’m an Orioles fan.

I’ve been waiting and hoping I could write this blog since it all began again back in the early days of April, on the green carpet in Tampa Bay, in a series where Chris Davis started his journey into the national baseball psyche and his bat became The Devil to the Rays pitchers.
(https://markbrodinsky.com/2013/04/02/more-than-a-game-its-just-about-life/)

Then we came home. We. Funny, isn’t it? It’s we when we win, it’s they when they lose. But there we were, on a beautiful Spring Day in Charm City and we watched a real-life movie come to life before our eyes, as the same hero from Tampa, The Hulk, stepped up to the plate and hit an Opening Day Grand Slam to stand for all time. (https://markbrodinsky.com/2013/04/06/a-grand-day-its-just-about-life/)

Now time brings us to June 29th, 2013. The 82nd game of the season. Tonight we begin the second half. The Orioles are still in it. Actually, after last night’s game, maybe one of the best comebacks of the season, they are more than in it, they are in it to win it. Not that I ever had a doubt, I have been crystal clear in my devotion to my team. I always am.

Until they lose a game. Then I’m unsure. Then we win and I’m back in. Then they blow a game, it’s their fault, I’m angry, I’m in doubt. Then we win, I’m confident, I know all the right moves were made. My manager is a genius. Then they lose, he’s still a genius, but maybe he’s slipping. Then we win, I can’t wait for the next game. Then they lose a close one, I would have done things differently, lineups should be changed, different pitchers used, I should make a call to someone who can right the ship. I mean they lost the game, right? Then we stage a late-inning comeback, I know then the team is on fire, we will never lose again.

This is baseball. This is Orioles baseball, because they’re my team. And this goes on for 162 games a year. This is a marathon. And if you are lucky, the heartache and the hope will continue past that number, to as many as 182 games, if you make the playoffs and the World Series. Ladies and gentlemen that’s half a year. And it’s not just every Sunday, it’s nearly every day. I can’t take it and yet I love every minute of it.

Just last week, as we watched the end of the Orioles game on my phone at an adult birthday party, I asked my friend Stevan, “why do we do this to ourselves?” For 162 days we live and die with our baseball team. Just the other night, after another blown save, another friend of mine told me he was mentally messed up after the loss. He couldn’t sleep, it affected him most of the next day… until game time. It’s just not right.

Why? I easily explained it to him. Because I am level-headed and unemotional about the whole thing, 🙂 that he is a baseball fan, he must be accepting. The game breaks your heart, it is designed to break your heart. Why? It’s all so stupid, right? It’s just sports. The Orioles don’t know my name, but I know all of theirs. The Orioles sleep soundly, but I can’t get to bed on time from April through September (October, I hope.). I mean how do you fall asleep when your team is down one run, or even up one run in the ninth inning? They need me. Or maybe I need them.

Don’t tell me it can’t be done.

I do need them, I’m not ashamed to admit it. Because they left me, they left US, hanging for so long. You remember that right? 15 years of losing seasons will do that to you. But now it seems a distant memory. Last season we waited for the other shoe to drop as The Miracle appeared. This season, it’s a really good team, at times playing great, at times doing it with smoke and mirrors and at times showing our flaws, in grand style. But I truly believe if you follow any baseball team, every day, you will see similar story lines.

Don’t tell me it can’t be done.

I know the problems with the pitching, I watch the struggles of our clean-up hitter, I have buried my face in the pillow as our closer struggles. Then I struggle to fall asleep.

I also know this. I was there, just feet away from Ravens QB Joe Flacco, as he lunged for a tackle on a punt return against the Denver Broncos and then lay there flat on his stomach, at the goal line, with his face buried in the turf. On our home field. The Ravens were down and out, they were done. That was December 16th, 2012.

On Feburay 3rd, 2013 I watched Flacco raise the Lombardi Trophy and win MVP of the Super Bowl. That improbable playoff run and victory in the big game brought tears to my eyes. The Orioles winning the World Series would bring me to my knees.

Don’t tell me it can’t be done.

Last season we witnessed a miracle, a rebirth and reconnection with the Orioles, 15 years in the making… and we almost made it. This season, same team, one dream.

It’s been 30 years since Cal Ripken caught the ball at shortstop and the Orioles won the World Series. That same team, just a season earlier, watched their season end on the final day of the campaign against the Milwaukee Brewers, then watched the legend, their manager, Earl Weaver, retire. A few months ago, we said farewell to the Earl of Baltimore and the current Orioles wear #4 on their uniform every night. Legends may fall, but are never forgotten. That Orioles tradition is at the heart of this team and the heart of their manager, my manager, Buck Showlater. In Buck, we trust.

Yes the Orioles took their season to the final game back in ’82. I remember, because I was 17, and I was in tears when it ended. Next season, same team, same dream, they won it all. I was 18 and I was in heaven.

Now, I’m a grown man. I was able to push back the lump in my throat in October of last year, when The Miracle Orioles lost the Division Series to the Yankees in five games. My wife Debbie, not so much, she was in tears. Just months removed from breast cancer surgery, she used the Orioles like I did, as the most wonderful distraction to our Spring, Summer and Fall. Just one of the connections that brought Deb and I together back in our dating days, was alive and well again, as we battled through her health struggle, and took such delight in the rebirth of our Orioles, and then suffered through the heartbreak, as the season ended on the baseball diamond in New York.

This year, my miracle is healthy again. And the miracle team she and I adore, are back. Same team, one dream. We have unfinished business.

Don’t tell me it can’t be done.

See you in October.

Until next time, thanks for taking the time.

Mark