One of the last things I saw before leaving the office last night was stealing a glimpse at the TV and watching Jay Bruce step in against Roy Halladay in the fifth inning.
On a 2-2 count, Halladay threw a pitch that froze Bruce. It was tantalizingly close, a call that maybe could have gone either way. “That’s a strike,” I muttered to myself. But it was called a ball and Bruce then worked a walk.
That’s how close Roy Halladay came to throwing his second perfect game of the season. As it was, Bruce was the only member of the completely overmatched Reds lineup to reach base.
Halladay faced only 28 batters in becoming the second pitcher in major league history to throw a no-hitter in the playoffs. Don Larsen had stood alone since his perfect game in the 1956 World Series for the Yankees against the Dodgers.
In the meantime, I had other problems. It dawned on my as I was driving home that I might not get there in time to witness the end of Halladay’s gem. That’s how quickly he was mowing down the Reds.
But I also knew I was about to face another issue as well. I decided to call the home front (yes, I was using a hand-held cell phone while driving) and alert my wife to what was going on.
She is a huge Philly fans. And liekj every one else she has a serious case of Phillies Phever. For some reason it spikes every time Cole Hamels is pitching. But she is also something of a worry-wort. That’s especially so during Phillies games, and even more so on the playoffs.
“Tell me you’re watching the game,” I said after she picked up the phone.
Silence.
“Does he still have a no-hitter?” was the response.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Aren’t you watching?”
“I’m too nervous,” was the reply. She had resorted to occasionally flipping over and checking the score.
I finally rushed into the house as the Phillies batted during the eighth inning.
She did not have the game on.
“Let me have the remote,” I intoned.
“I can’t watch this,” was the reply.
The two of us sat in the kitchen and watched a little bit of history, my wife nervous as a cat the whole time.
I can only imagine what might happen should her hero, Mr. Hamels, do likewise when he takes the mound Sunday night. Of course she won’t have that problem then. Because I’ll likely be watching the Eagles and flipping over to the Phils for updates.
After Carlos Ruiz jumped on the dribbler in front of the plate and fired to first to finish off the Reds, we simply looked at each other and smiled.
There was no one I’d rather have shared that moment with, in part because she has forgone so many other similar moments while I was at work.
Of course, she understood immediately that my next reaction was to pick up the phone and call the office.
An entire day’s work had just gone right out the window.
We needed to welcome “Mr. Doc-tober.”
Seeing a day’s work go down the drain never felt so good.
On a 2-2 count, Halladay threw a pitch that froze Bruce. It was tantalizingly close, a call that maybe could have gone either way. “That’s a strike,” I muttered to myself. But it was called a ball and Bruce then worked a walk.
That’s how close Roy Halladay came to throwing his second perfect game of the season. As it was, Bruce was the only member of the completely overmatched Reds lineup to reach base.
Halladay faced only 28 batters in becoming the second pitcher in major league history to throw a no-hitter in the playoffs. Don Larsen had stood alone since his perfect game in the 1956 World Series for the Yankees against the Dodgers.
In the meantime, I had other problems. It dawned on my as I was driving home that I might not get there in time to witness the end of Halladay’s gem. That’s how quickly he was mowing down the Reds.
But I also knew I was about to face another issue as well. I decided to call the home front (yes, I was using a hand-held cell phone while driving) and alert my wife to what was going on.
She is a huge Philly fans. And liekj every one else she has a serious case of Phillies Phever. For some reason it spikes every time Cole Hamels is pitching. But she is also something of a worry-wort. That’s especially so during Phillies games, and even more so on the playoffs.
“Tell me you’re watching the game,” I said after she picked up the phone.
Silence.
“Does he still have a no-hitter?” was the response.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Aren’t you watching?”
“I’m too nervous,” was the reply. She had resorted to occasionally flipping over and checking the score.
I finally rushed into the house as the Phillies batted during the eighth inning.
She did not have the game on.
“Let me have the remote,” I intoned.
“I can’t watch this,” was the reply.
The two of us sat in the kitchen and watched a little bit of history, my wife nervous as a cat the whole time.
I can only imagine what might happen should her hero, Mr. Hamels, do likewise when he takes the mound Sunday night. Of course she won’t have that problem then. Because I’ll likely be watching the Eagles and flipping over to the Phils for updates.
After Carlos Ruiz jumped on the dribbler in front of the plate and fired to first to finish off the Reds, we simply looked at each other and smiled.
There was no one I’d rather have shared that moment with, in part because she has forgone so many other similar moments while I was at work.
Of course, she understood immediately that my next reaction was to pick up the phone and call the office.
An entire day’s work had just gone right out the window.
We needed to welcome “Mr. Doc-tober.”
Seeing a day’s work go down the drain never felt so good.
Comments