It was one strike away from being the best game of my life, but three errors made it the worst.
My dad, brother and I stood still in Turner Field, temporarily paralyzed by emotions too bitter to comprehend. Just an inning ago, we had been dancing in mind-numbing exhilaration. Now, I was fighting back tears.
This was my first playoff game, and I came into it high on sports success. Earlier that weekend, the Braves had stolen Game 2 of the National League Divisional Series, turning a 4-0 deficit into a 5-4 extra innings victory. We had the momentum, we had our ace on the mound and we were going to win. I ran to my seat and began waving my red foam Tomahawk in the air. Fifty thousand fans and I chanted together in hopeful anticipation.
Our excitement turned into nerves during the first inning, when second basemen Brooks Conrad botched a double play. This was his sixth error in seven games, and the stadium buzzed with doubts about playing him. We battled out of the inning unharmed, though, and the murmurs began to subside.
They quieted until one inning later, when Conrad made his second error. He missed a pop-up, and we trailed 1-0 on his unearned run. Our offense looked useless, and a growing sense of disappointment and despair began creeping into the stands.
Panic was mounting, but in the eighth inning, Eric Hinske gave us hope. The marginal bench player snuck a ball over the corner of the right field fence. From my seat in the deck above, I thought it went off the wall. When I realized it was out, I turned to my dad and began to scream. I don't know what I said, but it didn't matter. I just needed to yell, to sing, to jump up and down, to lose my mind for a 15-second span that felt like an eternity. Somehow the frenzied yelling synchronized into the Tomahawk Chop. Then a unified "LET'S GO BRAVES! LET'S GO BRAVES!" erupted through the stands.
This is sports at its best. Top of the ninth and Craig Kimbrel was throwing absolute heat. The crowd was electric, and you could feel the stadium shake. You could feel your bones shake. Two outs, a runner on first and a 1-2 count. One more strike and we had a 2-1 lead in the NLDS.
We prayed for a strike but got a seeing-eye single instead. Our manager, Bobby Cox, pulled Kimbrel for Mike Dunn, and things began to fall apart. Dunn gave up a hit, the run scored and my heart dropped. I began to fall apart but reassured myself that the game was still tied.
Then Conrad make his third error. The ball shot straight through his legs, and the Braves were down 3-2. The whole ballpark dropped in disbelief, and Atlanta never recovered.
This is sports at its worst. We drove three hours to watch three errors kill our favorite team. The Braves teased us the next night, taking 1-0 and 2-1 leads. They gave us hope again, only to lose 3-2 on another unearned run. This time, I could not fight the tears.
It is difficult to explain these feelings to someone who has never had her heart broken by a game. Baseball is, after all, just a game, and the NLDS is just a small moment within baseball.
I have no relation to the 25 men playing on the diamond below me but invested part of my heart in them, so it hurts when they let me down. I felt a sinking sense of desperation, and a rising sense of fury. I am mad and want someone to blame.
I initially wrote this column in anger, blaming Conrad for his three errors. I blamed Bobby Cox for playing Conrad in the first place and blamed Cox for taking Kimbrel out when the crowd was feeding his adrenaline. I got halfway through that column before realizing it did not help.
I want to blame someone for this loss because it hurts so badly. Blaming others won't change the outcome, though, and I know they were not trying to hurt the team. The loss was everyone's fault, and no one's fault. It was just the game. This is how sports are: One moment every fiber of your body can be singing with happiness. The next it is filled with an aching pain.
Honestly, I did not even want to write a column this week because I did not want to think about sports or that aching pain. If I could forget about the Braves, I could stop the stinging feeling of disappointment.
Pretending the loss never happened, however, would deny sports at its fullest. To love sports, you have to love it all, and you have to take the good with the bad, the ecstasy with the anger. Maybe if I stopped loving sports, I would stop feeling the pain it brings. But I would also miss out on its greatest joys.
I may feel the lowest lows of sports now, but I know I will feel the highest highs soon. And I would always rather lose in the NLDS than lose the joy I felt from getting there.
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