by Kevin Burton
My very first ecstatic sports moment came via a baseball wild pitch.
The Cincinnati Reds won the 1972 pennant by scoring two runs in the ninth inning of game 5. First Johnny Bench hit a tying home run. Then with two outs, Pittsburgh pitcher Bob Moose uncorked a game-ending wild pitch.
Then Reds play-by-play man Al Michael said:
“..and the 1-1 pitch to McRae’s in the dirt it’s wild pitch, here comes Foster, the Reds win the pennant!”
It was the first time I went into that glorious sports place, the wild jumping around and screaming that non-sports people, and house parents at the Ohio State School for the Blind, don’t understand, and frown upon.
I was nine years old. I was into sports a little bit by then. And the Big Red Machine was my first true love.
If you’re into sports, you know your first love probably comes with a first hate. It’s part of the package.
This particular trip down memory lane comes because the Los Angeles Dodgers just won the World Series four games to three over Toronto.
The Dodgers were/are my first hate. It’s the first ball club I ever felt in the pit of my stomach. In the 70s when the Reds on radio announcers talked about upcoming games, if the Dodgers were on the schedule, I tensed up a little. This was serious. These were games you had to win, could not afford to lose.
Now think of your first romantic love. Remember how your affection for that person was all-absorbing. Those butterflies were lighter than air. It’s not something I need to describe fully, which is good, because I don’t think I can.
You lived those days. Your first love.
Think back on it now, with many loves and many years, seemingly two or three lifetimes, in between. You’re feeling somewhat wistful now, are you not?
So it is with my first hate.
The Big Red Machine is a distant memory now. A very pleasant one, but distant in terms of time. I mean the Reds and the Dodgers aren’t even in the same division any more. There have been many expansions and realignments since the days of Johnny Bench.
There is no real point to my hating the Dodgers any more. But I cling to my first hate, just for old times sake, just for fun.
So here’s a scenario: Reds need to Cardinals to lose to make the playoffs. Cards are playing the Dodgers on the coast. I’ve got the game on KMOX. Am I routing for the Dodgers?
Nope. Won’t do it. Can’t. Reds will need to find some other way to get in. I despise the Dodgers.
Codgers!
This is the feeling I am trying to conjure. I still want to live in that place. It’s so pleasurable, like the feeling of holding hands with your first love.
Reality?
When the Dodgers beat Toronto in extra innings of game 7, I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t stomach churning. I have no idea who most of these people are. I just know the uniforms they wear are very close to the ones LA had in the 70s.
I didn’t even watch the World Series, until the ninth inning of game 7. I wanted to be there to see the Dodgers go down.
I remember watching one of the all-star games in the 70s, rooting for the National League of course. Steve Garvey of the Dodgers, one of the worst villains for Reds fans, did something good, base hit I think. And I uttered the phrase “Way to go Garv!”
Immediately I got a gag reflex. I probably turned beet red. And I hate beets!. I looked around to make sure nobody had heard me utter such blasphemy.
As I remember it, Garvey did something else good in that game, but that time I said, “way to go….jerk!”
When LA beat the Blue Jays I couldn’t be bothered to call them jerks or anything else. Couldn’t work up the fury. I just screwed up my face like I just ate a lemon, hit the clicker and moved on.
Ah, but those glorious days. The memories. Davey Lopes, Steve Yeager, Bill Russell, Ron Cey, Don Sutton…hate their guts! This is fervor. This is passion. My first hate!
I will forever hold it in my heart.
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