The 1990 Boston Red Sox
The team's majority shareholder had opened the window in her private box in order to hear with more clarity the emotions of the crowd below. Champagne was on ice, but this owner had seen enough to know not to pop the corks until the final out.
With nothing left, it seemed, except sheer willpower, the pitcher reared back and got two quick strikes. One strike from victory, again. But nobody was breathing easier. There were two outs, but the tying run was on base and would score on an extra-base hit. It was not over.
The third and final pitch to the ninth-place hitter was a little high, and the batter got all of it. Not enough to hit it out of the park -- he simply wasn't a home run hitter -- but enough to send a rocket down the rightfield line. With little foul territory in that part of the park, the ball would certainly land fair. The only question in anybody's mind for those few seconds was whether the right fielder could get to the ball in time to prevent it rolling into the corner for an inside-the-park home run.
Nobody thought for an instant the ball could be caught. The right fielder wasn't entirely fleet afoot, and, at any rate, had been shifted toward center per the scouting reports. The greatest right fielder in the team's history -- an aging star completing a season plagued with injuries which had relegated him to DH duty -- rose slowly from his spot in the dugout to look down into the corner he had played so well for nearly eighteen seasons. Not even he, eighteen years ago, could have made that play. Not even he could stop the ball from rolling into the corner. And if he couldn't have done it then, nobody could do it now.
The entire ballpark sat in suspended animation for a split second. Everyone sucked in their breath. Nobody moved, save for the right fielder who was the only person in the park who still thought he had a chance to make the play -- any play. He tore across the fresh grass in reckless pursuit. Heart, guts and guile only go so far. This team, HIS team, had embodied these characteristics since the season began. Heart had carried them to victory in ten of the thirteen games against their chief rivals. Guts had facilitated the manager's untraditional moves. Guile had brought three key players back to the team early, though none of them were fully recovered from serious injuries. Now here they were, on the last day of the season, having come so far but having achieved nothing. They needed a miracle, but the year had already brought them more than their fair share. The play at hand was literally impossible. For the right fielder to stop the ball from rolling would be amazing, but for him to catch the ball would be nothing short of a miracle. Nevertheless, he gave one last dive, his knees collapsing below him as he held up his glove in a final, desperate stab to preserve the lead, the game, and the season.
