|That's Serg. I took this. How can that be true.|
Its possible that if you aren't a big fan of the San Francisco Giants or of baseball in general, and if you happen to be an English or poetry nerd, you know the shot heard round the world as a line from the Emerson poem about the Revolutionary War called "Concord Hymn." That's where they got it -- "they" being the people who go around giving notable historical events interesting epithets. When the (then New York) Giants won the National League pennant against the (then Brooklyn) Dodgers in 1951 with a miraculous 3-run home run by Bobby Thompson in the bottom of the ninth, they named it The Shot Heard Round the World. I don't know why. It wasn't much like the Revolutionary War. But if I had to guess I'd say there were probably a bunch of baseball fans in Seoul at the time listening on their radios, and even thousands of miles from home, they could hear Thompson rip one over the left field fence.
I've been working on a long piece about baseball for a few months now, which means I've been sporadically typing relatively ineloquent paragraphs about the game and the way its rearranged vacations/moved dinner into the living room in front of the TV/introduced a lot of orange into the wardrobes of and for my family full of fans. I start the thing with Russ Hodges famous call of The Shot Heard Round the World, which became relevant once again last Monday when the G-Men won the pennant and my father left me a screamingly celebratory voicemail to that effect. I already knew, of course. I was illegally streaming the game onto my laptop while I was sick in bed. These are the kinds of things we do.
My dad called me again the next day to say that he had made up his mind and was about to go through with the craziest plan his brain had ever hatched. The next day I had an airline ticket in my email inbox and a seat at Game 2 of the World Series at AT&T Park in San Francisco. I would be home for a total of 16 hours and fly back to Chicago early Friday morning probably still wearing eye black. These are the kinds of things we do.
Now that I am back in my room in Evanston, back on my bed consuming season 2 of West Wing as well as a bag of ghost shaped marshmallows with equally wild and unabashed fervor, I cannot begin to describe for you what it was like to sit three rows above the Tigers' bullpen and watch my home team win the second game of the World Series. I know its gotta go in my paper somewhere, but I'm not sure how. Perhaps under the heading, "In Which Kendra Froths At The Mouth When Trying to Explain What Waving an Orange Post-Season Rally Towel With 43,000 People (Plus Her Parents and Her Sister) Feels Like." Its ok that you're bored by this. Its ok that you don't care. What I'm trying to say is that I didn't wear eye black but I did high five a lot of strangers. I didn't have asign sign that said TUCK THE FIGERS but most other people did, and when my mom read it out loud she giggled. About 270 people attempted to climb on the statue of Willie Mays outside the park after the game at the exact same time and all of them were screaming and chanting and clapping. The older woman to my left grabbed and squeezed my hand when the Giants left the field at the end of the 8th inning. "Here comes Romo!" she said happily. "Its in the bag!" I fell asleep in the car on the way home like I used to when we'd drive home from my cousins' house on Christmas Eve, the kind of car sleep that happens after something exhaustingly wonderful.
I don't know. I don't know how to end this. Sorry for ranting. Sometimes when things happen I open up this blog and vomit words onto it with no intention of posting, but this time I think I'm going to. God I'm lucky. That was really cool. I did that. My whole family was there. A 26 year old veteran and triple amputee threw the first pitch to the Say Hey Kid himself and I almost lost it right then and there. When the entire crowd sang "When The Lights Go Down in the City" in between innings as is tradition, the scoreboard's camera turned to Steve Perry, who was in attendance, waving a rally towel and screaming his heart out to his own song.
I should probably get back to West Wing and stop eating these marshmallows.
I'm getting emotional.