You'd think an epochal game like that one would have felt more like a celebration. Instead, after six hours, 60-odd calls missed by Brian Onora and approximately 60,000 gallons of water falling from the Miami sky, it felt like survival.
But the end result is the same.
The Atlanta Braves are dead, their NL East reign of terror is over. (Their wild-card chances? Mathematicians can find a heartbeat, but they're the only ones.)
A million years ago, before the skies opened up, Oliver Perez was decidedly enigmatic, alternating mowdowns and meltdowns. Our offense was on hiatus. And then, when it looked too late, when it looked like we might spent Wednesday moaning about that 1-1 pitch to Julio Franco, it all snapped back into focus: Our usual buzzard's luck at Soilmaster Stadium turned as Carlos Delgado found the 410-odd-foot zig in the outfield fence instead of the 434-foot zag. One sight I've come to love is Delgado's baleful glare as he tracks the arc of a long drive that may or may not be out — that ball wisely chose not to give Carlos any lip. Wright's ball wasn't quite so cooperative — he just missed a home run — but OK, we'd do it the hard way, Floyd-style. (Limp for another six weeks, Clifford. You've a role yet to play here.)
And the specter of Cody Ross, a night terror I don't think I'd ever heard of until a couple of days ago, and of course Miguel Cabrera standing between the Mets and the chance to crawl back to the hotel. Fortunately, Shingo Takatsu and his funk were nowhere to be seen. We won. Somewhere down in Atlanta, I can only hope Chipper was watching when the inevitable became official.
By now we can agree we're a bit tired of these Marlins, of their semi-anonymous sluggers and their parade of good young left-handers. (Though I must admit if we were duking it out with the Nats, I'd be rooting hard for Girardi & Co.) Looking beyond the immediate business at hand, I'm not so sure the Marlins are the evolving juggernaut we think they are. Young teams can go backward as well as forward, particuarly if the Marlins don't spend a little money to add what Lance Johnson once memorably called “more wolves to protect the pubs.” Which they won't. That said, I certainly don't want to see them tomorrow or later this month or in October — they're playing with house money right now, which can be awfully dangerous.
As for the late, no-longer-so-great Atlanta Braves, I wish I were more excited. If it were 10 pm, I would be. Ding-dong the witch is dead and all that. Still, right now all I can think is, They're no Florida Marlins.
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