A Helpless Witness to a Collapse
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by Npurinto
Watching the Indians during 2005 was one of the most exciting experiences I’ve ever had as a Tribe fan. This was better than the dominant teams of the mid-90s. This was my team. I had watched Victor Martinez, Travis Hafner, Grady Sizemore, and Coco Crisp, to name a few, become major-league talents during the trying seasons of 2003 and 2004. They hovered around .500 through the first half of the season and following a four game sweep at home to the division-leading White Sox following the All-Star break, a division championship appeared impossible. Suddenly, the team got hot, red hot, going 35-13 from August up till the final week of the season.
Up by 1 and a half games in the Wild Card on Sunday, the Indians hosted the Devil Rays and Chicago White Sox to end the season. With their main competitors, the Red Sox and Yankees facing off in the final weekend, the Indians were in excellent position to win the Wild Card. Suddenly against Seth McClung and a Devil Rays pitching staff that was the worst in the majors, the Indians suddenly stopped hitting. They went just 7-56 with runners in scoring position in those final seven games, losing six of seven games, five of which were by one run. I still remember Ronnie Belliard hitting into a double-play with the tying run at third in the first game against Tampa. I remember Ben Broussard striking out with the bases loaded and one out that Friday against the pale hosers.
Watching in horror while still clinging to hope, I tried every little foible that I’ve been doing since I was 10 years old in an effort to rally that team. It wasn’t to be. When the season finally ended with a 3-1 loss, I just sat there dumbfounded. If only there had been more games, they would have come out of that slump. It was the first time that I didn’t watch a single playoff game. I didn’t have any interest. When you miss the playoffs by a single game, you can’t help but sit there and wonder about games that slipped away or plays that weren’t made. The collapse of 2005 hurt me as much as losing game 7 of the World Series to the Marlins.
Fast forwarding ten years, I dragged myself out of bed Saturday morning and headed off to Shea Stadium to watch the Mets. Amazingly, no pun intended, New York had lost the night before to Florida, dropping one game behind the Phillies in the division. It was the first time since mid-May that they weren’t in first. As I took the 7 train out to the game, I looked and listened quietly to fans discussing the Mets chances. I was struck by how those comments echoed back to my feelings in ’05. “They just need to play the way they’re capable of playing.” Or “All we need to do is find our way in and we can make some noise.” After their win Saturday, the Mets had a chance. A win Sunday would have given them a playoff game against Philadelphia but it wasn’t to be.
Across New York, thousands of Mets fans are mourning a devastating end to a season that looked so promising. Ingrained in their minds will be Tom Glavine, walking off the mound Sunday after just 1/3 of an inning pitched having given up seven earned runs. Or the countless leads that slipped away in the final weeks. Rarely in baseball is their such a helpless feeling for fans than the one felt after a late-season collapse.
