The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow

dol·drums [dohl-druh mz]
–noun (used with a plural verb )
1. a state of inactivity or stagnation, as in business or art: August is a time of doldrums for many enterprises.
2. the doldrums, a belt of calms and light baffling winds north of the equator between the northern and southern trade winds in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.
3. a dull, listless, depressed mood; low spirits.
—Synonyms 3. depression, gloom, melancholy, dejection.

Today’s awash in doldrummery, the worst single day in the American sporting calendar falling on the eve of the 15th Annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip to create a stultifying cocktail of ennui. In an attempt to break out of that boredom/anticipation-inspired funk and elicit comments from people who undoubtedly have better entries in this category, I give you the 5 most memorable (not greatest, mind you) sporting moments I’ve witnessed live and in person. Some are historic, some far more personal and quirkily original:

Carl Yastrzemski hit the 400th home run of his Hall of Fame career on July 24, 1979, and I was sitting 30 feet away from where it landed in the visitors’ bullpen at Fenway Park. Dennis Eckersley pitched a complete game to beat Oakland, 7-3, but all I remember from the game is the majestic arc of Yaz’s milestone bomb as it seemed to come directly at me.

The historically awful William and Mary men’s basketball squad was actually slightly better than dreadful in the 1992-93 season (finishing with a 14-13 overall record), but they sure didn’t play that way during the first half of their game against the 15th-ranked University of Virginia Cavaliers on January 25, 1993. UVA eventually built a 23-point second-half lead on the Tribe, but even as the William and Mary Hall crowd filed out in silent approbation, the trio of (Kurt) Small, (David) Cox, and (Derrick) Peters helped the home team scrap back. Small’s fadeaway 3-pointer at the buzzer capped the frantic comeback, sending the game into overtime and the remainder of the crowd into delirium. And the Tribe got blitzed in the extra session. Natch.

In September 1991, the Tidewater Tides took on the Richmond Braves in the final week of the season. G:TBer Whitney, our friend Chris and I made the short trip down I-64 to meet Whit’s mother and stepfather for a leisurely afternoon at the ballyard. Normally, a late season minor league ballgame wouldn’t hold much allure, but two events made this one noteworthy. First, by the 3rd inning of the game we realized that the Tides’ Tim Bogar was switching positions every inning. He took the mound in the 9th having played everywhere on the field, and then proceeded to strike out the leadoff man before hitting the next batter in the head. At which point the entire stunt took on a decidedly less whimsical bent. Far more amusing than Bogar’s misadventure was the action that took place in the stands.

The aforementioned Chris stands roughly 6’6” with a wingspan to match. Midway through the contest, lefty Kelvin Torve lofted a lazy foul ball towards our bleacher seats midway down the third base line. Were we not there, the ball would have landed in Chris’ seat. The big fellow stood to his full height, spread his legs in a textbook block out of Whitney’s mom, and clapped his hands together while talking a full menu of shit – and he’s an accomplished shitriloquist. The ball descended gracefully, landed in his waiting (and freakishly large) mitts…and bounded 15 rows forward into the waiting hands of an 8 year-old boy. Whitney’s mom led the parade of grief givers for the rest of the game, and when we returned to campus to share our story, the local sportscasters beat us to it, showing footage of our friend’s ignominious moment at 6 and 10.

I was in attendance on April 14, 2005 at the first home game in Washington Nationals history, and the first professional baseball game in Washington, DC in over 30 years. George W. Bush threw a seed to the plate in what is arguably the greatest accomplishment in his 8 years in office, nine old-time Washington Senators took the field before being replaced by their Nationals counterparts during the pregame ceremonies, and RFK Stadium positively glowed with a ‘Field of Dreams’ vibe. My most vivid memory of the evening was unrelated to anything that happened on the diamond, though. The seats immediately in front of mine were occupied by three 50-something men in old, old Senators jackets. Their unmitigated glee at returning to the scene of their youthful sporting rites of passage was contagious and a reminder of baseball’s unique ability to connect generations.

On August 1, 1996, I sat in the front row of Atlanta’s Olympic Stadium, precisely at the turn for the 200 meter final, as Michael Johnson blazed to the gold medal in 19.32, a time that remains the world record today. My friend Jay and I slapped five with him as he did a victory lap while carrying the American flag. I’ve never been closer to an elite athlete performing at the peak of his powers, except for that time TJ got really hot in horseshoes after 11 beers. It gives me chills to think about even today. The Michael Johnson thing, that is.