some thoughts on my 4/03 trip to philadelphia:
The last weekend in April of 2003, I traveled south to visit my younger brother. He was, at the time, a freshman at Swarthmore College in the outskirts of Philadelphia. I anticipated a rather bizarre couple of days. A graduate of a small liberal arts college myself, I know what sort of unmentionable behavior occurs in such an environment. At the very least, I was prepared to spend a few nights sleeping on the floor of his dorm room and quite likely drinking bad beer. I bore with me (along with some consumable social lubricants to contribute to the cause) two tickets for the Phillies-Giants game at Veterans Stadium on that Sunday afternoon. Rob had mentioned a while back that he had yet to attend a professional sporting event -- it seemed a brotherly duty to rectify this. We were both excited to see one of the greatest baseball players to ever live: Barry Bonds.
I set off early on Saturday morning -- after working a fourteen hour double-shift behind the bar on Friday -- with heavy eyes and a stomach ruined with coffee. The drive was miserable, as I was forced to contend with five hours of steady rain and two hours each of Connecticut drivers and the Garden State Parkway. The sky forgave me for about forty-five minutes when I reached the Turnpike, and I pulled off the highway to stretch my legs, empty the bladder, and fill the gas tank. Nothing I have seen in the last two years better illustrates the depressing state of America as starkly as individual rays of sunlight falling through a slate-grey sky onto a service area on the Jersey Turnpike. I hope someone is still investing in hairspray and novelty T-shirts, or at least American flag decals.
I experienced an acute moment of terror (not the best emotion experienced with a full bladder) when I thought I might actually have to wait in line with the local wildlife to use the restroom. Thankfully, they turned out to be waiting for Donuts of the Dunkin variety. I fled back to the car and sped out onto the highway shivering and muttering about the inanity of an “Iraq First, France Next” bumper sticker on the back of a Chevy Suburban that cut me off on the way to the on-ramp. The rest of the drive was uneventful, and I managed to find the Swarthmore campus despite the best efforts of the Admissions Department to thwart my visit with their directions.
I arrived as an Ultimate frisbee game was ending, replete with a barrel of Rolling Rock on the sidelines and a sweaty sibling to greet me. We promptly drove back into Philadelphia to a dodgy Indian buffet near the UPenn campus, and had to contend with traffic from the Penn Relays (one of the largest Track and Field competitions in the world). Goopy green and red Indian sauces dropped into my stomach like a brick, and the ride back to Swarthmore was nicely perfumed.
That night was wild. My brother and his frisbee team threw a par-tay. It was bizarre being the older strange guy in the mix, but I helped set up, giving unsolicited advice on the correct ratios of pink lemonade mix to water to pharmaceutical vodka, as well as aiding in the tapping of the Miller High Life keg (Champagne of Beers, damnit). During the party, I had several Bryn Mawr girls (who apparently make it a practice to visit Swarthmore parties on a work release program from their all-female college) ask what year I was. To one of them, I replied: "I'm the married year." Response: <puzzled look>.
The night progressed, and one of the more aggressive (and corpulent) Bryn Mawr women spilled half a beer down the front of my shirt by thrusting her rear into me – the music was too loud to hear her state-required back-up signals. Later, throngs of shirtless people chanted along to a hip-hop anthem, waving their hands in the air as if there were no repercussions (thank you, Kenny Mayne). Said hip-hop anthem was played five times in a row, I think. The DJ seemed to enjoy the complimentary Jell-O shots. At this point, the liquor containers (a couple plastic buckets and the obligatory 14.4 gallon aluminum barrel) were empty, and there seemed to be an amount equal to that consumed on the floor. After the crowd dispersed, my brother and I helped clean up and then scraped ourselves back to his dorm, where I took in an episode of Sportscenter in my boxer shorts while brushing my teeth in the student lounge. Ah, nostalgia.
The next morning I awoke early to blazing sunshine, threw on some clothes, and called my wife. I found myself remarkably coherent considering the previous 48 hours; we chatted as I sat on a bench overlooking the gorgeous, blooming Swarthmore campus (which is a Federally-funded arboretum). After four arctic months of ice and snow and rain and dismal wretchedness in New England, this was heavenly. Following our conversation, I roused my brother, and we grabbed a quick brunch. Shuffling around the dining hall on a Sunday morning with other survivors of the previous night -- bloodshot eyeballs and tousled hair and stale breath and all -- brought back some...wonderful memories of my own college experience.
Orange juice and bagels and bacon later, we hopped in the car and onto I-95. We promptly hit gnarled traffic near the airport, and crawled towards Veterans Stadium. When we reached the sports complex, it became apparent that we would miss, at the very least, the first inning. There were massive crowds not just for the Phillies game, but two circuses: Ringling Brothers and the Summer X-Games. Cursing elephants, skateboards, and mohawks, I somehow maneuvered into a parking lot a short sprint from the Vet, and we hustled into the stadium. Our seats were in right field -- I imagined home runs falling in our laps hit by Bonds or Jim Thome, two of the best slugging lefties in the game -- and turned out to be shielded from the intense sun by an overhang.
We settled into our seats as the second inning began, resigned ourselves to the fact a ball would have to be absolutely crushed to reach us (520 foot line drive?), and asked the gentlemen next to us how the Phillies scored the lone run in the first. We were gruffly informed that Ricky Ledee, the Phillies center fielder, homered to right-center off the 23-year-old rookie Jesse Foppert. Foppert was making his second Major League start, and had been tagged for five runs in his first start the previous week. I thought it was going to be a long afternoon for young Jesse.
His counterpart that day was Kevin Millwood, a 6'4" 28-year-old in his sixth season, whom the Phillies acquired from the Atlanta Braves the past off-season. Millwood always had the stuff to be an Ace, but pitched on the same staff as, well, Glavine, Maddux, and Smoltz, all future Hall-of-Famers . A sometimes dominant fastball pitcher (when he hits his spots, like most fastballers), Millwood had won 18 games twice during his tenure with the Braves, and is a solid defensive pitcher -- at the time he only had five career errors. Apart from such general information, I knew little about Millwood and thought of him as just another one of those golden Atlanta arms. I was just happy the Braves had diluted their pitching staff a touch, perhaps allowing my Mets a share of NL East glory (that season was just another shameful, bitter story).
The first few innings were uneventful, and I spent them looking through my telephoto at Bonds in the outfield, Bonds at the plate (he lined out and flew out in his first two at-bats), and Bonds in the dugout. Meanwhile, Millwood was throwing gas. He struck out four in the second and third innings, and coasted through a fourth of weak grounders and shallow fly balls. At the end of the fourth, I looked at the scoreboard, and, seeing goose eggs next to SFG, I commented that it might be rather nice to see a no-hitter. When Millwood retired the side in the fifth and the pitch count stood around 55 or 60, I thought that we were going to see at least a no-no bid. The plate umpire was calling the high strike, Mike Lieberthal, the Phillies catcher, was framing pitches well, and Millwood was painting the corners with superb velocity. He pulled through the sixth with zeroes, and I quickly descended into the bowels of the Vet for a 16oz. Miller Lites (in stay-cold plastic bottles, of course). Back in my seat, the beer washed down a hot dog that paled in comparison with the simple beauty of a Fenway Frank.
The seventh inning arrived, bringing up the meat of the order for the Giants. Marquis Grissom, the fleet outfielder, took a pair of 95 mph Millwood fastballs for strikes and then launched a rocket to his counterpart Ledee in deep center field. Ledee reacted to the ball late, taking a step forward and then exploding back towards the warning track. Everyone in the stadium leaped to their feet, certain the no-hit bid was over. At a full sprint, Ledee shot out his arm and snagged the ball as it dropped over his shoulder and into the tip of his glove. The crowd went wild, and Ledee gathered his feet. He nonchalantly tossed the ball back towards the infield, and smiled. Millwood looked relieved and promptly struck out Rich Aurilia.
Barry Lamar Bonds strode to the plate. Bonds was only the fourth player to hit over 600 homeruns in a career, and the previous year he won his fifth Most Valuable Player award. No one else has won more than three. Bonds will, without question, go down as one of the greatest men in the history of Sport -- joining Mantle, Aaron, Mays, and the Babe; Jordan and Larry; The Great One and Howe; Montana and Rice. Here this goliath of sport strode to the plate and stared out towards Kevin Millwood -- a mere mortal -- waiting on the mound with a scant 1-0 lead.
His first pitch to Mr. Bonds was a 96 mph four-seam fastball right down the pipe.
Bonds stood there as the umpire called the strike and looked down at the catcher's mitt with visible amazement: NO ONE goes after Barry Bonds. And Millwood just blew one by him. Another high fastball came, and Bonds took a big cut, sending the ball over the backstop for strike two. On the next pitch, Bonds swung again, and crushed the ball towards the right-field wall. I didn't have a good angle on it, and thought it was a homer, but the ball quickly hooked foul. Millwood slapped his glove against his thigh and shrugged. Bonds adjusted his batting gloves, and then dug in for the next pitch, half-swinging his ebony bat across the plate. Millwood wound and dealt a 96 mph fastball that caught the outside corner for a called strike three. Bonds tossed his stick in disgust and my jaw dropped in awe. The crowd let out its collective breath and roared; a chubby kid behind us yelled "You suck, Bonds!" We were in Philadelphia after all, in the very stadium in which Eagles fans cheered when Dallas Cowboys receiver Michael Irving received a career-ending broken neck in a game against the Eagles. Shaking my head, I laughed with my brother.
I witnessed a five run come-from-behind-in-the-bottom-of-the-ninth win for the Cubs at Wrigley, the same game in which Sammy "Cork Is For Wine" Sosa hit his 60th home run of 1998. I saw Gary and Paul Gait help 'Cuse beat Cornell 13-8 for the NCAA lacrosse championship at the Carrier Dome in '88; I saw Joe Nieuwendyk score a hat-trick as a freshman; Garnett drop a 20-20 on the Celtics; Scott Waldman score five goals in as many minutes with The Move. I saw Pedro toss a 17-strikeout one-hitter from the Fenway bleachers with Mr. Perry (and a flask of choice beverage, I might add); Bonds throw out -- from the Candlestick warning track -- the tying run at the plate in late innings against the Expos in '94; and (perhaps) my favorite baseball moment: seeing my boyhood idol, Dwight Gooden, pitch two hitless innings in relief for the Yanks at Fenway on my birthday in 2000. And that Bonds at-bat, a Millwood strike-out, sits among this pantheon of sporting moments.
Taking the mound again in the eighth, Millwood seemed calm as he again retired the side with three straight fly balls, one to deep left that was gathered on the warning track by Pat Burrell. Millwood seemed to have abandoned the changeup and the curve to rely solely on his high and riding fastballs, his control and velocity intensifying as the game wore on. We were now on our feet for every pitch, roaring for every strike, booing every ball. I could touch the energy in the stadium. We were seeing something special.
Felix Rodriguez came in to pitch for the Giants in the eighth, and the switch-hitting Jimmy Rollins promptly hit a triple. The last no-hitter in the Majors was exactly a year prior -- to the day -- when Derek Lowe no-hit the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Lowe had a ten run lead to work with in the later innings. Here was Millwood pitching against the Giants, whose potent offense was leading the Majors in almost every category at that point in the season, and he was clinging to a one-run lead. With a man on third with nobody out, it looked as if the Phillies would give their pitcher some well-needed run support, but Rodriguez clamped down and got out of the inning unscathed. [I realized later that the Giants pitchers combined for a one run, four hit afternoon -- young Foppert went six, giving up three hits and the lone run while striking out five -- that was a tremendous performance itself]
Kevin Millwood took the mound in the top of the ninth inning to a standing ovation. Neifi Perez chopped a routine grounder that kicked off the deep-green astroturf into the glove of the rookie Chase Utley at second, who paused to gather himself, and zipped the ball the eighty feet to Thome at first. One out and here was Marvin Benard, pinch-hitting, slapping the ball weakly down the first base line. Thome was playing deep and had time to position himself well, scooping it up and hustling to first while waving off Millwood careening in from the mound. The crowd went wild and the ump coolly signaled the out. I bounced up and down on my toes and rubbed my head. One more batter remained between Millwood and a no-hitter. Foul tip for strike one on Ray Durham, then a ball and a swinging strike. Another strike would end it, but a wild pitch to the backstop echoed the jitters of everyone in the stadium. A third ball, clocked at 92mph, thumped outside. So a full count, tension gripping the ballpark, and Millwood delivered another ball for his third walk of the game.
Number 34 shook his shoulders and rolled his head, and stared into the batter’s box at Marquis Grissom, who had come closest to marring Millwood’s afternoon with his shot to center in the seventh inning. On the second fastball, Grissom launched a lazy fly ball to dead center field and the crowd erupted with a dull roar. Ricky Ledee tracked in slightly, pedaled back a touch, and then closed his glove around the ball, jumping in the air and sprinting towards the mound. Millwood clenched his fist as the Phillies dugout emptied onto the field, his infield defenders surrounding him, all crimson hats and joyous pounding arms and grey jerseys. I snapped a few quick pictures, threw my arm around my brother's shoulder, and turned to my left intent on sharing my jubilation with the gentleman next to me. The look on his face told me all I needed to know about his opinion on same-sex unions, so I turned back to my brother and cheered heterosexually. We stayed on our feet roaring along with our 40,000 new friends until Millwood gave us a modest tip of the hat from the dugout steps, and we streamed out into the sunlit parking lots, all bounce and smiles and amazement.
Twenty minutes later we were out of the lot and on the highway, rehashing the game inning by inning in loud voices as we made our way back to Swarthmore. I spoke of how I would tell my children (or nieces and nephews) that we saw Kevin Millwood pitch a nine inning complete game no-hit shutout against the Barry Bonds and the Giants: no hits, no runs, no errors, ten strikeouts, and three bases-on-balls. Only the three walks kept Millwood from joining only ten other pitchers in recorded history with baseball’s Holy Grail: the Perfect Game.
Back in the dorms on campus we sat down to watch the last few minutes of a Lakers-Timberwolves playoff basketball game, and someone asked where we had been. "The Phillies game," I said. "Oh," one guy said, "I almost went. How was it?" My brother, grinning ear to ear, said: "Millwood pitched a fuckin' no-hitter." "OH SHIT!" the guy exclaimed, the game on TV ending. My brother and I strode back out into the sun, bearing with us an aura of cool, the proud owners of a Magical Baseball Experience.
[Post-script: Looking over this in January of '06, it is worth mentioning that the steroid suspicions continue to swirl around Bonds...does this experience have quite as much gravity now? Damn you, BALCO. For my and my brother's sakes, along with the kids around the country that grew/grow up idolizing this man, I hope he wasn't on the juice. But, honestly, who puts on 40 lbs. of muscle after their 30th birthday? Barry Bonds, that's who. Oh! For the fleet-footed, strong-armed days of the slight gold-glover who roamed the outfield for the Pittsburgh Pirates in the early 90s!]