Thank You
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by Shrubbery
Here in Denver there are a few absolutes that orient everyone’s world; the mountains lay to the west, the sun rises in the east, people from out of state always marvel at how nice the weather is, and football, particularly the Denver Broncos, are the heartbeat of the sports loving community. Truth be told, perhaps no city is as identifiable with a sports franchise as Denver is by the beloved Broncos. Only the Yankees, Bears, Packers, Red Sox, and Browns are as much a part of the fabric of their respective communities like the Denver Broncos. Simply put, the Broncos to a true Denver native are a part of your DNA.
But a funny thing happened on the way to Mile High (I refuse to use the Invesco Field moniker). That team about a mile and a half to the northeast whose fortunes took a turn for the sublime three weeks ago did the unthinkable; the hometown boys of summer who have toiled in obscurity and mediocrity for a decade have parlayed a magical late season charge into a spot in the 2007 National League Championship Series, and more improbably have turned the Broncos into an afterthought.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, the Colorado Rockies have arrived. They’ve blazed a meteoric trail across the Denver consciousness and transformed a football town into a frenzied den of baseball fanaticism, and made yours truly care about baseball again.
Back in 1994 the powers that be halted what at the time was one of the most transcendently exciting seasons in MLB history; Tony Gwynn was flirting with the mythical .400 mark, Matt Williams and Ken Griffey Jr. were on pace to break Roger Maris’ 61, and the Montreal Expos, complete with the second lowest payroll in baseball, were seven games up in their division. With the season and World Series canceled, something even the events of WWII couldn’t manage, millions of fans felt betrayed, and I disavowed my allegiance to MLB. I said at the time it would take a miracle of biblical proportions to make me ever follow baseball again.
Yet there I was three weeks ago, transfixed by the daily box scores and playoff race synopsis. The first thing I did in the morning was check the Rockies score and calculated in my head what needed to happen for the city of Denver to witness playoff baseball. I nearly cried when the Rockies slopped through a disastrous road trip to Philadelphia and horrid home stand with the Marlins. Then I cursed myself for caring. Then the run started; the Rockies swept four from the Dodgers and the Wild Card was in sight, seven straight on the road against the Padres and Dodgers and the city started to believe, lost a game to the Diamondbacks and Denver gasped in desperation, then wins 88 and 89 and the improbable, then a thirteen inning epic that accomplished the impossible. We could scarcely believe our eyes…that ragtag bunch of castoffs and homegrowns were interlopers in the hallowed ground that is playoff baseball. Then the gate crashers went one further, they swept the Division Series. Now the country would have to watch this motley group but could not dismiss them like before.
This group of kids whose talent matured far quicker than was thought possible, the gentleman that is Todd Helton who has endured more than was just, this pitching staff whose marquee starters were mostly injured down the stretch yet who dazzled in the NLDS, the manager whose been more fit for comic relief than the mastery he’s displayed of late, all conspired to mesmerize an entire city and reduce us all to ravenous baseball loons. They captured our imagination and made our collective spirit soar. We all jumped with child-like joy when Matt Holliday slid safely into home in the bottom of the 13 th, we shouted at our televisions when Kaz Matsui hit that grand slam in Game 2, and we all got goose bumps and misty eyes when Helton squeezed out number three in the 9 th to send the boys to the NLCS.
Now here we sit, sporting our Helton, Holliday, and Tulowitzki jerseys, eagerly awaiting Game 1 of the NLCS while the Broncos have been relegated to page 2 of every sports section, story 2 of every sports cast, hour 2 of every sports talk show, and second fiddle at every water cooler. We now bleed purple & black.
I vowed in ’94 to never follow baseball with passion again barring some unforeseen miracle. And that miracle happened at 2001 Blake Street, where the local boys of summer made a chubby kid from the suburbs recapture the days of his youth, when he and his high school baseball team would reenact Game 6 of the 1986 World Series, a time when baseball was important and timeless, and when I loved baseball. And for that I say thank you.
