9-23-22

“Baseball breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart.” – A. Bartlett Giamatti

This is true. I read Giamatti’s “Green Fields of the Mind” as a chaser to the end of every single baseball season. I love baseball. It’s a pastime and sport that I grew up playing, but didn’t appreciate until I was older. It becomes more mysterious and wonderful with each passing year.  But inevitably, it breaks your heart, as designed. Every at-bat, every pitch could break the heart of half of the spectators.

Every great moment in baseball is accompanied by someone losing – When the Giants won the pennant, Dodger fans remember pain. The Cubs breaking a 108 year old curse, only shifted the pain onto Cleveland. When David Freese became a legend in 2011, Ranger fans were a strike away from celebrating their first title. 

I’ve spent a lot of my life watching or playing baseball. I’ve never seen 50,000 people cheering for the exact same outcome. When a ballpark rises to their feet, half of those spectators are going to be crestfallen. But, at Dodger Stadium on Friday, September 23, 2022, I witnessed a rare “everybody wins” moment. Unanimous happiness is rare. Consensus is a hard commodity to come by these days. 

I’d experienced moments like this in a ballpark. In Dodger Stadium, no less, during the World Baseball Classic in 2017. US defeated Japan in the semis.  Even then, there were some heartbroken Japanese fans who’d come a long, long way to see their countrymen go down in defeat.  In Game 4 of the 2012 ALDS, I watched Coco Crisp get a walk-off single to force a Game 5 against the Tigers. The Oakland Coliseum went nuts. It was euphoric. But Jose Valverde, the pitcher who’d blown the game said after losing, “This is the toughest moment in my whole career. I had everything. These guys hit it. There’s nothing I can do.”

Our joy was commensurate to someone else’s pain. In baseball, you can’t seem to have joy without the pain. But that was not the case on Friday night at Dodger Stadium when Albert Pujols did what only three players in baseball history had ever done…he hit his 700th home run. 

Out of the 236,634 games in Major League history, we witnessed something that’s only happened four times. The last time was 18 years ago when Barry Bonds did it, but only Giant fans seemed to be pleased about it. 49 years ago, Hank Aaron did it, but a lot of racists were unhappy. 88 years ago, Babe Ruth reached 700, but I’m guessing fans weren’t that impressed since Babe had set the all-time home run record 13 years earlier when he passed 138 homers. 700 was likely one of many uncelebrated statistical oddities by the Great Bambino.

That’s the objective context. Then, there’s the personal attachment. Albert Pujols is my favorite baseball player of all-time. I don’t think I’ve ever admired a professional athlete more and short of a family member playing at Hall of Fame level, I doubt I ever will. A love of Ozzie Smith’s backflips and acrobatic shortstop work made me a lifelong Cardinals fan. Even still, Ozzie wasn’t a power hitter. In his 18 year career, he hit 28 homers. Of course, Dodger fans will never forget the one he hit in the 1985 NLCS.  Pujols surpassed that total in his rookie year. He has 21 (24 by the time you read this) this year in his farewell season in St. Louis. By the first time I saw my first Cardinals game in person, on my 21st birthday, at Dodger Stadium, as a present from Sidell, Albert Pujols was quickly supplanting Ozzie. Pujols hit his first home run in April of 2001. He’s the only Major League player who played when my Grandpa Bull was still alive. I was a junior in high school. I witnessed Pujols 228th, 344th, 345th, and 418th homers in person, at Busch Stadium, Kauffman and Busch Stadium. 

When Pujols signed with the Angels, it broke my heart. He never stopped being my favorite player, though. I checked his box score every day and bristled at the derision Angel fans brought him. And I know that the Angels paid Pujols to play like he did in his first decade and were disappointed that he didn’t. I know that he rapidly declined from his Hall of Fame numbers in St. Louis. But he was not a bad player. In fact, Albert Pujols’ numbers since 2012 are comparable to Bryce Harper’s. Yes, Bryce Harper age 19-29 only hit 25 more homers than Albert Pujols age 32-42. He also struck 500 times less and had more hits. 

I went to the Big A to catch Albert’s 600th homer and 3000th hit. The games ended with Albert stuck on 599 and 2999 respectively. He’d reach the summit a game later in both instances. To be present for 699 and 700 more than made up for it.

My sons had never seen my favorite player in person. Rowan, 6,  and Declan, 8, had been to Dodger Stadium before.  Thanks to the magic of living in a region with three teams, they’ve actually attended more MLB games in person than I had before the age of 20. Kilian, 4, had been to Creighton and LMU game, an I Cubs game, but this was his first MLB game.  

My Aunt Margaret joined us. She’s taken me to numerous USC games, and I wanted to return the favor as best I could. Her mother was the first first female sports editor at the Daily Iowan during the 1940s. Her father was a lifelong Cardinals fan from Champaign, Illinois. He was 6 when the Cardinals won their first World Series. He was 91 when I called him to celebrate their 11th. Rowan is currently 6. He’ll remember tonight like Frank remembered the Cardinals topping the ‘26 Yankees in seven. 

Geography prevented my brother, Casey from joining us. He’s about as big of an Albert fan as I am. Our fandom predates text messaging and the smartphone era, so the first texts we shared were updates as to when Pujols homered. It went ALBERT F****NG PUJOLS. Eventually, we shortened it to AFP. The most magical aspect of Albert’s return to St. Louis this final season has been how frequently these texts have been shared. Once he reached 690, numbers supplanted the AFP. 

I bought the tickets a few weeks ago as a way to ensure my boys would get to see Albert and as a retirement/birthday gift for my Aunt, who’s been the patron saint of my life in Los Angeles since picking me up from LAX 20 years ago. 

We did not purchase the tickets expecting to see my favorite player’s 700th career home run. I simply wanted my boys to be able to tell their grandkids, “I saw Albert Pujols in his final season.” At the time we hatched the plan, Albert was mostly a platoon bat, in the lineup against lefty starters. It was too far out to know who the Dodgers would start. Even if it was a late pinch hit appearance, I figured it would be worth it. 

My objective for the game was to give my boys an experience that would spark a love of baseball beyond “I like this because Dad wants me to.”  That was important to me. My Dad loves baseball, but never forced fandom on me.  He never even complained when I chose a different team than his beloved Giants. 

Our seats were in the left field pavilion. Section 301, Row Q.  We got to the park when the gates opened for batting practice. Pujols was in the first group of Cardinals hitting. A ball lined to leftfield was scooped up by Miles Mikolas, a starting pitcher shagging balls on his off-day. I called his name. He turned around, saw my red STL cap and tossed it 100 feet to me. I caught it bare handed and gave it to Kilian. Five minutes into his first ballgame, and he already had a ball. I showed them one of my childhood favorites, Willie McGee. Willie is a coach for the Cardinals now, schooling outfielders on how to field line drives. There’s only been one Cardinal to win a batting title since Willie did it in 1985: Albert Pujols. 

We had already eaten our Dodger Dogs, gotten some playground time in before the Dodgers honored Albert Pujols and Yadier Molina in their final seasons with golf bags.  Albert took the mic and personally thanked the Dodgers organization and their fans for picking him last season and giving him a shot. That’s a key part of the story. 

I’d planned on doing this “take my kids to Albert” last year, but in Anaheim. I was looking for tickets when my brother would be in town the day that the Angels unceremoniously cut Pujols. He sat at 667 career home runs. The logical move was for him to return to St. Louis and retire in a Cardinal uniform. My brother was in town when we were surprised by which club picked up Albert: the Los Angeles Dodgers.  Albert would be deployed only where he still excelled: hitting lefties.  The Dodgers found Albert had baseball left in him, and he found a place at Dodger Stadium, playing with a joy rarely seen by Cardinal fans and certainly, not seen with the Angels.  He managed to play in more postseason games in a half season with the Los Angeles Dodgers than he had in ten seasons with the Los Angeles Angels (of Anaheim).  He finished the season with 679 career homers, good for fifth all-time. 

That’s where he sat when the Cardinals signed him to come home for one final season.  Pujols would return to join Adam Wainwright (Cardinal since 2005) and Yadier Molina (Cardinal since 2003) on a Farewell Tour.  The 21 homers needed to reach 700 seemed close enough, but even catching Alex Rodriguez at 696 for 4th place seemed too big of an ask. Surely, the milestone would have been unreachable without the Dodgers rekindling his love of the game. 

We watched the first three innings from our seats in Section 301. Albert struck out in his 1st AB. He was batting 2nd for the first time since…well, I could never remember Albert batting anywhere other than 3rd with the Cardinals in what was the first decade to start a career any player has ever had. I’d promised the boys an ice cream break after Albert’s 2nd AB in the 3rd. 

Everyone rose to their feet. I had Kilian on my right hip so that he could see over the crowd when Albert crushed a center cut fastball from Andrew Heaney.  Kilian covered his ears as the stadium erupted in cheers as 699 landed 50 feet away from us. I pointed out the ball to my sons as a dozen fans brawled over it. No video. No pics. Just my own eyes and the moment. 

I knew that I would be happy. To my surprise, everyone in my section was overjoyed. The Dodger fan behind me who groused when I stood to watch Albert’s first AB, Kinnick Stadium style, was overjoyed. He gave me a high-five, then turned to reveal the name plate on the back of his Dodger jersey: PUJOLS 55. His grousing wasn’t because I stood in the 1st, but because he was disgusted that everyone in the stadium wasn’t on their feet like us. The boys were excited by the commotion, but even more excited that it was ice cream time.  The time stamp on a photo I took read 7:57 PM.  

I figured we had some time before Albert’s next at-bat. The boys picked out frozen bananas from an Ice Cream Truck and we headed to the play structure behind the pavilion in right-center where the boys could enjoy their dessert and work out some energy.  There are screens everywhere behind the bleachers.  With 2 outs in the Top of the 4th, I saw 9th hitter Brendan Donovan at the plate for the Cardinals and realized Pujols was in the hole. Margaret had just stepped away for a restroom break, but I figured the odds that Donovan and Edman would extend the inning were slim. After all, the Cardinals were a day removed from breaking a 47 inning scoreless streak.  Donovan worked a walk. 

No time to get back to our seats, I promptly dragged the boys up the stairs, still working on their frozen bananas, to the standing room only section in the right center pavilion. Tommy Edman drew another walk, chasing the starter and Dave Roberts pulled the lefty with Pujols coming up, putting in righty Phil Bickford to face Albert. 

Literally, 24 minutes after belting 699, Albert was at the plate swinging for history. We managed to get to the front of the section before a crowd could gather, giving us a largely unimpeded view of Albert’s at-bat.  Margaret found us just as Bickford was warming up. I can’t recall how many pitches were thrown before Albert connected, but I learned from 699 that I should be filming every single pitch just in case history happened.  And sure enough, on 1-1…

700.

I’ve never experienced a moment in sport that pleased everyone. If you’ve ever heard Ben E. King sing “This Magic Moment” and didn’t believe the feeling he was expressing could ever come to pass, you would believe it if you’d been there with us. The whole stadium was cheering for Albert. Dodger fans. Cardinal fans. Even the peanut vendor blocked my view of Albert crossing home because he was going nuts celebrating. Every soul in the park stopped what they were doing to watch history. No one was disappointed. Not even Phil Bickford. “At first I was upset that I gave up the home run but when the crowd reacted and I saw all the smiles, it was a very special moment for MLB,” he said. “Albert Pujols is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.” That’s a far cry from José Valverde muttering, “I had everything.” 

As for my family, Margaret was letting the boys know “700” happened. We saw what seemed possible, but improbable. What we hoped we’d see in our wildest dreams. The history we had hoped to be a part of had come to pass. My boys were still focused on those frozen bananas. Kilian was not a fan of the noise, which was even louder this time around. Rowan loved the crowd vibes, but not as much as his banana. Declan had managed to pick most of the chocolate covering off the banana and thus, grasped the significance of what we’d witnessed. From now on, whenever the McConvilles need a rally, we’ll be reaching for the frozen banana. 

The game stopped briefly to soak up the moment.  Randy Newman’s “Theme to THE NATURAL” played as the Cardinals piled out of the dugout, little league style to congratulate Albert. He tipped his helmet to the crowd. The jumbotron played a supercut condensing all 700 homers into 60 seconds. 

The rest of the game was a blur.  I didn’t even know what the score was. I knew we had runners on base, but had no idea how many runs he’d driven in. It was 5-0. That was all the Cards would need as Jose Quintana shut down the Dodgers. The Cardinals kept pouring it on, rolling to a 10-0 lead. Albert was lifted for a pinch hitter in the Top of the 7th. Alec Burleson hit his first career home run in Albert’s place. True to form, the Dodger fans booed. A few fans shouted, “You’re not Albert!” They were back to hating us. The spell was broken. 

The boys spent the 5th-7th innings at the right field playground. We figured everyone was exhausted and offered the boys an out after the 7th Inning Stretch. To our surprise, they demanded to stay for the Friday Night Fireworks after the game. Declan didn’t want to say goodbye to a friend he’d made. 

We bought a couple Dodger caps from the stadium store as the game ended. The players rushed through the 8th and 9th to get the game in the books. The 11-0 Cardinals victory marked the first time in 14 games of seeing them in person that the Dodgers lost. I’d never seen them lose in attendance. In fact, I’d seen them walk off on the Cardinals THREE times. 

A massive line snaked around the concourse, waiting for the stadium workers to open the gates to the outfield. Fans would gather on the outfield grass to watch the fireworks. The space filled up and they closed the gates on us before we could join them. We asked a police officer where they would launch the fireworks. When he pointed out the space in the parking lot in dead center, we went back to where we entered the park: the Jackie Robinson Statue.  

And so, we found ourselves closer to a fireworks show than we’d ever been. I expected them to let off a couple minutes worth of red-glaring rockets, but since we’re on the final Friday night of the season at Chavez Ravine, they must have had a surplus. The show lasted 10 minutes. We watched Lt. Frank Drebin’s “Bunch of Bombs in the Air!!!” while traffic cleared. If you ask my boys what they loved most about their six hours at the ballpark, they’d list the fireworks. 

But that’s where my love of baseball began: hanging out at the ballpark. I spent every summer of my childhood at little league ballparks, specifically, Holiday Park in West Des Moines. From April to August, 1990 through 1998, I’d be at the “ballpark” as my Dad would call it. As a little brother, then a bat boy, then a player, then an umpire (trained by legendary MLB ump Tim McClelland, no less), then a big brother. I grew into baseball. I once played a game at the Metrodome for the high school my father went to, DOWLING, against my mother’s alma mater, O’GORMAN.  What’s strange about that is that the two schools are five hours and two states apart, and we were playing in a third state that neither school called home. I mention this because baseball has a way of tying my life together.  The first time I was with my nuclear family after 18 months of pandemic was at Busch Stadium in St. Louis for a Cardinals-Giants game.  I enjoy every aspect of my baseball experience, but perhaps, there’s nothing I love more than watching a game with people I love. 

If my boys took away anything from that game, I pray it was this. 

I know this season will surely end in heartbreak. The heartbreak comes simply by the game stopping for winter. But the game itself is eternal. Baseball may be designed to break hearts, but I was blessed to experience a night at the ballpark in which every heart was full.

POSTSCRIPT—

The season ended in heartbreak. Albert Pujols took his last at-bat in the bottom of the 8th of Game 2 of the NL Wild Card Series. He hit a screamer down the line so hard that it caromed off the wall straight to the leftfielder to hold a sure double to a single. My Dad described it as “if anyone had gotten in the way of it, the ball would have killed them.”  Albert had done his job. And was lifted as a pinch runner. The Cardinals failed to score and his career ended, as most players’ do, in defeat. 

It should be noted that (at the time of this writing, before the NLCS) the pitcher, Seranthony Dominguez has faced 10 batters this postseason. He has retired 9 of 10, striking out 5, including Paul Goldschmidt, Nolan Arenado, Austin Riley and Dansby Swanson. Albert Pujols is the only person to hit him this postseason, and he crushed it. 

I went to read “Green Fields of the Mind” but Google returned an interesting result: Burt Lancaster’s scene from FIELD OF DREAMS. He talks about getting close enough to his dream and watching it pass him by like a stranger, but then realizing his vocation as a small town doctor meant more.  It was a bizarre scene, in which the hero inexplicably travels back into 1972 and talks to a ghost who played one inning of Major League Baseball in the 1920s. 

In that context, hearing “Green Fields” made this line stand out: 

“Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change on.”

Baseball — our best invention to stay change – had brought on change. We evolve. The game remains the same. We grow old. The game stays eternal. If two teams were so inclined, they could keep a game going indefinitely. Just make sure each inning ends with the store tied and the game is infinite.