I was right all along I was right, but so wrong, It’s ten times better
As quickly as can be done without making noise, a young woman in dark grey sweatpants and shirt deftly maneuvered through both front doors of the squat, brick one story she called home, and in two strides was off the short cement porch and into the yard. As soon as she was, she emptied her lungs in the loudest shout she could manage, meekly echoing off the other houses in the neighborhood through the chill November air. The baby was sound asleep in the crib, and would be fine while she took this brief emotional detour outside. It was a necessity; had she shouted inside the baby surely would have fussed awake and another round of the endless battle for rest and time of early parenthood would have commenced. It was a battle she gladly signed up for, even if that gladness was very weary some days, but her aversion to it in this particular moment was owed to something else entirely. She had little room for anything else but what had driven the scream. There had been a death.
June 30th, 2024
At first, Roberta hated how much she instinctively rested her hand on her stomach, but over time the comfort of it overcame her awareness and avoidance of the cliche. Idly her hand smoothed her shirt over her stomach as she intently watched the waiting room television.
It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of the two children playing, laughing and often slamming stackable wooden blocks together, but the captions at least kept her informed on the conversation the two people behind a desk were having. They were about to announce the All-Star selections, and even though she never bothered to pay attention to who was ever leading in votes as they were coming in, she was excited to hear how it turned out. Really, she was just excited to hear any names of Mariners come up.
Of course there would be Julio. Is he even human? How does he just keep getting better? It was only the All-Star Break, and he was already approaching a 30-30 season with twenty-seven home runs and twenty-three stolen bases. Her heart ached briefly remembering the injury announcement. Servais said in the presser they only expected him to miss at most a few weeks of games, but it would mean he wouldn’t be able to make the All-Star appearance he so very much earned. They cut away from the studio desk and to the podium, and all noise and thought faded to a hum as she took in the names being announced, the following highlights and sound bytes about their accomplishments.
Julio, as expected. The highlights were done with the quickest of cuts and uptempo hype music, if only to manage the sheer volume of worthy moments demanding inclusion.
Mitch! She didn’t care what dark gods the Mariners organization made a deal with to get not only a healthy Haniger, but one going absolutely beast mode, but she was ready to start attending that church. Hmm. Mitch. Michelle? She always liked the name Michelle, but she had a feeling Brenda would hate it.
Ty MOTHERF***ING France! Immediately her back straightened a little as she felt the rush of excitement, and she was a little surprised when she also let out a soft sigh of relief. Last year’s season was such a letdown, for France, for the Mariners. The news about his off-season time at Driveline and his improved look in spring training were poor foreshadowing. If the season ended today, he would have the batting title. And he wasn’t just making contact, he was getting on base with walks a lot too. And not just from getting it! He definitely earned the selection, and Mariners fans knew it, but the real vindication came in knowing the rest of the league knew he earned it, too.
They were done announcing the position players, and immediately a rush of bittersweet tension arose in her stomach, and her soothing presses became a little more measured, and firm. No J.P. Crawford. He certainly earned it for continuing doing exactly what made 2023 a career year, but Kyle’s brother getting in instead totally made sense. Why did he have to pick the Rangers? Ugh.
They moved much quicker through announcing the pitchers. There was only one thing hard about watching Logan Gilbert and George Kirby pitch this year, and that was trying to decide which one was better. She wasn’t even a little bit surprised they both got the nod. The entire rotation had been elite all year, despite Woo still not making a return from the injured list, but LoGi Bear and Kirby were the two headed dragon that sat atop that particular pile of Seattle developmental treasure. The only reliever to make the list was Andrés Muñoz, El Jefe de Los Bomberos! She had hoped Brash would have made it as well, but she understood he hadn’t been back long enough from the injured list, no matter what his numbers looked like.
A nurse opened the door and called her name, and she gathered her bag and began following her into the hallway. Her hand, still on her lower stomach as she walked. Did you hear that, Michelle? Six All-Stars!
September 29th, 2024
Steam rose from the blue ceramic coffee cup resting on the green wicker end table, wafting out into the early fall air, slightly brisk but not yet cold. On the padded chair, in a partially reclined position, Simone lifted the cup for a tentative sip, knowing it was too hot. Normally, she would have exercised more patience, but the idleness of the moment threatened to grow into boredom if she didn’t fidget or occupy herself in some way.
It’s not that she wasn’t interested in the teams on the television she was watching in her living room, through the storm windows from her covered front porch deck. Well, one of them. She had nothing but pity for the I-can’t-believe-they-are-actually-going-to-Las-Vegas Athletics. But she had celebrated and followed the Mariners since long before the formerly black hair in her tight bun went all-grey. It was just that this particular game didn’t interest her.
The Mariners wouldn’t have sent out their best against the Athletics on a good day, but in the last game of the season having already clinched the second Wild Card seed, that truth was even truthier. Seby Zavala may have played well enough as backup to earn the nickname “The Spider” for all of the baserunners he caught in his web trying to steal, but the bat had been passable at best as expected, and he was getting the start so Cal could rest for the matchup against the Orioles in a few days.
It was the fifth inning, and the Athletics were leading with a score of 5-1. The Mariners scored in the fourth, when Cole Young hit a home run. Simone had almost wished she had the radio feed on to hear the call, instead of having it off as was her custom in bad losses, opting instead for the sounds of the neighborhood. They said today’s game was Kid’s Appreciation Day, and she couldn’t help but think it, she appreciated the way that kid played. Speaking of, she thought, as a teal minivan pulled into the driveway across the street.
Two women exited the front of the vehicle, the passenger gingerly stepping down as the other woman rushed around to meet her. The passenger waved the other woman off, and the driver acquiesced and opened the door to the back and leaned in. A few moments passed while the passenger, in loose fitting sweats, waited with one hand on her hip, leaning back in a seeming effort to stretch her back. The driver straightened out of the vehicle holding a car seat with the shade pulled up, and Simone watched the couple of new parents head into the house. The woman carrying the car seat had her ponytail pulled through a hat. The compass rose S of the mariners emblazoned on it in a metallic northwest green, almost identically matching that of the minivan.
Smiling, Simone returned to her idle watching of the game. New parents AND Mariners fans, with the playoffs about to happen? These would be exciting times for them, but she imagined they wouldn’t be getting very much sleep.
October 22nd, 2024
“Thanks, Joey!”.
“No worries!” a twenty-something in a tucked in, red polo shirt shouted back as he began to jog across the parking lot. Joey. Thanks, I hate it. He couldn’t count the amount of times he had pointedly mentioned how much he hates to be called Joey and prefers Joseph. It was on his name tag, even. Hell, even Jose would be preferable to Joey, as much as it might feel weird to go by the same name his dad used. Sometimes he wished something very large and heavy would strike the bullseye on the building he worked at, damaging nothing but property of course, so that he would never have to walk into it again.
Right now, that didn’t matter. He had to hurry.
As soon as he got into his car, he unlocked his phone screen, the MLB app already loaded up with the live Gameday showing the pitch-by-pitch. He hated his schedule. He started around the time or before afternoon games began, and he was only rarely lucky to make it home in time to catch the tail end of some night games. He needed to make it home to see this game end on tv, but if for some reason he couldn’t do that the radio feed would have to do. No way he was missing a single moment of the playoffs. His boss was already joking he should get an IBS diagnosis with how much he had been using the bathroom as an excuse to check on games.
But this wasn’t just the playoffs.
This was game five of the Seattle Mariners, against the division winning Houston Astros, in Seattle.
And the Mariners were up in the series three wins to Houston’s one. The game was tied, in the bottom of the ninth inning, and no matter how the cards fell, they would get the home team’s last say in today’s game. When the bluetooth of his phone connected, Dave Sims was finishing describing a J.P. Crawford single into right field, with two outs in the inning.
It was a short drive to his apartment, and it almost felt like someone else had driven him there how disconnected he felt from his body with anxiety. The entire drive Julio had worked a full count, and fouled off pitch after pitch from Josh Hader.
A moment of panic gripped Joseph as he almost turned the keys and cut the engine to the car. His desire to get inside and get the television feed on was almost overwhelming, but there was no way he was going to not hear what happened next, whatever that fate held. Hader delivered, and the crack off the bat was sharp. Sims immediately erupted, describing the hard hit ball going back, to the wall, and even over it… into Juan Soto’s glove. Extra innings. He had time.
Cutting the engine and dashing inside, he was a hurricane. He got the feed up, used the restroom as quickly as he could without feeling gross about it, grabbed a Space Dust from the fridge, and planted himself on the couch. Perfect timing, the tenth inning was just starting. They already used Muñoz in the ninth, but Brash was anything but a downgrade. One, two, three. Strikeout, pop up, strikeout. The stupid free runner didn’t even get to advance. The bottom of the tenth started and the Astros sent out Ryan Pressly. Up to bat first for the Mariners, Ty France.
It was already nearing a “too good to be true” scenario for Ty France this year, as everything went right for him as he bounced back to the point of even probably earning down ballot MVP votes, and him going from batting eighth in the season debut to third in a playoff game against a divisional rival was only natural with that level of success. But Joseph just stared in shock.
Ty France just doubled in Julio, and the Mariners won. Against the Astros, the f***ing ASTROS, in the American League Championship Series. Tears burst from Joseph’s eyes as he let out several versions of the word “yes” in joyous shouts, fist pumping in the air of his apartment.
November 3rd, 2024
Sitting in the padded chair on her porch, Simone pulled her coat tighter in defense against the chill. Thoughts of going inside were nowhere near being entertained, as she was too intensely glued to the television on the other side of her storm windows, and the sounds coming from the radio on the wicker table next to her.
***
Joseph knew he wasn’t going to make it. This felt do or die. It was the ninth inning, and the Dodgers were sending out Shohei Ohtani. As the season grew long the rumblings of Ohtani possibly making an appearance as a pitcher in the playoffs started to crop up, but the Dodgers had remained quiet on the matter beyond acknowledging the possibility. So far, they resisted. Until now.
He was only a block from his house, but he knew he wasn’t going to make it. He found a spot to pull over. He would just have to watch the rest of the game on his phone.
***
A woman in dark grey sweatpants leaped onto and off of her small, concrete porch into her yard.
“LET’S! FUCKING! GO!” she shouted towards the heavens.
They did it. They actually did it.
The Seattle Mariners won the World Series. It took seven games, but they beat the juggernaut Los Angeles Dodgers to win the World Series. The Dodgers were elite, they put up one hell of a fight. The reunion of Trout and Ohtani just before the All-Star Break remained potent all through the second half of the season, Trout’s health even seemingly buoyed by the opportunity. But even the Dodgers team of practically all stars wasn’t enough to stop the Mariners. Ninth inning, game seven Ohtani was not enough to stop the Mariners.
She knew that part of her shouldn’t be surprised. Julio was like a baseball god all year, coming back from his injury around the All-Star break with a vengeance. Sure, he didn’t beat Judge’s American League home run record, but wow did he get close. France, Crawford, and Polanco were like an infield super team of starters, and somehow against all odds Josh Rojas and Luis Urías combined for 5 fWAR. Mitch Haniger never was injured, and a healthy Haniger combined with a career year made the remaining outfield options being tepid irrelevant. But still, she was stunned. A lifetime of being a Mariners fan prepared her for everything. Everything but this.
Smiling wide and breathing a little heavier after her shout, she lowered her vision from the sky and started becoming painfully aware of her surroundings, and the fact that she wasn’t alone outside. Across the street from her, a man sat in his car. Pounding the steering wheel, which alarmed her at first, but after a second it seemed to be not in frustration, but celebration. At least, that’s what she thought him dancing in his seat meant. She was a little startled as a shout came from a porch across the street, in the house one over from where the car was parked in front.
“Go Mariners!” The cry came from an older lady sitting on her porch, her chair angled oddly towards the house, but with her side facing enough of the front yard she could easily see both ways.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to shout”, she felt heat rising in her cheeks in embarrassment at her outburst.
“Don’t worry about it, wouldn’t want to wake the baby!”, after a pause Simone added “after all, if you can’t shout about this, what can you?”
“True, true”. Roberta laughed, waved at the neighbor, and started to head inside to check on Vivian in her crib. Her neighbor was right, there was no way to contain that emotion. This moment for the Mariners, for the city they called home, for their fans, it was the death of an era. Individuals, neighbors, friends, family. All of them would now live in an era where the Seattle Mariners won the World Series. Roberta had imagined this a million times, and yet…
No matter how much you imagine it happening, the reality is so much better.