Lost amidst the horror (for Red Sox Nation) of Cleveland's seven-run 11th inning Saturday night was the bloop single that broke my heart.
It all started with Tom Mastny. An 11th-round draft pick with 74 innings of Major League experience and a career earned run average of 4.86, Mastny took the mound in the bottom of the 10th, with the game tied at six, to face the heart of the Red Sox order. The trio of Ortiz, Ramirez and Lowell came into the frame hotter than Shane Reil, going five-of-seven the night before and adding six RBIs.
Now, do you remember those Sure commercials that always showed a bunch of happy people singing and dancing before cutting to that one poor guy who wasn't wearing deodorant? This is exactly how I saw this situation. A country full of Red Sox fans were smelling fresh, waving their hands in the air, hugging each other and giving noogies, while Tom Mastny stood in fear on the mound, sweating and feeling "unsure" because he couldn't remember if he'd sprayed on his Axe that morning.
So imagine my surprise, soon to become horror, when Mastny dropped Manny and Co. one, two, three and walked into the dugout like it was no big deal. The Sox had a chance to take a two-to-nothing series lead and completely squandered it. My spirits were crushed.
After the Mastny shenanigans I felt like some guy I didn't even know had just punched me in the groin. My stomach hurt, and my eyes were starting to tear. I was like, "Dude, I don't know you, man. Let's just be cool, let's talk this out." Then I got the haymaker.
Eric Gagne.
I groaned in disbelief, as did the rest of the Red Sox fans on earth, I am sure. Literally 15 minutes prior to this, I was all but certain the Sox were taking down this game, and just like that my head was in my hands and I was crossing my fingers for every pitch. I imagined Gagne like he was a character on MTV, running up to the camera like, "I'm Eric Gagne, and this is Jackass." Then he would grab the World Series trophy from out of Mike Lowell's hands, get on a skateboard, strap down his goggles and ollie into the Providence River. These are my dreams.
Sure enough, Gagne delivered. After striking out Sizemore he allowed the next two batters to reach base. Sox manager Terry Francona, having seen enough, walked slowly to the mound and appeared to mouth the words, "You're killing me, Smalls," before patting Gagne on the back and summoning Javier Lopez. As if the situation wasn't bad enough already, as Javy peered into the batter's box, he was staring face to face with a legend.
That man was Trot Nixon.
Yeah, as Red Sox fans, we all know Trot Nixon can't hit left-handed pitching. That's why he always platooned when he was in Boston. But we will also never forget how Trot always seemed to come up with that big hit when we needed it. How he used to grind for an extra base or go crashing into the wall in right field to save a run.
When Cleveland needed Trot, he came up big. Fighting off a tough pitch from lefty sidewinder Lopez, Nixon pushed across the go-ahead run, giving Cleveland the lead in the game and the momentum in the series. It felt like my buddy just stole my girl, or like my Grandma just sent my roommate cookies and I was sitting alone on a Saturday night, disappointed, lonely and sad.
If the Sox do manage to come back from down three games to one and make it to the World Series, I will be ecstatic. However, if they don't, I will cheer for Trot.
If I may steal one last line from the Sandlot ... "Heroes get remembered, but Trot Nixon will never die."
