The Giants led for 8 ⅓ innings on Saturday night. It never felt real. Not unreal, like magical or unbelievable, but temporary. Willy Adames solo shot in the 1st off Red Sox starter Patrick Sandoval, Andrew Knizner’s follow-up to deep left-center (in his first AB in the Majors this season, playing for his fourth organization) in the 3rd added on — but neither homer tore through the Boston night or cut their opponents to the bone like Willson Contreras’s 3-run shot did yesterday.
The 2-0 lead was always
temporary, borrowed. A late lead that was never going to last. It was only a matter of time… This ominous sense was not especially prescient. The dread is fortified and well earned. Giants fans this year aren’t allowed to have nice things, especially that late in a ballgame. But there were individual signs as well…fog began to choke the bridge and fill Gloucester harbor as my friend Tony from East Boston and I walked down to the Crow’s Nest to watch the game. We had to ask the bartender to switch one of the televisions from the Patriots preseason game to the national broadcast and spent the whole game watching against the current of gazes glued to meaningless yards gained and loss, clipboards and adjusting headsets, touchdowns touched down. On the wall to my right was a faded framed photograph of Mark Wahlberg, arm around the owner of the bar, because of course this was the local dive the crew of the Andrea Gail drank at before setting off on their ill-fated journey in The Perfect Storm.
Blade Tidwell put together his best outing of the year by a country mile, striking out 7 over 5 ⅔ IP, allowing only 3 hits, limiting hard contact and scoring opportunities — but I knew the wave was coming.
The innings rolled on, and the offense squandered opportunities to pad their lead: Osleiveis Basabe stranded at second after a lead-off single and error; Jung Hoo Lee with the bases loaded and two outs ripped a 102 MPH grounder right into Contreras’s glove at first. 0-for-8 with runners in scoring position. 11 left on base. Tony from East Boston in my ear: Best atmosphere in sports… If you can’t handle the stage… This crowd is pent-up, it’s looking for an excuse to explode… He was right. The cramped confines of Fenway seemed to constrict, getting tighter and tighter as the game progressed. The lead was phony, unearned. It became a burden.
Carson Seymour gave up a double to Mickey Gasper, Boston’s first extra base hit of the night, to lead off the night. Mark Wahlberg, that smile and jawline, over one shoulder. Mike Vrabel and the Keno numbers over the other. A walk and Seymour was out. Dylan Smith came in and immediately gave up a single. Bases loaded, no outs. I kid you not, the “Jaws” theme started to play over the bar’s speakers. But Smith bared down, channeling his performance from Wednesday in Cleveland. He struck out Wilyer Abreu, then Contreras with his four-seam baseball. Adley Rutschman gave one a ride but it proved routine for centerfielder Drew Gilbert.
A masterful performance — that merely prolonged the inevitable. Tony was right: Fenway is a special and awful place. The Red Sox’s 21-7 home record might have something to do with their season’s miraculous turnaround. Bostonians have the unique ability to feel victimized and threatened while standing over you, on top of you. Sweet Caroline plays and everyone sloppily bah-bah-bahs and starts dropping their “r’s” and asking strangers if they like apples and throwing Dunkin’ munchkins at each other while rubbing their crucifixes and praying to their patron saints: Dear Tom Brady…Oh, Bobby Orr…intercede on our behalf, Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, give us protection, o’ Big Papi, against these strangers from the West, because this is our f***in’ city, amen — and if you’re Smith, or any reliever in the bottom of the 9th, a 2-run lead becomes a disadvantage, a personal slight, and the pitcher’s mound is not high ground but a boat floating out in the middle of an angry sea as a wave forms.
In those types of situations, and in those environments, the vestments and armor one wears throughout the day gets stripped away. The bad habits that have plagued the San Francisco bullpen all season became their skin. There would be no repeat of Cleveland for Smith. He walked the lead-off man on four pitches. Tony Vitello went to Sam Hentges. The second pitch the lefty threw struck pinch hitter Jahmai Jones and put the tying run on base. Osleivis Basabe couldn’t handle a groundball from Andruw Monasterio cleanly and missed turning a double play by a stud. Then the hits came. Eli White’s 68 MPH lob somehow split the difference between Basabe and Adames to plate one. Nick Sogard forced the count full and ripped a game-tying double. Then, on another 3-2 count, after an intentional walk loaded the bases, Abreu yanked a grounder up the first base line. Bryce Eldridge laid out for it. A nice stop and he scrambled onto his feet as quickly as his long limbs would allow and one-hopped a throw home. The ball beat the runner. Knizner picked on the bang-bang play…but, somehow, his foot wasn’t on the plate. Fielding the high hop caused his shoe to slide from the plate’s edge a cruel fraction of an inch. The tiniest gap between toe and home that no matter how many times they replayed it video review could not close.
What we saw in the 9th was a team playing with purpose against…well, these Giants. Even if the offense had added on when those earlier opportunities presented themselves, and the lead in the 9th was three or four runs, I doubt it would’ve made a difference. Boston, decked out in the Marathon city connects, knew they were going to win. This is their city after all.
