As a 9 year old in the late 70's, I loved baseball. My bat, glove, and ball were always within arm's reach. During the summers, I'd ride my bike onto the CB base every day and find a pickup game at one of the sandlots.
I'd watch any baseball game on TV regardless of who was playing, but Orioles games were special. For those, I broke out all the juju. I wore my lucky shirt and cap and spent the entire game throwing my ball into my glove, throwing harder and faster to illicit a hit for the offense or strikeout for defense. During the 1979 season the superstitious ritual paid off. The Orioles punched their ticket to the big show. They were going to the World Series.
In their first at bat of the first game, the Orioles set a World Series record for number of runs scored in a single inning and won Game 1 5-4. When the Pirates struck back, winning Game 2, my uncle, a die hard Pirates fan, laid it on thick with the smack talk. He called me up to tell me his Pirates were going to spank the O's and send them packing. My smack talk game was pretty lame. I think I called him a doo-doo head and slammed the phone down.
The Orioles took the next two games on the road at Three Rivers Stadium and were a single win away from the pennant. I called my uncle back to gloat. "Mark my words, Wayne. My Pirates will come from behind." I scoffed, "No way, unc. They'd have to take the next three games in a row with two of them at Memorial Stadium."
An ominous pall settled on Game 5 when the Pirates trotted out a new pitcher. Tall and lanky, I remember one of the announcers called him goonish. It was an apt description. Tall, lanky Goon proceeded to tear through the Orioles batting lineup, who only managed a single run and lost the game 1-7. They failed to score at all in Game 6, losing 0-4.
With the Series tied at 3 games apiece, I was in full panic mode, trying to find the right combination of charms to secure that last win. I'd donned my lucky shirt and ball cap, and my glove hand was smarting from the hard throws it was catching. I was jumping up and down, running around the coffee table, and cheering as loud as I could without incurring raised eyebrows from Mom and Dad. It was all for naught. My uncle was very prescient. His Pirates did come from behind and took the last three games of the series and the pennant.
That was a lot of heart break for a 9 year old to swallow. I put my bat, glove, and ball in the back of the hallway closet and never touched them again. When the next season rolled around, I didn't watch a single game. My little league coach called asking why I hadn't signed up again. I gave some lame excuse of how we'd just moved to Long Beach and practices would just be too hard to attend. I haven't followed baseball since.
Andrea and I have now been living in Maryland just half an hour south of Baltimore for 20 years, and still I have yet to go to an Orioles game. One of these days, maybe, just maybe, I might find myself in the stands at this new fangled Camden Yards. If the Birds win, though, they'll have to do it without the juju from my trusty ball and glove. I think they were lost during one of Mom's infamous purges.
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