Sonntag, 4. Dezember 2011

78.) Liberty City, Oct 6th, Between Six and Seven

Drei zu drei.

3 Siege für die Roten, 3 Siege für die Blauen.

Bis zu diesem Punkt sind wir also gekommen, jetzt im Oktober 1902.

Sechs Ballspiele in acht Tagen, eine Woche und ein Tag herrscht das Con Cup-Fieber in Liberty City und in ganz Neu-Amerika. Vor uns, morgen, liegt das Siebte Spiel. Das ist eine sportliche Veranstaltung, aber noch mehr ist es eine Legende, eine vielbesungene, ein jedes Jahr von neuem ersehntes Geschenk.

Welch unglaubliche Stimmung, gestern, nach dem Ende des sechsten Spiels herrschte! Die Blauen hatten gesiegt. Ein wenig ereignisreiches Spiel eigentlich, aber nach dem letzten Out legte sich ein Raunen über den Ballpark, kein Jubel, kein Jauchzen der Sieger. Ein Raunen, das von einer unheimlichen Stille abgelöst wurde. Die Stille währte während sich die Zuschauer langsam aus dem Stadion hinausdrängten und sie verlor sich dann irgendwo draußen in den Straßen der Stadt.
Es war eine Stille des Staunens, es war die Gewißheit gewordene Hoffnung auf ein Siebtes Spiel. Es war das betäubene Gefühl an einem außerordentlichen Geschehen teilgenommen zu haben, das was in alten Zeiten ein Walten genannt wurde.
Die Blauen hatten die Roten wieder an den Rand des Abgrunds gedrängt und damit die Welt in Staunen versetzt.
Those mighty Reds! Their legendary swagger has disappeared. The over-overwhelming favorites of this or any year's Conciliation Cup are left at the edge of the cliffs clinging on with cramping fingers, staring down to the anger, the oblivion, the endless taunts that are lurking beneath them.
Through the regular season they strode proudly, a team unmatched and essentially untested. Too powerful, too arrogant, too rightfully arrogant I might add, they were set up to win big and unbeknowst to them in the end to fail grandly. Ten, fifteen, twenty games ahead, they made themselves the sitting duck at which resentment and ill-will could so easily be aimed.
Not one soul would have been surprised had they swept away the Blues four games to none. No sane mind would have blamed the Blues for this kind of result.
Those Blues, that won the Blue League championship on the season's last day. Their starting rotation in disarray because of this. They had to be on their toes all season long, at their heels the hound dogs of the "land"-clubs. Those methodical, serious Blues had  no time for boasting or early celebrations like their Red brothers. They had to work hard every single day, every game and every pitch. Forever tinkering with that Old Blue Machine, that sometimes was sputtering and in danger of blowing up. But the engineers of the ballgame, Matt Olson, Wes Tate and the others labored dilligently to have the Old Blue Machine churn out that one single win more than what their competitors could manage. They succeeded and found themselves to be the underst-dog against the gleamingly-armored Red team in the Con-Cup.

Game one pitted the Reds' ace David Alkire against Jon Palmer, a 24-year old kid with one complete season and a couple of coffees under his belt. Palmer smoothly shifted from the coffee table to the dinner table, grabbed everything within reach and left the Red predators starving. The final bill showed a 6-3 Blues win.
Game two stuck at 2-2 after 6 innings and remained so for the next some 15 innings. During that 21 inning odessy through nothingness, the Blues let the Reds run against the wall numerous times. The final tally of stranded red baserunners stood at 60, when they pushed one of their own home from 3rd at last.
The next six games were a series of strikes and counterstrikes as if both teams had secretly agreed to resolve the matter in game number seven. Of course each contest was fiercely contested, an assortment of Red knights struggling to keep a band of journeyman in check with halfway success only.

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