Bicostal by nature as well as by life circumstance, I grew up a Red Sox fan guilty as to the reason why I could never seem to root for the ballclub of my birthplace, the LA Dodgers, who won the year I was born and seemed to summon up prime time October magic unlike the sadistic karma of my twisted sister of fan loyalty doomed to the curse of the Babe.
Case in point -- 1988. Mom and apple pie was on the brink of the 90s, an era in which Americana was to be dominated by Generation X and the "evil is hip" crowd. As a result, all movies, music and pop culture would soon be dreck. And not to be undone in its undoing, baseball was on its way to becoming a video game filled with athletes who belonged in the WWF or a gridiron and not anyone's field of dreams.
In no uncertain terms, Tommy Lasorda's blue crew represented what was still fair and square and legit about the game. While Tony LaRussa's Steroid Supermen made up a new Frankenstein guard who were but one juiced baseball season away from igniting the junk in their physiques to make the game more watchable for athletic speed freaks unworthy to be fans to begin with.
Tommy was baseball's answer to Vince Lombardi. Tony was baseball's answer to
William F. Buckley. The Bash Brothers were transplanted X-Men who belonged in an extreme sport arena. Bulldog (Orel Hershiser) and Gibby (Kirk Gibson) were good old day throwbacks from a bygone era. You could almost see them playing dead ball with the old timers. Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire you could see living La Vida Loca in between dates with Andro.
The As were supposed to win on brute strength, speed and a Hall Of Fame closer. Los Dodgers were supposed to lose on the law of averages, low BA vs. low ERA, that is. Tony L. didn't have to rest on the micro management laurels of his small ball philosophy. He could manufacture runs. But he also had the loaded guns to win big. Tommy L. didn't have to worry about inspiring heart in his Tinseltown troops. They could save what was left of their broken ones for a Valentine's Day sweetheart while Oakland got its rings.
But the one moment in time romanticized by a pop diva tune was to set the baseball world on it's rear end. And LA fan or not, we would never look at a storybook dinger the same way again. Gibson's home run trot into the wild Dodger blue yonder has become the No. 1 greatest moment in LA sports history. And it is the last pure athletic feat that defined the against all odds unpredictability of the sweet science before 90s baseball stats begged for asterisks.
Upon entering the '88 post season, Kirk Gibson would have been better off with a peg leg or a pogo stick than the bum appendage he had to stand on. Mr. Clutch was losing the battle of wounded knee. Bulldog was fresh off the high of a scoreless innings streak. Yet half of Lasorda's weapon arsenal was MIA for the long haul and would be DOA in a lost cause. He'd have one good swing in him to pop up and end Game One. Then the A's would sweep. NOT.
Instead, we all know what happened. Gibby turned his at bat into a Damon Runyon play act. And luck was a lady that night. Broken down into slow motion, the limp shot was not really a
modern home run at all. In my mind, it became a classic the instant it left the bat. And not just for the moment, but the movement.
After all, there was no juice on it. No force. Only pinball wizardry. So it had to be hit with destiny on the label and no muscle to bring to the table. Or plate. As indeed, what seemed a silver platter tee ball sitter was really half limp, part lunge and "it ain't over till it's over" desperation.
Gib didn't hit that ball. He simply let Eck bounce the hard slider off his bat and let go of it as soon as he made contact. And away it went up...up into the cheering right field seats. It was the end of the ball game as well as the end of an era -- of EHR: Earned Home Runs.
Yes, once upon a time when baseball was more thinking man's poker than weight room entension and cheap hits and bad pitches were dice thrown and not physiology muscled, the long shots weren't always that lengthy. They were too busy being mythical. In a day and age where more fans are interested in how Barry Bonds hit than who won, I find it ironic that one of the most dramatic yardbirds in all of baseball history was hit with a guy on one leg.
Such casual fairness and althletic grace is gone forever in a heyday of big city monopolies, strikes and stoic businessmen playing a kid's game by the numbers with no soul. Now that punch and judy juice is on the loose in bodies and balls, I fear that we will never ever see a home run of the likes of Gibby's legendary limp shot again.
However, like a priceless art painting, it will maintain its timelessness, never to be outdone or over-dramatized by the premature growth of the game.
In the public consciousness, given the new baseball oil and canvas, the old colorful brushstrokes have all but been replaced by black and white finger paints. Winning means too much. And the business end of the sport entices even superstars to cheat to do so. Cheated of two legs to hit on, it's safe to say that Kirk Gibson was the last man in MLB to earn a homer short of an in the park foot race by a speedster. If you're a purist.
If not, then Gibby's shock jack was an aberration that made the rest of the '88 Fall Classic a bore. But the limp shot stamped in my memory a time after which baseball the way I knew it was never the same again. In '89 came the SF earthquake. In between a bright spot lumed in the '91 Twins, who are now threatened with contraction. But
'94 brought the strike. Then juiced balls, maple bats and now steriod confessions.
What's next, aluminum bats? If so, they better move the pitcher's mount 5 feet back and justify ballpark dimensions.
Today, if a one legged slugger should ever match Gibby's '88 Roy Hobbs job, the bat will break, cork will spill out and the lost band aid covering the needle marks will be sold on Ebay for a small fortune. In short, money players make for a money game. And in a money game, earned runs are in the eye of the beholder.
» Hank Festa is a 30-something LA based free lancer who welcomes work from baseball realists who share his purist beliefs.
Also by Hank Festa
» Flamethrower's Epiphany: Confessions Of A Live Arm
» In The Event Of A Strike...: The Time Off Must Be Used to Fix the Game
» More submissions
Copyright © 2002 by Hank Festa. Posted June 6, 2002.
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