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Our Last Game

A Story of Loss

By Mike TannerPublished 6 years ago 9 min read
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On Tuesday, August 1, 2000, 17,469 people walked into Oakland Stadium to watch the hometown Athletics take on the Toronto Blue Jays. The Athletics were two years away from the famous, or infamous, Moneyball years and the Jays were seven years removed from their back to back World Series titles. While the A’s would go on to win 97 games that year and win the AL West, little suggested that either of these teams were a World Series contender. And so I didn’t bother turning on the game. I was slightly preoccupied.

Days before the game, my grandfather had suffered yet another health setback when he had suffered a stroke. He was not well and had not been well for some time. The man that I used to watch baseball with was gone and in his place was a shell. The latest setback had left him in a great deal of pain and this was being counteracted by a great deal of painkillers which left him, more or less, as a vegetable. My family took turns watching over him in his hospital room, essentially waiting for the other shoe to fall and my grandfather to pass.

I was 20 years old and this was my first real “brush with death.” I had mostly spent the time by my mother’s side while she grieved for the impending loss of her father. However, spending several hours at the hospital left my family members with the need to replenish the caffeine and nicotine that coursed through their veins. My mother asked if it would be ok if they stepped out for a few minutes and I took the opportunity to be the strong, stoic son and suggested that she actually head down to my grandmother’s house to grab a bite to eat. I knew that she likely wouldn't eat and that instead she would smoke a half of a pack of cigarettes and drink an extra large 4 and 4 from Tim Horton's, but it made me feel good to try to help.

When my mom left, I just sort of sat around for a few minutes before I realized that I was, for all intents and purposes, alone. My grandfather was on a floor where they didn't check on you very often because it was wholly unnecessary. It was made very clear to my mother and my grandmother and to my entire family that my grandfather was not going to survive and in his condition, that was probably for the best. In any case, it left me very much alone with my grandfather.

So I did what anyone would do, mostly alone in a hospital room; I turned on the television. I hopped around the channels (I'm notorious as a channel surfer) and was absolutely positive that there was no way I was going to find anything of interest, until I stumbled upon a Jays game. And that's when my grandfather sat up in bed.

To suggest that my grandfather had not been talkative in the days leading up to this would be a gross exaggeration. He hadn't said a word, or reacted to any stimulus whatsoever, for almost a week. He was entirely non-communicative...until I turned on the Jays game. The Blue Jays were mired in yet another ordinary season. They were two games above .500 with seemingly no possibility of turning things around. They were mired in a five-game losing streak and were playing in Oakland against a team that was just plain better than they were.

We tuned in midway through the third inning. It was a scoreless game and was looking like it might just stay that way. But over the course of the next several innings my grandfather and I spoke at length about what the Jays were doing right (a short conversation), what they were doing wrong (most things) and the state of baseball in general. I went on and on about my love for a little known flash in the pan Blue Jay shortstop named Eddie Zosky (coincidentally, Zosky would make his final major league appearance exactly two months later, on October 1, 2000, for the Houston Astros) and my grandfather talked about fundamentals and how the timing was off with these hitters and how they just didn't work at it hard enough anymore.

Esteban Loazia was on the mound for Toronto. He was in the midst of what would be his worst season in terms of losses (ten) and was three years away from being runner up to Roy Halladay for the 2003 Cy Young Award when he would go 21-9. Barry Zito was pitching for Oakland.

It was still scoreless in the top of the sixth when Shannon Stewart singled to left field, stole second, advanced to third on a flyout to right and scored on a single to center by Tony Batista. My grandfather commented that it was about time they stole a base. According to my grandfather, stolen bases and hitting fundamentals were the key to great baseball.

In the bottom of the seventh, New Brunswick born Matt Stairs singled to left, went to second on a single and scored from second when Jason "The Good One" Giambi singled to center. After seven innings, the game was tied at one. Zito left the game after the seventh, giving up one run on four hits, walking two and striking out three. Matt Stairs was actually coached by my childhood baseball coach, a strange man who is the catalyst in a story that I love about my cousin Timmy.

Timmy and I both pitched for our minor league baseball team. Timmy was older than me and a much better athlete. One particular evening, in between innings of a game that I was pitching (quite well if I do say so), our coach came to me to talk about the first batter up. He was their pitcher and was dominating our hitters. Our coach, knowing that while I didn't have a lot of speed, I did have a lot of control, asked me to plunk him...on the arm...his pitching arm. I'd never been asked to hit a batter before, and never since. I don't think it actually has a place in the game, but that's just me.

In any case, I refused. I was told that I was useless and that I was out of the game. I stayed on the bench crying while he asked Timmy to do what I would not. Timmy looked at me, looked at the coach, took the ball and walked to the mound. The other team's pitcher came up to bat. Timmy wound up for the pitch...and threw the ball into the dugout, hitting our coach in the shoulder. He then walked off the mound and sat with me on the bench. I love baseball. And I love Timmy.

Loaiza kept pitching until the bottom of the ninth when the Jays brought in Billy Koch. Koch is more noted for his career in Oakland, where he was traded two years later than he is for his time in Toronto. Born in New York, Koch was taken fourth overall in the '96 amateur draft. After he was traded to Oakland, he thrived and in 2002 was considered for the AL MVP. In 2000, he went 9-3 with a 2.63 ERA and 33 saves, seventh most in the majors. Koch retired the side and the game when into extra innings. We're now seven innings into my grandfather's miraculous awakening. We continued to chat, never straying far from the subject of baseball. Grampy didn't talk about feelings or school or girls. He talked about baseball and work. In that order. In any case, I was happy to chat baseball with him. It's something we did regularly at home. I used to watch three to four games a week with my grandfather. If there was a game on and I was watching something else, I heard about it and quickly either changed the channel or relinquished the remote. My grandfather was not a man I would ever consider disobeying, even at the end.

In the top of the tenth Jason Isringhausen struck out Shannon Stewart and Craig Grebeck, neither feat that impressive, before giving up a single to Tony Batista. He then struck out Carlos Delgado, probably the only solid piece of a team that Toronto had at the time. So the A's came up in the bottom of the tenth. Koch struck out Eric Chavez and Terrence Long but sandwiched between those two strikeouts, he plunked Ramon Hernandez. And up came Randy Valarde.

As a hitter, Valarde would be what you would call a journeyman. His .276 average over the course of a 16-year career is not horrible, and he actually hit .286 over the course of his three years in Oakland, but averaging 13 home runs a year doesn't exactly strike fear into the heart of your opponents.

My grandfather thought Valarde was "a bum" and took this opportunity to say so. I remember thinking how often I'd heard my grandfather call a baseball player a bum and how much that term has stuck with me. To me, it describes someone who is utterly worthless. Valarde seemed pretty content to get a walk out of Koch and just get on base, something that only happened about 25 percent of the time. He watched three balls whiz by before Koch finally got a strike in on him.

Growing up, you're usually told to never swing at the first pitch. You're told not to swing until you have a strike against you. Apparently, Valarde had already been taught that. three balls and one strike got Valarde ready to go and he took the next pitch to left center. Home run. Game over.

Not only was that the end of the game, but that was the end of my grandfather. He never said another word. He didn't call Valarde a bum. He didn't talk about fundamentals or pitching or anything. He just picked up the remote that was by his bed, lowered himself back down so that he was lying down and never uttered another word for the rest of his life, which would be one more week. I went back to channel surfing for a few minutes and then I turned off the TV and just sat. My mom came back. I stepped out and grabbed something to eat myself.

I loved watching baseball with my grandfather. It's a game that lends itself to conversation. I had a good friend recently say that watching a baseball game is a great way to hang out because there's really nothing happening for most of the time. A couple years back, my best friend started watching baseball and I started watching again with him. We didn't say much because he and I have never had to say much but the experience reminded me of that time with my grandfather. Now, every once in awhile, I'll turn on the game and watch a few innings. I'm usually doing something else at the time and I'm never fully invested. But I watch it. And I think about him. And the last game he ever watched. And the last day he ever spoke.

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About the Creator

Mike Tanner

I am a stay at home father of two who ALSO runs a digital agency, organizes a few conferences and writes for a number of blogs related to parenting and entrepreneurship. Oh. And I love board games and D&D.

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