Michael's Corner

Not yesterday, but Sunday a week ago, Kathy and I strolled Main Street in Lake Placid, New York. As we dipped in and out of stores and took time for a light lunch, a good portion of our attention was devoted to what was taking place on my phone. As T-Mobile subscribers, we have the MLB app available to us for free, and a certain husband, whether at home or abroad, takes full advantage of it.

It was a gloomy afternoon, not because the skies were gray but because our beloved Phillies, who were going for their ninth straight win, were utterly listless: striking out, hitting weak pop flies, and grounding into double plays. They entered the ninth inning trailing 4-0. Kathy nor I had any hope that a comeback was possible; as fans, you get a vibe for such events as coming back when apparently left for dead. Nevertheless, we continued watching and waiting for a dismal and dispiriting afternoon of baseball to finally end. And then the bottom of the ninth inning began with one quick out—a lazy fly ball to left field.

“It just wasn’t their day,” Kathy lamented.

“Apparently not,” I grudgingly agreed.

The second out was a carbon copy of the first—a lazy fly ball to left field. The third batter of the inning got two quick strikes on him. One more strike and the torture would end, and Kathy and I could thankfully turn the phone off and enjoy Lake Placid properly.

“Let’s get some ice cream,” Kathy chirped. “It’ll make us feel better.”

In a flash, I tried to calculate the football, basketball, soccer, and hockey equivalent of the gloomy scenario known as the bottom of the ninth inning, two outs, two strikes, and down 4-0. Since then, I’ve spent a week trying to figure out mathematical equivalencies that would leave enough time on the game clock for a potential comeback. Trust me, there aren’t any. An NFL Football team would have to score four times in 70 seconds. Ain’t happenin’

One more strike and it’s ice cream time. But wait, the third batter of the inning whacked a double. It’s just a tease, I thought. I can already feel the cold ice cream sliding down my throat. I hope they have rum raisin. Maybe mint chocolate chip. The next batter singled. Mmm, I thought, trying not to get my hopes too high. The next batter walked, loading the bases as the ice cream parlor came into view.

Now I can’t very well look over twenty flavors of ice cream and make a selection while the bases are loaded; that’s way too much stimulation for an OCD brain accustomed to hyper-focusing on one thing at a time.

Next, the Phillies manager, Don Mattingly, called for a pinch hitter, Edmundo Sosa. Down to his last strike, Sosa, who had been sitting on the bench all afternoon, waiting for an opportunity, whacked a bases-clearing double, making the score 4-3.

“Oh, my God!” Kathy cried. “They’re gonna do it!”

From gloom to the threshold of euphoria. Baseball exists on a niche plane—a place where hope and insanity dance for those willing to risk the cruelty of heartbreak. In other words, it was not the right time for enjoying ice cream.

With two strikes, Bryan De la Cruz singles home Edmundo Sosa. The game is tied. At long last, it is safe to venture into the ice cream parlor and browse its inspiring offerings. But before I managed to whittle down my choices to what could fit into one three-scoop cup, there came the crack of a bat. Next, Kyle Schwarber stood after a mighty swing and admired a blast that would travel 460 feet from home plate. From gloom to euphoria, the cycle was complete; the improbability of baseball, a clockless game divisible by three, strikes again. For what remained of the day, Kathy and I were too giddy to hold a thought in our heads. You may have eaten ice cream that day, but trust me, it didn’t taste as good as ours.