The situation is set up nicely for him here, coming in as a lefty to face the lefty Bako. He gets him on a grounder to Hart for the first out in the top of the eighth.
Baker brings in Doug Glanville to pinch-hit in the ninth spot, It's an expected move, as Glanville is a righty and Kline a lefty. La Russa could bring in another pitcher here, and he's certainly not above doing it. But with Lofton the lefty on deck, Kline is staying right where he is. In addition, the presence of Kline prevents Baker from going to the lefty bats he has lying in wait on the bench.
He throws a good slider that tails away. Glanville swings and makes contact. He hits it hard on the ground. If he had hit it to the right spot, it would have been an easy single through the infield. But it's straight at Hart. He comes up on the ball. And the ball stays down, skittering through Hart's legs into the outfield. Glanville is on first on the error, and bad karma once again soaks the night. Because now Lofton is up. And it isn't simply that Lofton is a pain in the ass, at his age still able to get on base and advance chaos in his shuffling glide.
He is Kline's eternal nemesis, the psychotic ex-girlfriend who sends you creepy notes through the mail to remind you she's still around. Some pitchers truly do have Kung Fu serenity. They react to nothing; that blank stare when they give up a homer is a two-way mirror into the blankness inside them, blessedly free of any and all memory. Kline is not like that. He remembers every pitch he has ever thrown in the major leagues since he first came up with Cleveland in 1997. He catalogues them in his head like an anal-compulsive librarian. And he remembers what Lofton did to him in the ninth inning of the 2002 National League Championship series, when there were two outs and runners on first and second and Kline came in specifically to face Lofton, and Lofton hit a hanging slider on the first pitch to right center to win the game and the pennant.
Now he's facing Lofton again, this time in the top of the eighth of a 2–2 game with a runner on first and one out. Regardless of past history, La Russa has the lefty-versus-lefty matchup he wants. But it's the late innings of a razor-close game, one of those games in which nothing ever turns out to be entirely harmless.
Kline throws a slider on the first pitch, a nice crispy slider tailing to the outside. Lofton takes it. A called strike: 0 and 1.
Kline throws another slider. It goes into the sweet spot of the plate, not only against the wishes of Kline but also Matheny, who has set up outside. La Russa has seen this pitch before; it's the same pitch he threw Lofton in the National League Championship series.
Lofton nails it. He tags it, drills it, creams it, drives it, powers it, powders it, smokes it, kills it, commits every baseball cliché of hitting and then some.
It's headed for the gap in right center between Robinson and Edmonds: The only thing they can do is to vainly chase after it. Glanville is easily around third and on his way to home, and Lofton will have a stand-up triple out of this thing. It's a disaster, a 3–2 Cubs lead with one out and a man on third and the meat of the order coming up.
Until the ball bounces off the dirt of the warning track and into the stands. It's a ground-rule double. Which means that Glanville has to go back to third instead of scoring the go-ahead run. It's a potentially enormous break, and Lofton has only himself to blame; he was so eager to humiliate Kline once again that he simply hit the ball too damn hard.
Kline is out, replaced by the righty DeJean, with Martinez due up. He's a righty, so it only makes sense for Baker to bring in a left-handed pinch hitter. He has several on the bench, but Baker doesn't make the move, and La Russa assumes it's because Baker knows his team better than anyone else.
La Russa signals for the infield to play in. The count goes to 1 and 1 on Martinez. DeJean throws a forkball that doesn't tumble down. Martinez gets a piece of it and lines it to center field.
Edmonds is playing shallow. He likes to play shallow, a reflection of his confidence and penchant for drama. He takes two steps in and catches the ball high in the glove, glancing for a split second in the stitch of the webbing to make sure he caught it. He has his momentum going for him, and he's going to need it because Glanville is tagging up from third and trying to score and here comes the best craziness in all of sports.
He's running full bore and he's quick and Matheny moves two steps up the line, awaiting the throw, and Edmonds makes an over-the-top throw with beautiful carry and La Russa can see it and so can Duncan and so can Morris as he leaps off the back bench because it's gonna be close, it's gonna be really close, and while it's all happening fast, very fast, there's also a slow-motion quality to it as Edmonds throws the ball and Matheny awaits the ball and Glanville comes down the line, hoping he gets there before the ball and who will intersect with what when?
The throw is dead solid perfect. It gives Matheny time to take those two steps up the third-base line and set up in a stoic crouch. It's going to be a wreck at home plate, a serious wreck. Sosa, due up next, leaves the on-deck circle and, like a bystander vainly trying to ward off a car crash, motions to Glanville with his hands to get down, get down. But the throw is too far ahead of Glanville, his only choice to go for the high-impact head-on collision. He barrels into Matheny, using his forearm to hit him in the face. He uses the rest of his body to try to flatten him. Matheny does a full 360-degree pirouette. His glove goes flying, and if the ball is still in there, Glanville is safe, and the Cubs will win because there's no way you lose after a play like this.
It takes a second, maybe two, the crowd going berserk and two entire dugouts up on their toes and the home plate umpire bending his neck into this Bill Gallo cartoon swirl of arms and legs and what belongs to whom and who belongs to what, charged with answering everybody's question: Where is the ball?
Where is the ball? It's in Matheny's bare hand. He switched it from his glove right before impact. Glanville is out.
HE'S OUT!!!
The crowd goes more berserk, the mix of love and relief and maybe a few I-told-you-sos, although nobody could have ever told you so, a double play like this to end the inning. Edmonds trots in from center field into the dugout into a sea of high-fives led by Rolen and Renteria. He sits in the back of the dugout with his cap off, sweaty and luxuriant, his hair, so carefully slicked back before each game in his Hollywood style, now standing at attention in certain spots. It's a great play, so great that La Russa leaves his foxhole to congratulate him, an almost surreptitious shake of the hand because he believes that this is a player's moment to be shared by other players and that the last place a manager should be is in the middle of it, as if he somehow had something to do with it. Then he goes back to the foxhole because it's still not over, one of those games that just might reach into infinity, the karma meter flopping so wildly, there's no point in trying to glean anything from it, except that whatever happens, it's not going to be emotionally simple.
III
REMLINGER GETS the call from Baker in the bullpen to replace Zambrano. He retires the side in order in the bottom of the eighth.
DeJean answers in the top of the ninth by retiring Sosa and Alou and Simon.
Remlinger is still there in the bottom of the ninth, with Robinson due to lead off. It makes sense for Baker to leave Remlinger in there, as he's getting a lefty-versus-lefty matchup. La Russa knows that, of course, but he doesn't counter off the bench with a pinch hitter. Because of Remlinger's anomaly, better against righties than his own kind, he's leaving Robinson in the game. But the decision should not be confused with a newfound faith in Robinson after his last at-bat, when he doubled and drove in a run. One double does not demolish a doghouse. Robinson himself has no illusions. Between halves of the inning, when La Russa went to Cairo on the bench and told him to get ready to pinch-hit, Robinson assumed that Cairo was going in for him.
"No, no, no," La Russa told him. "You go ahead and hit."
He's hoping that Robinson can use his speed to his advantage here and maybe get on even if it's weakly hit. He's actually thinking less about Robinson than about what moves
he will make if Robinson does get to first. It suggests an opportunity to have Cairo bunt him over to second when he pinch-hits for the next batter. But if Robinson advances to second, it will also mean that first base is open, which will take the bat out of Pujols's hands, as Baker will surely walk him. Which in turn will make the matchup between Edmonds and Remlinger the key matchup of the inning. So he isn't quite sure what to do here, and he won't know for sure until Robinson's at-bat is over.
Remlinger is in the Popeye mold of a pitcher, squat and short-looking, even though he's listed at 6'1". His physiognomy suggests power but his best pitch is his changeup, and he will use it anywhere in the count.
The Cubs are thinking that Robinson will want to use his speed here; they're playing him in at the corners and conceding him the right-field line, as he never pulls it that far. He's thinking about using his speed, too, showing bunt on the first pitch but pulling off and taking a strike looking for 0 and 1. He fouls off the next pitch to dig himself an immediate 0-and-2 dungeon. La Russa, one hand on the staircase railing, has a feeling that he can stop musing over whether to have Cairo bunt Robinson to second, because Robinson isn't going to make it out of the batter's box.
Remlinger throws a curve ball a little low to make the count 1 and 2. He throws a fastball up and in to make the count 2 and 2. He throws another fastball high to make the count 3 and 2. Robinson doesn't walk very much, but maybe he can squeeze a walk here, keep the spigot open for the bigger boys. Bako, the catcher, wants a changeup. But Remlinger shakes off the sign; he wants a fastball, so a fastball is what he's going to throw. He comes with it, and Robinson makes contact.
He pulls it into right the exact way he should have pulled it in the fifth when he needed to advance Morris to third. At the very least, La Russa will have to give him credit for getting to the fastball and putting a good swing on it.
But suddenly, everybody in the dugout rises in synch. They're watching and watching and watching because he just hit the living hell out of it, and they're watching some more because it always seems to take forever and every pair of eyes is turned the same way and willing it the same way, with those eyes stretched north because Can you really believe this, is this really happening?
And then the catch is made in right field. By Simontacchi, in the bullpen, with his cap.
3–2 Cardinals. It's over.
Players pour onto the field as if there's a fire drill. They run to home plate and form a line like a wedding party. Robinson jumps on the plate and is enclosed, buried beneath Pujols and Rolen and Edmonds and Hart and Matheny and Renteria and Morris and Williams and a dozen others. They form a circle around Robinson and start jumping up and down in lovely unbridled joy, their faces bent and bursting: thirty-year-olds, some of them with the exuberance of fifteen-year-olds. It lasts for a few seconds, this circle bouncing up and down to its own beat, and you really wouldn't mind if it lasted the whole night. You could simply sit back and watch, because it shows you what baseball can still be when it wants to be: a game for little boys that grown men are lucky enough to play.
La Russa hugs Robinson when he finally escapes from beneath the bodies, making it clear that under certain circumstances, managers have even shorter memories than relievers. Robinson runs off to do the postgame TV interview because he is the star this night, maybe the star of the season in some utterly improbable way. Then Oquendo whispers something to La Russa that has nothing to do with his coaching responsibilities at third base. La Russa laughs, actually laughs, so you know that whatever Oquendo just said has to be worth something.
"When are you gonna kiss my ass?" Oquendo asks him.
For the first and only time during these three nights in August, La Russa is out of moves.
The spontaneous combustion ends once Robinson escapes. The players disengage and trot down the steps of the dugout into the tunnel that winds under the ratty pipes to the clubhouse. They are still excited, still chatty. They have taken the rubber game of the three-game series. They have taken two out of three against the Cubs. They are tied for first place in the division on a summer night that should always have baseball somewhere within it. They are also tied for first in the traffic jam of the Wild Card. With one victory, they've earned two possible trajectories to the playoffs.
The effects of this experience will linger, stay in the blood of these players: a few of them stars and a few of them recognized outside of the city in which they toil but most of them only anonymous pieces in the vast puzzle of the game that will go on and on after their spaces are taken up by other puzzle pieces. They will think about the three-game series they have just played. Robinson will think about it, the way in which he traveled from the doghouse to heaven at the same velocity as the home run he just creamed to right. Morris will think about it, a performance that no doubt brings a smile to the face of the silent protector who stays near him wherever he goes. Williams will think about it, the way he went head to head against Wood and outpitched him with quiet verve. Martinez will think about it, the momentary relief of standing on first just having done what maybe, just maybe, you weren't sure you could do anymore, although you would never admit that to anyone. Drew will think about it, knowing that by not playing in a single inning these past three nights, his days in a Cardinals uniform are probably numbered, better for him to start over somewhere else, unburdened by burdens. Eldred will think about it, how he shouldn't be here at all. Stephenson will think about it, the unforgiving repercussions of pitching with too much of your heart and not enough of your head, although come to think about it, Stephenson probably won't think about it. Rolen will think about it, quietly, very very quietly. Pujols will think about it, wondering why he didn't get a hit on every at-bat. Kline will think about it, continued nightmares of being told to kiss the bride and lifting up the veil and seeing that it's frigging Lofton, Lofton at the register when he's in the checkout line searching for his bonus card, Lofton in the car next to him when he stops at a red light, Lofton asking him whether he prefers a window seat or an aisle, Lofton, Lofton, Lofton, smiling in such a way that it does resemble a hit into the gap.
La Russa will think about the three-game series. So will Duncan. So will Oquendo, who probably knows, despite unimpeachable witnesses, that La Russa will never dole out what he so emphatically promised in the bottom of the fifth in his impassioned vow never ever to start Robinson again.
Player or coach, star or invisible man, hustler or somebody who simply hustles, happy to be there or unhappy to be anywhere, the future in front of you or the future behind you, it doesn't really matter right now. Each and every one of them will let the three-game series just played continue to sit and settle for a little bit. They will allow themselves the pleasure, for at least as long as it takes to strip off the uniform to grab the shower to change into the street clothes to go to the airport to fly on the charter to sleep in the hotel room to arrive at the ballpark to start another one beginning tomorrow, still what it is despite so many efforts to make it feel like something else, still a part of us even when we say never again, what La Russa believes it to be and will always believe it to be because a quarter century in the foxhole of the dugout, if it has taught him anything, has taught him this.
Beautiful. Just beautiful baseball.
Epilogue
TONY LA RUSSA waited in the dugout after the game was over. Dignity and professionalism required it no matter what he felt inside: an almost surreal deflation. He waited to see whether Red Sox manager Terry Francona would look over from the Busch visitor's dugout to acknowledge him so that La Russa in turn could give his own acknowledgment, the silent language of the victor and the vanquished.
The Red Sox had done it in 2004. They had won the World Series, not in seven games or six or even five, but in a four-game sweep over the Cardinals. La Russa waited for a minute or so—although the dugout was the last place he wanted to be, just a further rub-it-in reminder of the scene of the crime—the bearlike bodies of the Red Sox with their mountain-men beards
and grizzly hair in a Rubik's Cube hug less than a hundred feet away. But Francona was understandably busy, caught up in the joy of his players. So La Russa left, walking by himself into the tunnel, passing beneath the exposed pipes on the way to the clubhouse, which right now had to be the saddest single place in the world. He walked toward a terrible coda on what by any measure had been a fantastic season for the Cardinals, maybe the most special team that La Russa had ever managed.
Even after that delicious third night in August, the Cardinals still lost the Central Division to the Cubs in 2003. As for 2004, none of the pundits had any faith in St. Louis. With the Astros making moves for starting pitchers Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte, with the Cubs still stoked by the triumvirate of Prior and Wood and Zambrano, the Cardinals were universally picked to finish third. Their starting pitching wasn't good enough. Their bullpen wasn't good enough. With J.D. Drew traded to Atlanta, there was a problem in right because J.D. at 75 percent was still better than many right fielders at 100 percent. There was also a problem at second, because Bo Hart, as valiant as he was, could not sustain the rigors of a full season as a starter. In the off-season, the Cardinals looked on like envious children as the superbrats made the multimillion-dollar moves that still define the game—Schilling to the Red Sox and everyone else to the Yankees.
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