FF: Tryin'
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"It's about hoping it's about dreaming
It's about never not believing
It's about taking a
Walk on the wire
And never looking down
It's about living instead of
Dying it's about spreading your
Wings and flying yeah yeah
Yeah it's all about tryin'."
'Tryin'' - Little Big Town
'Little Big Town' - 2002 Monument Nashville
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Dodger Stadium
100 Elysian Park Ave.,
Los Angeles, CA
Saturday 15 October 1988
"I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up - “
"It's not that the Dodgers have really won anything, it's just that the rest of the National League lost worse. String, I get it, okay?" St. John Hawke looked over with the exasperated fondness only an older brother could have for a younger one. He'd only been back on American soil for six full weeks today, the first two of which had been spent flat on his back in the hospital, floating in and out of reality. He knew he'd have to have patience with everyone's tendency to treat him as if he was about as strong as wet cotton candy. Eventually he'd have to declare his independence, once he got used to being home and safe after nineteen years. He was not at all sure that would ever happen. So far, he wasn’t proving to be anything more useful around the Santini Air hangar than ballast. The ride home was as close as he ever wanted to get to that screaming black monster everyone else was so fond of. Apparently, because he’d been discovered and brought home by String himself - nearly three thousand miles away from where ‘The Firm’ had been looking - ‘The Deal’ had been reassessed, and Airwolf was still in their possession.
Looking up to locate the kids, he caught sight of the majestic stadium. The last time he'd been here was a Thursday night in September of 1965. Knowing his older brother was shipping out in ten days for someplace called 'South Vietnam' - which he'd had to scour a globe for five minutes just to find - then-fifteen-year-old Stringfellow Hawke had hit up their guardian, Dominic Santini. Even though it was a school night, to attend that night's Dodgers game, against the Chicago Cubs. How could they have known it would be the night Dodgers ace Sandy Koufax discovered perfection ... even as his left arm was threatening to fall off? St. John stopped in his tracks, drinking in the sight of the ballpark. "It hasn't changed," he commented in a wondering tone.
"Nope. Just the names on the uniforms. And us."
"I could still skin you." St. John accused, but it was losing its heat. He'd spent nineteen long years imagining String and Dom in their seats at Dodger Stadium ... only to finally find his way home and discover that String hadn't been able to bring himself to go, without his brother there. Even when the Houston Astros came to town and Nolan Ryan was scheduled to start for Houston, it was Dom who'd attended games with String's wife, Caitlin. Cait had mostly gone to California Angels games against her beloved, hapless Texas Rangers alone.
The kids had stopped once they reached the sidewalk, a knot of Dodger Blue satin jackets and blue jeans, broken only by the darker blue of Vin's Dallas Cowboys jacket. He'd plopped a Dodgers ballcap on his head, but that was as far away from loyalty to the Rangers as he was willing to go. To say the collected Hawke kids were a mixed bag was an understatement. String's sons Sam Roper, 16, and Vin Tanner, 15; his twin daughters Merry and C.C. Hamilton, 13; and St. John's kids, Le Van, 15, and Linh Mei, 12.
St. John's wife, Tuyen, had become separated from Le Van in the chaos of escaping from her village when it was overrun by the North Vietnamese Army. Le Van ended up with her younger sister, Minh, and Tuyen had wound up in Sài Gòn. Alone and pregnant with Linh Mei, she'd done her best to keep her head down, biding her time until she could get a space on a boat to Thailand. Having a child with blue eyes had bumped her up the list to be sponsored to America, and they'd eventually landed in the Little Saigon area in Garden Grove, in Orange County. One of Le Van's schoolmates had clued him in that a woman and young girl, new in town, were using the surname Hawke, and Le Van had begged Cait to drive him down. He'd been barely two the last time he'd seen her, but Le Van had known his mother the second he'd seen her. String and Dom had both sworn that Linh Mei had St John's eyes. The blood tests had been a formality, more to have it on paper if anyone asked than to prove anything. St. John had been stunned when he'd finally regained consciousness and found the family he'd believed lost camped out in his hospital room.
"We goin' to a ballgame, or posin' for animal crackers?" The teasing voice made both men smile. Cait leaned over the handlebars of Dom's wheelchair, her chin resting against the older man's ever-present red satin Santini Air ballcap. Dom poked his foster sons in the legs with his cane.
"Get a move on, you slowpokes. Someone else is already drinking my beer." Laughing, the adults moved to catch up with the kids.
Le Van: "Oh come on, Tim Belcher's not that bad. He was 12 and 6 for the regular season."
Merry: "They must not have a translation for 'stupid luck' on whatever planet you come from."
Sam: "They do, so - may mắn ngu ngốc. Lasorda used Bulldog the last game against the Mets Wednesday night, there's no way he can pitch him on two days rest."
C.C.: "But against Dave Stewart? Might as well ask a guppy to swallow a whale!"
Vin: "Eight innin's of Stewart, then Eckersley? Dodgers got a better chance of blowin' out th' sun than winnin' this game."
Linh Mei's English wasn't strong enough to participate in the argument between her brother and cousins, but she proudly held up the program Le Van had bought. Tuyen was looking at her son like she wasn't sure whether to hug him or smack him with the program she held. St. John stepped forward and slipped one arm around her waist, the other around Linh Mei's shoulders. He dropped his head to press a kiss to Tuyen's left temple. "We're an American family, Tuyen. And I want to introduce my best girls to Dodgers baseball."
Making sure to let Vin see the move was coming, String gently squeezed the teenager's wiry shoulder. "You okay? Awful crowd." Large amounts of people in a small amount of space made Vin feel like a cornered rabbit, and high noise levels only made it worse. He'd endured two Los Angeles Rams games, because his desire to see his beloved Dallas Cowboys was just that strong, but he'd been jumpy and withdrawn for days after. Vin nodded his head, disordered sandy curls bouncing off his Cowboys jacket.
"I'm okay. Megan an' Cait been teachin' me some things t'help in crowds an' such. Besides, I'm hungry" A corner of the kid's mouth twitched in a familiar grin, knowing String hadn't always been entirely comfortable with anything he himself could not fully explain. Dom's relationship with Megan Ravenson, the psychic who had helped them rescue Archangel that one time, had come as a surprise. The discovery that Caitlin was a hereditary witch from a long line of such had come as a shock. Initially String had seen it as Cait deliberately withholding information that could have been used against them, put Airwolf in danger. The moral panic about alleged Satanic abuse at preschools all over the country hadn't helped at all. Cait had come frighteningly close to packing her bags and going home to Texas, prickly relationship with her mother or not.
Until Archangel had produced Vin seemingly out of thin air, then Merry and C.C., who had been literally living in a shopping mall in Denver, Colorado. Hard on the heels of that, Sam and Nhi Huong Roper had died in a house fire that was suspicious at best - Roper’s father had been a career Chicago firefighter! Roper had next to no family left, but String had figured they'd name one of Roper's Air Force buddies as Sammy's guardians. The last person he'd been expecting to receive custody of the kid had been himself. He hadn't even been planning to breathe the words 'blood test,' but Sammy had. "I don't look like anyone in Roper's photo albums. I look an awful lot like you, and I'm tired of wondering."
Now he turned to crack a wide grin at his half-brother. "You're always hungry. I thought I used to eat everything in sight." An understanding look passed between the boys; Sam had spent several hard years on the streets of Sài Gòn - he refused to ever call it Hồ Chí Minh City - and was more than willing to try anything remotely edible at least once. String had silently thanked all the gods that nothing lasted in the fridge long enough to go bad.
With Dom and Cait getting a special pass-through because of the chair, they bumped through the turnstiles, String noticing that security had been picked up since the last time he'd been here. But heck, it had been seven years since L.A. had seen a World Series. Not surprisingly, once they'd found their seats - behind and above the Dodgers dugout, knowing Michael had some perks, after all - St. John collared his kids and made a beeline for the Dodger Dogs. Having been out of bed and moving by 0400, String wasn't interested in walking any more than he absolutely had to. He handed Sam and Vin enough money, and orders to bring back enough for everyone.
"And two for me!" Dom called out at their retreating backs. Vin waved to indicate he'd heard.
Cait looked at String. "I guess I'm drivin’?" He nodded and dug the keys out of his jeans pocket, looking around for a beer vendor. Spotting one, he held up three fingers as he passed Cait the keys. St. John returned in time for the player introductions, assisted String in helping Dom to his feet for the National Anthem, and then gratefully accepted his beer. Sam and Vin returned and passed around the chow, as the Dodgers took the field and the A's came up to bat. Le Van and St. John had their heads together over a program, as Le Van pointed around the field at each Dodgers player.
"The one guy we won't see tonight is Kirk Gibson. His right knee is almost the size of softball, and he yanked his left hamstring. I'd be surprised if he's even here." Le Van shook his head. "We sure could use him."
"I heard on the radio he's got the stomach flu or something, too." Merry called across from her seat.
"Yay." Le Van chomped down on his Dodger Dog, to give his mouth something else to do ... besides announcing to Tuyen what was going through his mind at the moment.
To start with, it was grim. Tim Belcher gave up a single to Dave Henderson, drilled Jose Canseco, and walked Mark McGwire. Mercifully, Terry Steinbach flied out to end the threat. A's ace Dave Stewart didn't fare much better, plunking Steve Sax then letting him get to second on a balk. Dodgers utility player Mickey Hatcher stepped in, and Sam dropped his head back and groaned. "Hatch couldn't hit the moon if Stewart threw it up there!"
"Oh yeah?" String shot back. "So what's that?" And Sam was out of his seat and shouting as Hatcher muscled a two-run homer, then ran around the bases like he was afraid the umpires would change their minds.
Spirits dropped a scant few minutes later, however, as Belcher allowed a single to Glenn Hubbard than walked both Stewart and Carney Lansford, to load the bases for Canseco. Canseco deposited a grand slam over the left-center field fence, ricocheting the ball off a TV camera. String, Dom and Cait winced, knowing only too well what those cameras cost. In the sixth, the Dodgers got to Stewart for three singles, the last one by catcher Mike Scioscia, which scored Mike Marshall from third. "Attaboy, Mikey!" Dom called out. "Bellisimo! Brava!"
The seventh and eighth innings passed uneventfully, with String making sure to buy a last round for himself, St. John and Dom before the seventh-inning stretch. Again, the brothers helped Dom to stand up, to sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Predictably, A's manager Tony LaRussa went to his star closer, Dennis Eckersley, for the ninth. The younger Hawkes shared glum looks. 'We know how this is gonna end.' Seemingly true to form, Eckersley got Scioscia to pop out, and struck out Jeff Hamilton.
After Hamilton, Mike Davis came up, with the pitcher's spot due after him. Until a year ago, Davis had been an A, and Eckersley knew only too well what Davis was capable of. Catcher Ron Hassey got Eckersley's attention, nodding to pinch hitter Dave Anderson waiting in the on-deck circle. Exercising caution in the belief that Anderson would be far the easier out, Eckersley dealt Mike Davis a walk.
Sam sat forward in his seat, having slumped back in misery at the sight of Dave Anderson. "Wait ... Lasorda's pulling Anderson back? He doesn't have anyone else!" "Oh yes he does!" Caroled C.C. “And look who it is!”
The entirety of Dodger Stadium erupted in cheers as Kirk Gibson hobbled to the plate, managing somehow to get there without having to use his bat for a cane. He took his place and stared out at Eckersley. Eckersley started off with two strikes, then two outside pitches for balls. Gibson fouled off the next two, one of which dribbled up the first base line before rolling foul, forcing Gibson to hobble after it in case it stayed fair.
St. John shook his head. “You have got to be kidding me. What’s this guy even doing here? He should be at home with his feet up.”
String glanced over. “San Diego Padres underestimated him in ’84.”
“Badly.” Le Van, Sam and Vin chorused.
Gibson hobbled back to the batter’s box, Eckersley retook his place on the mound. For several separated moments, Gibson received breathers, as Eckersley concerned himself with Mike Davis, who persisted in distracting his former teammate by dancing off first. When Eckersley was focused on Gibson, it was only to see his pitches become more souvenirs, fouled off into the seats. Eventually, as Mike Davis finally stole second base, Eckersley tossed in a ball. The count now stood full, three balls and two strikes. Kirk Gibson called time and stepped out for a moment, shaking one leg as a horse tried to shake off a bothersome fly.
Le Van was sitting straight up. “Three-two count … Lefty power hitter … Oh please, Dennis, oh please … ồ vui lòng … “
Gibson stepped back in, Eckersley came to his set position … and fired in an inside slider. On a 3-2 full count, to a left-handed power hitter. It was an ugly, awkward swing, all arms and shoulders with probably nothing below Kirk Gibson’s belt to back it up. But it was a swing, and the ball went soaring into the right field bleachers, a two-run walk-off game winning home run. Over the bleachers, below the JumboTron screen and scoreboard, the taillights of cars whose owners were about to leave flashed on, as those fans slammed on the brakes - realizing too late that they’d given up hope and left their seats too soon.
This time, Dom needed no help surging to his feet to join the rest of Dodger Stadium in a standing ovation as Kirk Gibson rounded the bases, pumping his right arm twice in victory as he touched second. His teammates had already come flying out of the dugout to greet him at the plate, mobbing him in delirious ecstasy. Dennis Eckersley stood alone on the pitcher’s mound, stunned.
Cait looked over and smiled as String and St. John cheered. Now they all had a moment to point to, when St. John started getting down on himself, feeling like he’d never overcome what had happened. That the nearly two decades he’d spent removed from his life were insurmountable. There had to be only two people in Dodger Stadium this night who hadn’t thought manager Tommy Lasorda was crazier than a Texas horny toad during mating season. Kirk Gibson, and Lasorda himself. Kirk hadn’t had any business being in the stadium at all in the condition he was in, never mind suited up to play. But he’d not only suited up, he’d played, against odds and injuries which would have felled at least 90% of any other players in the game. And he’d not only made it work, he’d won. On heart and fumes and sheer guts because he just hadn’t had anything else left in the tank, but he’d won. And someday, so would St. John Hawke.
The End
"It's about hoping it's about dreaming
It's about never not believing
It's about taking a
Walk on the wire
And never looking down
It's about living instead of
Dying it's about spreading your
Wings and flying yeah yeah
Yeah it's all about tryin'."
'Tryin'' - Little Big Town
'Little Big Town' - 2002 Monument Nashville
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Dodger Stadium
100 Elysian Park Ave.,
Los Angeles, CA
Saturday 15 October 1988
"I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up - “
"It's not that the Dodgers have really won anything, it's just that the rest of the National League lost worse. String, I get it, okay?" St. John Hawke looked over with the exasperated fondness only an older brother could have for a younger one. He'd only been back on American soil for six full weeks today, the first two of which had been spent flat on his back in the hospital, floating in and out of reality. He knew he'd have to have patience with everyone's tendency to treat him as if he was about as strong as wet cotton candy. Eventually he'd have to declare his independence, once he got used to being home and safe after nineteen years. He was not at all sure that would ever happen. So far, he wasn’t proving to be anything more useful around the Santini Air hangar than ballast. The ride home was as close as he ever wanted to get to that screaming black monster everyone else was so fond of. Apparently, because he’d been discovered and brought home by String himself - nearly three thousand miles away from where ‘The Firm’ had been looking - ‘The Deal’ had been reassessed, and Airwolf was still in their possession.
Looking up to locate the kids, he caught sight of the majestic stadium. The last time he'd been here was a Thursday night in September of 1965. Knowing his older brother was shipping out in ten days for someplace called 'South Vietnam' - which he'd had to scour a globe for five minutes just to find - then-fifteen-year-old Stringfellow Hawke had hit up their guardian, Dominic Santini. Even though it was a school night, to attend that night's Dodgers game, against the Chicago Cubs. How could they have known it would be the night Dodgers ace Sandy Koufax discovered perfection ... even as his left arm was threatening to fall off? St. John stopped in his tracks, drinking in the sight of the ballpark. "It hasn't changed," he commented in a wondering tone.
"Nope. Just the names on the uniforms. And us."
"I could still skin you." St. John accused, but it was losing its heat. He'd spent nineteen long years imagining String and Dom in their seats at Dodger Stadium ... only to finally find his way home and discover that String hadn't been able to bring himself to go, without his brother there. Even when the Houston Astros came to town and Nolan Ryan was scheduled to start for Houston, it was Dom who'd attended games with String's wife, Caitlin. Cait had mostly gone to California Angels games against her beloved, hapless Texas Rangers alone.
The kids had stopped once they reached the sidewalk, a knot of Dodger Blue satin jackets and blue jeans, broken only by the darker blue of Vin's Dallas Cowboys jacket. He'd plopped a Dodgers ballcap on his head, but that was as far away from loyalty to the Rangers as he was willing to go. To say the collected Hawke kids were a mixed bag was an understatement. String's sons Sam Roper, 16, and Vin Tanner, 15; his twin daughters Merry and C.C. Hamilton, 13; and St. John's kids, Le Van, 15, and Linh Mei, 12.
St. John's wife, Tuyen, had become separated from Le Van in the chaos of escaping from her village when it was overrun by the North Vietnamese Army. Le Van ended up with her younger sister, Minh, and Tuyen had wound up in Sài Gòn. Alone and pregnant with Linh Mei, she'd done her best to keep her head down, biding her time until she could get a space on a boat to Thailand. Having a child with blue eyes had bumped her up the list to be sponsored to America, and they'd eventually landed in the Little Saigon area in Garden Grove, in Orange County. One of Le Van's schoolmates had clued him in that a woman and young girl, new in town, were using the surname Hawke, and Le Van had begged Cait to drive him down. He'd been barely two the last time he'd seen her, but Le Van had known his mother the second he'd seen her. String and Dom had both sworn that Linh Mei had St John's eyes. The blood tests had been a formality, more to have it on paper if anyone asked than to prove anything. St. John had been stunned when he'd finally regained consciousness and found the family he'd believed lost camped out in his hospital room.
"We goin' to a ballgame, or posin' for animal crackers?" The teasing voice made both men smile. Cait leaned over the handlebars of Dom's wheelchair, her chin resting against the older man's ever-present red satin Santini Air ballcap. Dom poked his foster sons in the legs with his cane.
"Get a move on, you slowpokes. Someone else is already drinking my beer." Laughing, the adults moved to catch up with the kids.
Le Van: "Oh come on, Tim Belcher's not that bad. He was 12 and 6 for the regular season."
Merry: "They must not have a translation for 'stupid luck' on whatever planet you come from."
Sam: "They do, so - may mắn ngu ngốc. Lasorda used Bulldog the last game against the Mets Wednesday night, there's no way he can pitch him on two days rest."
C.C.: "But against Dave Stewart? Might as well ask a guppy to swallow a whale!"
Vin: "Eight innin's of Stewart, then Eckersley? Dodgers got a better chance of blowin' out th' sun than winnin' this game."
Linh Mei's English wasn't strong enough to participate in the argument between her brother and cousins, but she proudly held up the program Le Van had bought. Tuyen was looking at her son like she wasn't sure whether to hug him or smack him with the program she held. St. John stepped forward and slipped one arm around her waist, the other around Linh Mei's shoulders. He dropped his head to press a kiss to Tuyen's left temple. "We're an American family, Tuyen. And I want to introduce my best girls to Dodgers baseball."
Making sure to let Vin see the move was coming, String gently squeezed the teenager's wiry shoulder. "You okay? Awful crowd." Large amounts of people in a small amount of space made Vin feel like a cornered rabbit, and high noise levels only made it worse. He'd endured two Los Angeles Rams games, because his desire to see his beloved Dallas Cowboys was just that strong, but he'd been jumpy and withdrawn for days after. Vin nodded his head, disordered sandy curls bouncing off his Cowboys jacket.
"I'm okay. Megan an' Cait been teachin' me some things t'help in crowds an' such. Besides, I'm hungry" A corner of the kid's mouth twitched in a familiar grin, knowing String hadn't always been entirely comfortable with anything he himself could not fully explain. Dom's relationship with Megan Ravenson, the psychic who had helped them rescue Archangel that one time, had come as a surprise. The discovery that Caitlin was a hereditary witch from a long line of such had come as a shock. Initially String had seen it as Cait deliberately withholding information that could have been used against them, put Airwolf in danger. The moral panic about alleged Satanic abuse at preschools all over the country hadn't helped at all. Cait had come frighteningly close to packing her bags and going home to Texas, prickly relationship with her mother or not.
Until Archangel had produced Vin seemingly out of thin air, then Merry and C.C., who had been literally living in a shopping mall in Denver, Colorado. Hard on the heels of that, Sam and Nhi Huong Roper had died in a house fire that was suspicious at best - Roper’s father had been a career Chicago firefighter! Roper had next to no family left, but String had figured they'd name one of Roper's Air Force buddies as Sammy's guardians. The last person he'd been expecting to receive custody of the kid had been himself. He hadn't even been planning to breathe the words 'blood test,' but Sammy had. "I don't look like anyone in Roper's photo albums. I look an awful lot like you, and I'm tired of wondering."
Now he turned to crack a wide grin at his half-brother. "You're always hungry. I thought I used to eat everything in sight." An understanding look passed between the boys; Sam had spent several hard years on the streets of Sài Gòn - he refused to ever call it Hồ Chí Minh City - and was more than willing to try anything remotely edible at least once. String had silently thanked all the gods that nothing lasted in the fridge long enough to go bad.
With Dom and Cait getting a special pass-through because of the chair, they bumped through the turnstiles, String noticing that security had been picked up since the last time he'd been here. But heck, it had been seven years since L.A. had seen a World Series. Not surprisingly, once they'd found their seats - behind and above the Dodgers dugout, knowing Michael had some perks, after all - St. John collared his kids and made a beeline for the Dodger Dogs. Having been out of bed and moving by 0400, String wasn't interested in walking any more than he absolutely had to. He handed Sam and Vin enough money, and orders to bring back enough for everyone.
"And two for me!" Dom called out at their retreating backs. Vin waved to indicate he'd heard.
Cait looked at String. "I guess I'm drivin’?" He nodded and dug the keys out of his jeans pocket, looking around for a beer vendor. Spotting one, he held up three fingers as he passed Cait the keys. St. John returned in time for the player introductions, assisted String in helping Dom to his feet for the National Anthem, and then gratefully accepted his beer. Sam and Vin returned and passed around the chow, as the Dodgers took the field and the A's came up to bat. Le Van and St. John had their heads together over a program, as Le Van pointed around the field at each Dodgers player.
"The one guy we won't see tonight is Kirk Gibson. His right knee is almost the size of softball, and he yanked his left hamstring. I'd be surprised if he's even here." Le Van shook his head. "We sure could use him."
"I heard on the radio he's got the stomach flu or something, too." Merry called across from her seat.
"Yay." Le Van chomped down on his Dodger Dog, to give his mouth something else to do ... besides announcing to Tuyen what was going through his mind at the moment.
To start with, it was grim. Tim Belcher gave up a single to Dave Henderson, drilled Jose Canseco, and walked Mark McGwire. Mercifully, Terry Steinbach flied out to end the threat. A's ace Dave Stewart didn't fare much better, plunking Steve Sax then letting him get to second on a balk. Dodgers utility player Mickey Hatcher stepped in, and Sam dropped his head back and groaned. "Hatch couldn't hit the moon if Stewart threw it up there!"
"Oh yeah?" String shot back. "So what's that?" And Sam was out of his seat and shouting as Hatcher muscled a two-run homer, then ran around the bases like he was afraid the umpires would change their minds.
Spirits dropped a scant few minutes later, however, as Belcher allowed a single to Glenn Hubbard than walked both Stewart and Carney Lansford, to load the bases for Canseco. Canseco deposited a grand slam over the left-center field fence, ricocheting the ball off a TV camera. String, Dom and Cait winced, knowing only too well what those cameras cost. In the sixth, the Dodgers got to Stewart for three singles, the last one by catcher Mike Scioscia, which scored Mike Marshall from third. "Attaboy, Mikey!" Dom called out. "Bellisimo! Brava!"
The seventh and eighth innings passed uneventfully, with String making sure to buy a last round for himself, St. John and Dom before the seventh-inning stretch. Again, the brothers helped Dom to stand up, to sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Predictably, A's manager Tony LaRussa went to his star closer, Dennis Eckersley, for the ninth. The younger Hawkes shared glum looks. 'We know how this is gonna end.' Seemingly true to form, Eckersley got Scioscia to pop out, and struck out Jeff Hamilton.
After Hamilton, Mike Davis came up, with the pitcher's spot due after him. Until a year ago, Davis had been an A, and Eckersley knew only too well what Davis was capable of. Catcher Ron Hassey got Eckersley's attention, nodding to pinch hitter Dave Anderson waiting in the on-deck circle. Exercising caution in the belief that Anderson would be far the easier out, Eckersley dealt Mike Davis a walk.
Sam sat forward in his seat, having slumped back in misery at the sight of Dave Anderson. "Wait ... Lasorda's pulling Anderson back? He doesn't have anyone else!" "Oh yes he does!" Caroled C.C. “And look who it is!”
The entirety of Dodger Stadium erupted in cheers as Kirk Gibson hobbled to the plate, managing somehow to get there without having to use his bat for a cane. He took his place and stared out at Eckersley. Eckersley started off with two strikes, then two outside pitches for balls. Gibson fouled off the next two, one of which dribbled up the first base line before rolling foul, forcing Gibson to hobble after it in case it stayed fair.
St. John shook his head. “You have got to be kidding me. What’s this guy even doing here? He should be at home with his feet up.”
String glanced over. “San Diego Padres underestimated him in ’84.”
“Badly.” Le Van, Sam and Vin chorused.
Gibson hobbled back to the batter’s box, Eckersley retook his place on the mound. For several separated moments, Gibson received breathers, as Eckersley concerned himself with Mike Davis, who persisted in distracting his former teammate by dancing off first. When Eckersley was focused on Gibson, it was only to see his pitches become more souvenirs, fouled off into the seats. Eventually, as Mike Davis finally stole second base, Eckersley tossed in a ball. The count now stood full, three balls and two strikes. Kirk Gibson called time and stepped out for a moment, shaking one leg as a horse tried to shake off a bothersome fly.
Le Van was sitting straight up. “Three-two count … Lefty power hitter … Oh please, Dennis, oh please … ồ vui lòng … “
Gibson stepped back in, Eckersley came to his set position … and fired in an inside slider. On a 3-2 full count, to a left-handed power hitter. It was an ugly, awkward swing, all arms and shoulders with probably nothing below Kirk Gibson’s belt to back it up. But it was a swing, and the ball went soaring into the right field bleachers, a two-run walk-off game winning home run. Over the bleachers, below the JumboTron screen and scoreboard, the taillights of cars whose owners were about to leave flashed on, as those fans slammed on the brakes - realizing too late that they’d given up hope and left their seats too soon.
This time, Dom needed no help surging to his feet to join the rest of Dodger Stadium in a standing ovation as Kirk Gibson rounded the bases, pumping his right arm twice in victory as he touched second. His teammates had already come flying out of the dugout to greet him at the plate, mobbing him in delirious ecstasy. Dennis Eckersley stood alone on the pitcher’s mound, stunned.
Cait looked over and smiled as String and St. John cheered. Now they all had a moment to point to, when St. John started getting down on himself, feeling like he’d never overcome what had happened. That the nearly two decades he’d spent removed from his life were insurmountable. There had to be only two people in Dodger Stadium this night who hadn’t thought manager Tommy Lasorda was crazier than a Texas horny toad during mating season. Kirk Gibson, and Lasorda himself. Kirk hadn’t had any business being in the stadium at all in the condition he was in, never mind suited up to play. But he’d not only suited up, he’d played, against odds and injuries which would have felled at least 90% of any other players in the game. And he’d not only made it work, he’d won. On heart and fumes and sheer guts because he just hadn’t had anything else left in the tank, but he’d won. And someday, so would St. John Hawke.
The End