Purple Fever Believer

Jesus Fucking Tapdancing Christ on a Toaster.

It's 3 am and thank God I have no class tomorrow, because I doubt I can sleep. The adrenaline is kind of wearing off. Kind of. After waking up on the heels of 4 hours of sleep for morning class, feeling too apprehensive to eat anything except from a croissant in the morning and some chicken fingers and an apple in the evening. I went to class in the morning. I didn't eat lunch because I felt too sick with nerves. I almost passed out with exhaustion in my afternoon class, and my focus wandered badly as we finished up the last leg of 2 hours of psychology. Knowing I was going to need all the fortitude I could muster for the night's forthcoming tilt, I went home and slept for three hours or so, from 3:45 until 6:45. I woke up at dusk, feeling so nervous I could barely breathe, and added the Rockies jersey and hat to my shirt, necklace, and jacket. Then, scared but hopeful, I sallied forth to find my friend Nick and the TV he had promised to purloin for us. We chased off, or briefly assimilated, certain annoying Red Sox fans who wanted to hijack it to watch Monday Night Football (the Pats won again, of course, and who the fuck cares about them? This is my team fighting for October, people).

Game started. I was whooping, rooting, cheering, and cursing like a sailor. I was pleased as hell to see the two runs off Peavy in the first inning on a deep sac fly by Mr. Rockie Todd Helton and and an RBI single by Garrett, was stunned (but in a good way) when Yorvit actually hit a homer, and then felt like axe-chopping something when Dragon Slayer Josh Fogg lost his sword and gave up a grand slam to Adrian Gonzalez. Another run on a forceout made it 5-3, and with Peavy on the mound, you might think this was a problem.

It was not. Peavy was mortal. He yielded a solo shot to Helton in the fourth, and then a combination of ROY double/MVP single tied the game in the fifth. In the bottom of the sixth, pinch-hitter Seth Smith blasted a triple and scored on Kaz's sac fly; thanks to another defensive miscue by replacement Pods center fielder Brady Clark, Tulo hit the second triple of the inning, but failed to score when Holliday struck out. Every time he was up, however, the whole stadium was chanting, "M-V-P." It was amazing, chill-inducing, and insane.

In the bottom of the seventh, the umps blatantly missed a call on Atkins, ruling that his ball that went over the wall, hit a chair and bounced back, was a double instead of a homer. Poor Garrett has been fucked out of two homers this year, and yet again, the Rockies couldn't go for the jugular, sitting on a 6-5 advantage into the eighth. Brian Fuentes came in, admittedly got into a little trouble, and should have gotten out of the inning intact, but Holliday completely misplayed a Brian Giles fly ball and let it go over his head for a double. I slapped my hand to my face and moaned, as all the while the morons broadcasting the game on TBS salivated and continued to ride Padre jock hard enough to leave carpet burns. The Rockies couldn't come through in the eighth and Manny Corpas blew through a six-pitch ninth inning; that should have closed the game out in regulation, but since the umps had, of course, fucked poor Garrett out of his homer, it dragged on, and on, and on, close to five hours of a grueling emotional marathon. Matt Herges wriggled out of jams, the Rockies couldn't touch a ridiculous Padres 'pen, and when Jorge Julio came on for the thirteenth, I groaned aloud.

Sure enough, Julio bore out my bad feeling, walking the first hitter he faced before allowing a two-run homer to Scott Hairston, for the love of Christ. It made me sick to see the Padres whooping it up in the dugout, and I admit it, I could not bear to see the season ended on a such a bitter note, losing a winnable game in front of our raucous and screaming home crowd, silenced forever and left to wonder what could have been. I left the TV room and began the long walk back to my dorm, feeling brutally upset and bitter, broken, hollow, and empty. Basically like shit, in other words, cursing the umps for missing Atkins' homer, Matty for missing the flyball, and Jorge Julio for existing. I flung down my stuff on my bed and naturally turned on Gameday, just to see how it would end. Ramon Ortiz, of all people, came in and snuffed the rally in the top of the thirteenth, and then Trevor Hoffman, he of the all-time saves record, came in to try to put the finishing touches on a monstrously aggravating and heartbreaking loss.

He didn't. Kaz Matsui fought off tough pitches and ripped a double deep into the left-center field gap. Coors began to make some noise again, after being deadened by the Hairston homer. Then the Rookie of the Year came up and set the torch to them again with a matching blast, scoring Matsui as he rolled into second with a double. And then...

Matty had been somewhat of a scapegoat earlier in the night for blowing the flyball and striking out twice with runners in scoring position. With one swing, he sent Coors off the edge. I'm not kidding. I was watching this on Gameday, but I saw the video and... the noise the crowd makes when he lights into that ball is unbelievable. It and Brian Giles bang off the right-field scoreboard, the place is in pandemonium, Tulo scores to tie it, and Matty is safe at third with a triple. As you can imagine, my phone began ringing right now, and the first call I fielded was from Nick. He made no bones about it, "GET BACK HERE! NOW!"

Another friend called as I tore down the stairs, fumbling for my keys. I sprinted across campus back to the TV room, and I went belting up the stairs in time to see a mosh pit on the TV -- Jamey Carroll, placed in to pinch-run for Atkins after it was a "double," came through with a shallow liner to right field, Holliday charged home, dived face-first, swiped the plate with his hand as Barrett dropped the ball (dodgy call, but hey, it was karmic justice, the game should have been over in regulation) and came up bloodied and dirtied, probably feeling the best he had in his life, as his team, his city, and his mates went absofuckinglutely berserk. I screamed and threw myself on Nick. I shook. I launched myself across the room to hug his friend, who I don't even know that well. I shrieked at the top of my lungs. My legs would not support me, I fell down. A few people came up the stairs to ask if I was all right, since I was screaming bloody murder. Nick was like, "The Rockies made the playoffs, it's cool."

I screamed. I threw myself in Nick's arms again. I held on. I fell to my knees. I had earlier promised to freak out on an epic level if the Rockies won, and they did. The Holliday call was justice for screwing Atkins out of the game-winning HR, and holy shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I have no classes tomorrow, won't be in bed before 4 and may sleep all day, have homework to do that's not getting done as I live and die with my team, and I don't care. This is amazing. The Colorado Rockies are one of four NL entrants still standing with a run that defies explanation. We didn't even lead the NL wild card. We weren't tied until yesterday. And we beat the best pitcher in baseball and the all-time saves leader. I swear, you can't script this. Even Hollywood would reject it as too corny.

I don't care if Holliday supposedly didn't touch the plate. We won. He lay there dazed, Tulo flung himself over Matty, then jumped into the mosh pit. Fireworks went off. A town believed. A team fulfilled a destiny. 90-73 and a wild-card spot into the postseason and a first-round matchup with Philly. Two strong offenses, two suspect pitching staffs, the first stop on the way to immortality.

Jeff Francis vs. Cole Hamels. 3 ET Wednesday.

See you in October.

GO ROCKIES!!!!!!!!!!!