Uninspiring Series Better Than Nothing

This one will not be stamped the way the memorable ones are.

Not with a short-hand description, like the classic World Series of ‘75 and ‘91. Or with sloganeering, like the rocking “We Are Family” backbeat that accompanied Pittsburgh’s improbable comeback in 1979. Not even as the stage for one underfed, oversized ego to steal the whole show and validate a career, the way loudmouthed Reggie Jackson did with four fierce swings of the bat in 1977.

Then again, considering the state of the game at this time last year, it could be argued any kind of Series is better than none at all. Baseball has spent most of the past two weeks between the covers of magazines rather than on them, but TV ratings have proven it still has a few people willing to watch. From that modest beginning, the next step is to sift through what this Series has left behind, decide what’s worth keeping and what should be rolled out to the curb for pickup.

Without a doubt, the highlight was Game 5. On a cold night in a hot new ballpark in Cleveland, the best pitcher now working, Greg Maddux, buzzed a cranky elder statesman named Eddie Murray with a purpose pitch and even the worst ballplayer who ever played knew what each was thinking. Whether you wanted Atlanta or Cleveland, whether you were a lip-reader, baseball was a shared game for a few moments. Everybody in the place drew a breath with the same sharp gasp at the same time.

And for those few moments, there was the undeniable sense at Jacobs Field that these guys would have finished the dispute on this night for free, even if it meant moving out to the parking lot. On the national stage, in a season that had yet to infect the rest of us with the passion apparent in a few cities, Game 5 was a reminder there is actually more on some ballplayers’ minds than incentive clauses.

“By this time of the year,” said Alvaro Espinoza, the Indians’ utility infielder and dugout sage, “the fans know which guys are playing just for the money and which guys are playing because this is in their blood.”

Espinoza is a ballplayer whose English was so bad that when the Houston Astros cut him from their rookie league team with a form letter, he thought it meant he couldn’t play baseball in the States again. So he went home to Venezuela, bought a pushcart and sold hot dogs on the street.

Espinoza had grown up loving baseball, following the exploits of local legend Davey Concepcion in earlier World Series across a small black-and-white TV screen in his house. Just as he was preparing himself to let go of his dream of playing in a Series, his father and a scout named Hank Izquierdo convinced him to try again in the Minnesota Twins farm system. That was some 15 years ago.

“It is hard to explain,” Espinoza said, “the excitement that is inside of me just for the chance to play in one World Series.”

The Braves’ David Justice, on the other hand, is playing in his third World Series and getting harder to bear with each one. His main purpose this time around appeared to be to remind people what they didn’t miss about baseball during the meltdown.

A fine player, Justice became the central figure in a disputed call at third base in the 1991 Series that Atlanta lost to Minnesota. Some of the people who deal with him on a regular basis insist that was the last time Justice was a stand-up guy. True or not, his attitude didn’t improve during the Series.

On the eve of Game 6, recalling the Braves’ lack of success in three tries this decade, Justice said he would be glad that “in 72 hours, this will be over.” He said he couldn’t wait to climb out from under everybody’s expectations, but most especially those of Atlanta’s own fans. Their lukewarm response to the postseason reflects a lack of novelty and some lingering resentment, and the deeper Justice launched into his tirade, the easier it became to understand why.

“If we don’t win, you won’t see me,” he said.