Chapter 20: Juggernaut

We wanted badly to finish the White Sox off in three straight at home, thereby giving ourselves a few days off while, we hoped, Atlanta and St. Louis would exhaust each another in the National League Championship Series.

But we couldn't swing it. We won two of three and had to go back to Chicago for Game 6 and (if necessary) Game 7. We were leading the series, 3 games to 2, and we damned well were determined that a Game 7 should not be "necessary."

It wasn't. Shiggie Nomura shut Chicago down in front of a raucous crowd of White Sox faithful, long-starved for a post-season success story for the Southside. (Maybe not as long-starved as the Cubbie fans on the Northside, but long enough.)

We didn't feel sorry for the Pale Hose. We'd been waiting a long time, too! Now Paul Warren's club, for the first time in his five seasons as manager, was the American League Champion.

We flew home that night and prepared to meet the winner of the Cardinals/Braves series, as soon as it was decided.

We didn't have long to wait. The very next night, St. Louis knocked off Atlanta in their sixth game. The World Series would open -- in Baltimore -- in just two days.

Well, if we had been pleased to have avoided Oakland in our own league, we'd have been even more pleased to have drawn Atlanta, instead of the Cardinals, in the World Series. Atlanta, a strong club, year in and year out, always deserved respect.

But the Cardinals were a juggernaut!

For years, St. Louis had fielded one of the strongest offensive lineups in either league. Now, their deep lineup of star players was filled with veterans of many campaigns.

But these weren't "aging veterans." They were, for the most part, established stars in the absolute prime of their careers. Their great center fielder, Jim Edmonds, had retired the previous year, but they still had the monstrous slugger, Albert Pujols -- clearly a Hall of Famer in waiting, and Scott Rolen, the third baseman who had, in the past few seasons, fulfilled all his early promise as a potent offensive force.

They had a left-hand hitting center fielder -- Edmonds' replacement -- who had been Rookie of the Year the previous season, and who this year had hit .311 with 36 homers and 114 runs batted in. There had been no "sophomore jinx" for this kid -- Arturo Gallegos, his name was. From Mexico.

Pujols and Rolen, thank God, were right-handers and I was unlikely to have to face them. But I could imagine myself getting called in to get this kid Gallegos out, at some critical point in a game.

Hoo-boy!

We had a comprehensive scouting report on the Cardinals -- the result of our best scouts following them around for weeks during the regular season. I studied that fat book far more carefully than I'd ever prepared for a final exam in college.

The Cardinals had won 109 games that year. We had won 98. Three of the Cardinals' 109 wins had been in interleague play against none other than the Baltimore Orioles. We did fine in interleague play, as a rule. But not against St. Louis.

They were heavily favored to win the Series, and they were even-money to beat us, in our own park, in Game One. Our only hope was that our pitchers could somehow shut them down and give us a shot -- much as the Red Sox had managed, against another strong Cardinal club, a few years back, in 2004.

Unfortunately, the comparison broke down because the 2004 Red Sox had themselves been a power-hitting menace -- much scarier at the plate than any offense we could muster.

So, OK, we were underdogs. We'd been underdogs against the Yankees this year, but we had taken them. When the Cardinals came to town, we would show up for the games.

Maybe we shouldn't have shown up for Game One. Shiggie, our ace, wasn't ready to start after finishing off the White Sox only three days earlier. We started Sam Bailey, and he did OK for a little while, but the Cardinals pulverized him in the fourth inning and drove him out with a six-run explosion.

Four other Oriole relievers, me included, facilitated the Cardinal hit parade for the rest of that miserable night, and it finally ended with the score 13-4, St. Louis.

They didn't award me a "hold" for that one. Maybe there should be a new statistic for middle relievers. When you allow additional damage to pile up on top of an ongoing disaster, they ought to call it something -- a "slip" maybe? --A "whoops"? Our relief staff, among us, had four "slips" that night.

It was demoralizing.

I got into Game Two the next night as well -- spot relieving for Shiggie in the sixth with St. Louis ahead at the time, 5-3. Just as in my daydreams (daymares?), I found myself facing the Mexican Mauler, Arturo Gallegos, hoping to keep him from taking me deep. I did -- but he singled in another run and we lost that game, too, eventually, 9-6.

I guess I'd earned another "slip".

Maybe soon, I'd earn a pink slip.

I can't think of anything quite as discouraging as traveling to the opponent's city for Game 3 of the World Series when you're already down, 2-zip.

The sports commentators by now were all talking about the (overwhelming) statistical likelihood of a Cardinal series victory -- probably a sweep. Our opponents had been the favorites before the Series had begun. Now, the Orioles were being written off before the Cardinal fans had even gotten a look at us.

Well, we started Rob Murray in Game Three and he shut them down, 1-0. The game lasted less than two hours, and the St. Louis fans were sitting around in the stands afterwards, waiting for the next inning to start. I didn't blame them. It felt to me, also, as if somebody had left out a couple of innings, back there somewhere.