A Magic Night at the Park

My sons J.T. and Cal pose with the Pittsburgh Parrot before the big game.

I’ve been a Pittsburgh Pirates fan since I was six years old. My parents reluctantly decorated my room in Pirate black and gold when I was nine. We (yes, I deserve to say “we”) won the Major League Baseball World Series in 1971 and 1979.

Unfortunately for me, a loyal guy, my favorite team in all of pro sports has been pitiful since a fateful seventh game playoff meltdown in 1992. Fifteen straight losing seasons. Fox Sports recently labeled my beloved Pirates the worst franchise in all of professional sports. Ouch.

Every year I hold my breath as that wretched trade deadline nears in late July, praying the management won’t trade away our few good players to save money. “Mom, why is Dad yelling and throwing things?” a child will ask. Says an experienced mom, “I suspect the Pirates just traded his favorite player away again.”

I’ve seen the Pirates play in Atlanta before, but on July 12, 2008, I escorted the Stroupes to our first Pirates game in Pittsburgh, where loyal home fans still hold out hope.

Magic ensued. First, the odds of crossing paths with the mascot outside the gate before the game are minutely small. Yet somehow two Stroupe boys were able to get their picture taken with the Pittsburgh Parrot.

We wished out loud before the game that we could be lucky enough to see our favorite Pirate player hit a homerun. He hit two.

At one point, the powers that be were flashing text messages on a display screen for the whole stadium to see. I quickly texted the press box and pecked out “First game at PNC Park- Dad’s dream come true.” A few minutes later, my wife grabbed me and shouted, “There’s your message!” And later in the game, during a Pirates rally, my middle son Cal’s image suddenly appeared and could be seen on the giant scoreboard jumbo-tron waving his rally towel.

Despite all the good fortune, the Pirates were getting smashed by the St. Louis Cardinals. I even considered leaving when the Pirates entered the 8^th inning down 10-4.

But much to the delight of the Stroupes, the Pirates scored two in the 8^th and four in the 9^th to tie the score. Much to our chagrin, the Cardinals hit a homerun in the top of the 10^th, deflating the wind from our Pirate ship sails.

Fate owed me nothing, I told myself. It was just a game. And my family had been exposed to a tremendous contest in an electric environment. I was content.

Just as I was conceding defeat, the last player on the Pirate bench came to bat and whacked a two-run homerun that sent the fireworks streaking skyward against the lit up Pittsburgh skyline and the remaining faithful fans into a deafening frenzy. The Stroupes jumped and screamed and celebrated one of the most unlikely comeback wins in Pittsburgh Pirates franchise history.

For one night all was right in the sports world. But alas, it was only one night. When the clock struck midnight, the Pirates still found themselves fighting to avoid last place and the trade deadline looming one day closer. As that deadline nears, the boyhood dreams that survive inside the man run the risk of being crushed yet again. Beware of flying objects.