Editor’s note: Nov. 2 is the three-year anniversary of the Braves clinching the 2021 World Series championship with a Game 6 win over the Astros in Houston. The AJC looks back on that moment in Braves history.
The cold side of baseball is told in numbers. So many numbers competing for relevance, climbing over each other for a place on the outfield video board.
But the still warm, yeasty, right-out-of-the-oven soul of the game can’t be quantified. It can only be felt. Felt in places ruled by unrefined emotion and unadulterated joy.
Take, for instance, the night Jorge Soler launched his one-man sub-orbital mission in Houston.
The ledger keepers will tell you that his three-run homer in the third inning of Game 6 of the 2021 World Series left his bat at an exit velocity of 109.6 mph. They’ll say the blast, which staked Atlanta’s Braves to their second world championship and crushed the Astros spirit as a nutcracker does a walnut, covered 446 feet. A scurrilous underestimation some would say.
My reaction at the time was somewhat less measured.
Turned out those of us exiled to the right field auxiliary press area had the perfect seats that night. Not only could we enjoy the nearby section of nuns in full habit who came out to unreservedly cheer on their Astros, we also were lined up just right to follow the trajectory of a home run of mythic proportions.
As Soler’s shot rose and rose and rose, as it cleared the left field seats, then soared over the toy train tracks running along the rim of the Astros ballpark, then disappeared into the dark void of the world beyond its walls, I heard myself say far too loudly:
“Holy bleeping bleep!”
Not the kind of professionalism a person should bring to work, unless he’s on the set of a Quentin Tarantino movie or auditioning to be Dave Chappelle’s warm-up act. We’re not really supposed to work blue at the ballpark.
And not really keeping with my generally understated nature. I find the exclamation point to be the crutch of the punctuation marks. People are far too free with the “!” in their texts. Stop yelling at me.
Quickly I turned to my left where a Houston Chronicle columnist was camped and began apologizing for the outburst.
What I really wanted to do, however, was stand up, point out toward left field and reassert: “Holy bleeping bleep! Am I right?”
I refrained. And he just smiled and nodded, a simple act of understanding that I will always appreciate.
Over 40 years or so covering games, I have witnessed hundreds of home runs at dozens of ballparks. Never had one affect me quite like that, though. That one reached inside and plucked various primitive instincts. Like a Joe Frazier left hook. Or a Lawrence Taylor tackle.
Maybe it was the significance of the moment, Soler announcing with such authority that this season would belong to the Braves. More likely it was the perspective gifted me that night, as the ball traveled like a Cessna on takeoff across my line of sight, challenging everything I thought I knew about how far a human could propel a baseball.
So long was Soler’s home run that the ball bounced off an awning of a building outside the park and was retrieved by an Astros fan watching from a nearby condo. To this day, the Braves are unsure who possesses the mashed bit of sporting equipment.
There are just moments that defy rational response, and thank goodness for that.
I think back to the November 2020 Masters, COVID-19 having shifted the tournament to the fall. No spectators were on the course, which allowed me a rare unobstructed and up-close view of Dustin Johnson as he hit his second shot to the par-5 second hole. So purely did he make contact, so crisp was the crack of his fairway wood, so long and straight did the ball shoot downrange that it evoked an uncontrollable physical reaction. Goose bumps broke out across both arms. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
And I think back to the November night in Houston when Jorge Soler became the Hercules of Braves lore. Wonderment is getting harder and harder to hold onto. But I’ll never forget how that one home run made me feel. Now, I’ll still recall it and think, “Holy bleeping bleep.” Only, without apology. And there’s no need to censor my private, pleasant thoughts.
THE REST OF THE STORY
Mark Bradley: https://www.ajc.com/sports/mark-bradley/the-2021-braves-the-team-that-rode-the-lightning/Y4C2E666WRCIBPAPYWKEDKO4PE/
Return to Houston: https://www.ajc.com/sports/atlanta-braves/brian-snitker-on-return-to-houston-the-last-time-i-was-here-it-was-a-pretty-good-time/LG5WSSQNCZAY5NEYGPLQL6MY2A/
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