The game to remember

Originally published October 29, 1991, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

I’ve been to three heavyweight title fights and two Super Bowls. Once, I stood at the rail for the Kentucky Derby.

I’ve seen several NBA championship games and attended the NCAA finals. I’ve traveled to Williamsport and Cooperstown, too.

I’ve watched the Stanley Cup being won and Wimbledon being lost, but I have never, not ever, witnessed a better sporting event than the World Series that just ended when Minnesota finally beat back Atlanta. Unbelievable.

Until early Monday, I thought the best Series I ever saw took place in 1975 when the Reds beat the Red Sox in seven games. Both teams were stocked with stars.

A couple of games were like great prizefights. And nearly every one had something you still remember: Lynn crashing into the wall, Evans’ catch in the right­field corner, Tiant absolutely willing a 160­pitch victory, interference at home plate, Denny Doyle unable to hear the third­base coach, Carbo’s electric home run and Fisk’s memorable shot off the foul pole.

It was terrific baseball.

But it wasn’t better than the Twins and the Braves. This was a monster.

Yesterday, driving to work, I found myself replaying the seventh game. It was an incredible thing and would’ve been a fantastic event had it been played in April or August. Put it on during a Sunday night in October when men play for all the marbles and you have the single biggest reason why other sports can never really compete: Baseball is the best game.

This wasn’t some one­time­only freak festival like a Super Bowl, the annual Chamber­of­ Commerce ritual where corporate wheeler­dealers get so whacked out by kickoff time they don’t even know which teams are playing or what town they’re in. Face it: The Super Bowl is the Republican Party of sports. It’s a media event, not a ball game.

And it wasn’t pro basketball or the National Hockey league, where any club with equipment and carfare qualifies for the playoffs. You can finish next to last in either league during the regular season and come away with a ring. Wonderful.

No, this was the seventh game between two clubs that had been playing since spring. This was a whole year reduced to one week of escalating tension and a constant churn of the stomach.

This wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about individual statistics, MVP trophies, rings, history, TV appearances, incentive clauses or anything else other than two teams playing for the right to be called winners.

And neither one represented network TV’s idea of ratings heaven. The Dodgers, Mets, Yankees, White Sox, Red Sox or Cubs ­­ teams with huge markets or national followings ­­ were on the sidelines. All that was left was baseball.

And we found out again that the game is so strong it can’t be ruined by the momentary foolishness of owners in it for celebrity or connections. It can’t even be wrecked by the idiot children in uniform ­­ the players ­­ who once in a while steal a slice of its enduring magic by shaming everyone with their selfishness, pettiness or arrogant refusal to acknowledge that baseball is bigger than any ego or W­2 form.

Now, right here, I must point out that I personally know more about baseball than any 10 sportswriters you can stack in any room, anywhere, anytime. Still, I could not get over what I witnessed on TV.

I had no answers for dozens of questions: What were these guys on the field thinking about? Why didn’t anyone faint? Were they in the bullpen hoping the call would never come? Was anyone whispering, “Please, God, don’t let them hit it to me.” Or saying to each other, “Can you believe this?”

What was going through Jack Morris’ mind? What about John Smoltz, young, appearing in his first Series? How does anyone stand up ­­ pitch after pitch, scoreless inning after scoreless inning ­­ under such intense pressure? Why did I have the feeling that Clemens could not have done what Morris did? How come “our guys” never seem to have quite the class of “those guys”.

There was only one bad aspect to the Series: It ended. It’s over, and baseball is done for another season. The papers are without box scores and no games will be on TV for awhile.

However, unlike any other sport, we can talk about it for months and years to come. Who chats about tackles or touchdowns that occurred 16 years ago? Or even Sunday? Who remembers goals, baskets or all those faceless jocks playing games that merely blend together in the mind?

This World Series, though, was different. It was played out on another level, some high and memorable plane that will be recalled for decades.

They say it’s only a game. And they are right, but what makes it different is, this game is called baseball.

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