Of Francisco Cabrera, Roasted Nuts, and Cheap Perfume

There has been no shortage of negativity on this site in recent days, much of it completely justified. But I thought now might be a good time to think back about why and how we all became Braves fans in the first place. Granted, there have been posts like this before, and I'd hardly want to come off like I'm being original ... but here's my attempt at "seeing the silver lining," or lack thereof (if you will).

It was only 3 hours and 22 minutes of baseball that forever solidified my status as a Braves fan. It was October 14, 1992. I was in second grade, and while I tried to stay awake during Mrs. Spikler's lesson on place values ... I knew nothing of the evening to come. My father picked me up early from school (he told the secretary I had a dentist appointment), and as we deviated from our normal route home, I realized something was afoot.

"Son, we're going to game 7," he said. I was EXCITED. Granted, I wasn't a huge Braves fan at the time (I was more interested in The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles), but I knew the playoffs were significant. At the very least, I figured it might get me out of doing my homework.

We arrived a couple of hours before first pitch. It wasn't my first baseball game, but I can still remember the smell of hot dogs, light beer, roasted peanuts, and cheep perfume (the southern belles were out en masse). The first 8 innings were rather depressing. By the middle of the ninth, the Bravos were down 2-0 and a long off-season was in sight. "It's over, we should get out of here to beat the traffic," my father said. "No dad," I replied, "they still have a chance." He looked at me like I was a naive, 7 year old kid (which I was), but he complied.

Leading off in the bottom of the ninth, TP hit a double off Drabek. Justice reached first after Jose Lind booted a routine grounder. Sid Bream walked, and all of a sudden, the go-ahead run was on first. "See, I told you dad," I said. He again looked at me like I was a naive, 7 year old kid, but I didn't care. I knew something great was going to happen (or so I like to think).

Ronny Gant hits a deep fly ball, a worthwhile sacrifice, and we're suddenly down by only one run. Berryhill walks and Brian Hunter pops out, down 2-1 w/ 2 outs and the bases load. Then, Francisco Cabrera (a seldomly-used bench player) strides to the plate. I'm not sure this actually happened, but I like to think I said a silent prayer at that point. I remember the crack of the bat, and the roar of the crowd. Cabrera singled to left, Justice rounded third, Justice scored, Bream around third, the Barry Bonds throw and .... BRAVES WIN! BRAVES WIN! BRAVES WIN!

The rest, folks, is history. I remember hanging out of my dad's 1986 Honda civic, slapping high fives with the drunken masses who were being DDed home that night (or so I hope). The city of Atlanta was alive that night, and for one shining moment, the Bravos were NL Champions.

I assume most or all of you had similar experiences. That turning, instrumental moment or series of moments that forever converted you to Braves fandom. Yes, they aren't the easiest bunch to support, but they're our bunch. GA's hate for baseball, FYF's inability to take a pitch, Gonzo's ridiculous windup, Bobby's tendency to fall asleep while Blaine Boyer ruins yet another game ... they're our team.

I did not write this post to discourage anyone from ranting and raving about our inadequacies. Rather, I hope we can all reflect, if for only a moment ... on why we chose THIS team in the first place. Write your personal experiences, criticize me for being a sentimental nerd, suggest a delicious beer I should try ... it's up to YOU. But please, DO be gentle.