My Moment in the World Series Sun

My hometown team is out of the playoffs for the first time in fifteen years. But maybe that’s a good thing. We fans have taken winning for granted for a decade; we forgot the joy of winning. So let’s look back to that first great year.

The Atlanta Braves made it to the World Series in 1991 — a worst-to-first team that captivated the city. The Braves were young, cute, excited, ready to win. Many of them had come up together through the Braves’ farm system. So many come-from-behind victories that year. Baseball was damn fun that summer.

That October was one of the most thrilling times in Atlanta, even more exciting than during the 1996 Olympic Games. Whether you were pumping gas, or buying groceries, or watching the game at Manuel’s, everyone talked to everyone else about the Braves. It felt like a small town again.

The Braves didn’t win that series against Toronto (they won just once, in 1995) — but that didn’t crush the spirit of the hometown fans. And so we honored them with a parade. As an employee of the Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games, I was selected as an escort for the players, assigned to David Justice and Mark Lemke. I got the cutest one … well, next to my beloved Tommy Glavine.

Mark Lemke, David Justice, and me

I was naughty; I put my hand on David’s inside thigh
while talking to him. Do you blame me?

David Justice was The Man that fall — young, beautiful, sassy, talented (and Rookie of the Year in 1990), not yet too full of himself. The ladies went wild as he drove by. All of the cars were mobbed — but ours had the biggest mob, thanks to all the women following Justice. I was getting knocked around by these desperate debs, so he pulled me into the car. I sat down between Justice and Lemke, waving like I was a proud wife. I was spotted by friends, who wondered what the hell I was doing in the Mustang with those two popular Braves. Renae even saw me on Peter Jennings!

After the parade, we got to hang out for a few minutes with the team. On a dare from an ACOG friend, I went over to Ron Gant and told him we’d voted him Best Ass in the NL East (oh, sweet Jesus, it was, too). He blushed, laughed hard ... then had me tell the rest of the team.

Go Braves.

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Selig launches steroid investigation

CNN Breaking News: Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig announces former U.S. Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell to head probe of steroid use in baseball.

How happy I was to read that e-mail this afternoon! I hate Barry Bonds, and I hope they kick him out of the game. I can’t stand his “it’s all about me, not the team” attitude. He was cute back in his Pirates days, but he’s a bulked-up freak now. I keep watching for an arm to rip off during a homerun swing, like a Monty Python skit; wouldn’t that be cool?

It ticks me off that Bond is just six or seven homers away from breaking Babe Ruth’s record. That big fat cheater (notice how skillfully I’m using sports lingo) is getting much too close breaking to Hank Aaron’s record. And that will be a dark day for me.

Hank Aaron broke Babe’s record fair and square. He didn’t shoot himself up with a cocktail of steroids and banned substances. He played for years, he chased the record, he earned each of those 755 homeruns. And he's a good guy — he still loves the game, and he gives a lot to his community.

Hank Aaron is one of my all-time heroes. As a kid in Atlanta in 1966, you couldn’t help but love that first Atlanta Braves team: Hank Aaron and Felipe Alou, Joe Torre and Rico Carty, Eddie Mathews and Clete Boyer. Felipe Alou was my personal favorite back then, but Hammerin’ Hank was the king — and still is. (In fact, if I ever decide to buy a BMW, I’m buying it from Hank.)

Please, Mr. Selig and Mr. Mitchell, please ban Barry Bonds from baseball. Let him join Pete Rose in baseball limbo.

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