So, I was fantasizing the other day about when the Pirates are finally good again, and how crazy Pittsburgh is going to be the night of their first home playoff game. It's got to happen. It's inevitable, right? Okay, maybe not, but let's not burst my bubble here. Sometime in my life, I am going to see the Pittsburgh Pirates in the playoffs. It's coming. It has to. There's no way life can be that cruel. I mean, sure, Cubs fans have it rough. But at least they have winning seasons. At least they have good teams. At least they have the hope that this could be the year. Pirates fans, for the last 16 years, have had not even a glimmer of hope. Maybe a little during the '97 season when Warren Morris and Kris Benson burst onto the scene and the Bucs were just a few games out at the start of September...but that of course fell to shit. This year, I've got as little hope as I've ever had--for this season. There is a bit of hope on the horizon though in the minors. Huntington, I will say, has at least tried to bring in some talent. Sure, he's traded away our best players and probably not gotten enough in return. But at least he's got something in return. There's a bit of hope. It's not like we're giving up Aramis Ramirez for fucking Bobby Hill any more. At least Tabata is supposed to eventually be a stud. At least there's a bit of hope for An. LaRoche and Moss...maybe...hopefully. I really like Moss. I hope he has a sweet year. And there's Pedro. He's a can't miss, right? I mean, now that we finally signed him? It's coming. I know it. Anyway, back to the fantasy...(is it pathetic that my fantasies are of when the Pirates finally returning to prominence? Shouldn't I be fantasizing about hot sex with famous chicks or something? I mean, of course there's that too, but the Bucco fantasies are much more often and I think I actually enjoy them more...but, I digress.)
In this particular fantasy, it's the night of the Buccos first home playoff game and Pittsburgh is electric. For some reason, (probably money and the fact that I'm not a large corporation or season ticket holder) I'm unable to secure tickets to the event at PNC Park. I am not discouraged. I travel to Pittsburgh, and hit up the horrendous dive that is the one and only 222 bar. This is a bar on the corner opposite of 115 Federal Street. It's probably been there for 75 years. They've probably had multiple offers to be torn down as part of the gentrification of the north side, but they're not budging. The people that run this place are badasses. They don't care how much money they're offered, they like their bar where it is, the way it is. And, it happens to be right on the way to PNC Park if you chose to park at the Allegheny Center parking deck, which happens to be my spot of choice. I love this place. We often stop in on the way to the game to enjoy a few ice cold I.C. Lights before he enter the gate and have to pay seven fucking twenty-five or whatever it is for the same damn thing.
It's usually pretty dead inside. A few druggies come in and out of the bathroom. One time there was a fight. The bartender with yellow teeth slides the beers down the counter. This place is full of the down and out. It's the perfect place to stop when you're a down and out fan of the down and out Pirates. But on this night, the night of the first home playoff game since 1992, the place is alive. The place is electric. The 222 is on fire. Sure, the other, nicer bars that line the street outside of PNC are full, but they're not the real fans, the ones who have waited nearly a quarter century for this. They're out having a good time. The 222 is filled with people who didn't have the connections or the dime to get in the game. The tiny televisions in the corners and the tall boys of I.C. Light are the only focus.
And to this point, everything's pretty realistic. I can see it actually happening (eventually). But here's where the lines of fantasy and reality start to blur.
The bar is full. Packed to the gills. And during the pregame talk, I look around to gather myself. I've got a seat at the bar because I've been there for hours. I look around to see that the place is full of former Pirates players in uniform. Not classic, hall of fame Pirates players, but the down trodden nobodys that filled the rosters during the losing streak. From Kevin Young to Kevin Polkovich, the place is jam-packed with guys who have been through the shit. Not all of it like the fans, but some of it. Kevin Young in one sleeve and pants that look like the bottom half of a zoot suit. Al Martin with both wives and chomping his gum. Alex Cole in his rec specs. Lloyd McClendon's there. Sure, he tasted success as a player for the Pirates, but his years as manager were some of the worst. Cam Bonifay and Dave Littlefield know enough to stay away for fear of being lynched. And Derek Bell too. This is the kind of crowd that would do it. Rowdy. Raucous. Rejuvenated by the Pirates' recent successes and reeling with anticipation of what's to come. Brant Brown stands in the corner with his high socks. Fat Daryle Ward is at a table eating chicken wings by the handful. Jose Silva, Kip Wells, Josh Fogg, Mike Williams, Solomon Torres--they're all there.
Ryan fucking Vogelsong is at a gay bar downtown eating his shitty salad with Dan Potash.
There are more players that will go unnamed. If you had a Pirate favorite during these tumultuous and trying times, he's there in uniform. The place is wild. Ready to go. Then, the game starts. At the first bad call, Lloyd McClendon goes nuts and rips a bar stool straight out of the ground just like that base he once stole.
McLouth makes a great catch in the late innings to save the game and Turner Ward in a fit of excitement crashes through the wall. The foundation of the 222 is shaken, but not defeated. The crows continues to stir. As the Pirates somehow eek out a victory over their heavily favored rivals, (probably the goddamn Cardinals) the place just can't take it anymore and Mark Smith, the hero of Francisco Cordova/Ricky Rincon's no-hitter, strikes the match and the 222 is burned to the ground. And it was worth it. Well worth it. 18 years of frustation and humilation, finally gone, over, done. It's a home playoff victory for the Pirates. For the city of Pittsburgh. For the faithful fans who stuck it out.
I cry like a baby and party in the streets with the rest.
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