In the clubhouse that night, Lidge spoke openly and admirably about what had happened with each fateful pitch. He was matter-of-fact and made no excuses. He sounded like a man capable of handling the ignominy of blowing postseason saves in the most dramatic, instantaneous way.
Three nights later, back in Houston, Lidge went in and took the loss in Game 4 as the White Sox swept his Astros to win their first championship since 1917.
There is something compelling about the pitchers who serve up the most memorable home runs.
Philadelphia doesn't remember Joe Carter's heroic home run to win the 1993 World Series. It remembers Mitch Williams' doomed slider.
The Giants' Bobby Thomson hit the "Shot Heard 'Round the World" to win the pennant in 1951. But it was Dodger Ralph Branca who threw the pitch.
Don DeLillo opens his novel Underworld with a vividly written account of that day at the Polo Grounds, including the postgame scene that confronted broadcaster Russ Hodges outside the Dodgers' clubhouse:
"[T]here's Branca all right, the first thing you see, stretched facedown on a flight of six steps, feet touching the floor. He's still in uniform except for shirt and cap. He wears a wet undershirt and his head is buried in his crossed arms on the top step. Al and Russ speak to a few of the men who remain. They talk quietly and try not to look at Branca. They look but tell themselves they aren't."
That's exactly what it's like after a home run makes a hero of one man and a goat of another. You watch the hero raise his arms, pump his fists, circle the bases toward the waiting arms of jubilant teammates. Then your eye drifts reluctantly to the pitcher with his head down, making the long slow walk toward the shelter of the dugout.
