Deep breaths, people, it’s still early
There’s plenty of time for our talented Astros to screw this up
You can feel it. All over town, people are catching Astros fever.
Middle-aged men, who remember 1981 and 1986 and all those Central Division titles that went absolutely nowhere, are squeezing themselves into ancient rainbow jerseys and daring to believe. They’re like eighth-grade girls experiencing their first crush, moon-eyed and giggly, writing “Houston Astros — World Champions 2017” in their science notebook over and over, dotting the “I” with a tiny shooting star.
Astros gear occupies a prominent spot on the Academy sales floor. Young folks are wearing T-shirts with slogans like “Hustletown” and “Yes Way, Jose!,” a tribute to our diminutive, ridiculously talented second baseman, Jose Altuve.
After 55 years of frustration, disappointment, and heartache, finally, finally, finally the World Series is ours.
Slow down, people. It’s the beginning of June, not the end of September. There is still ample time for the wheels to fall off.
These are your Houston Astros, after all, the first team in the history of baseball to have a game played in a domed stadium be canceled on account of rain; the team that decided to replace Nolan Ryan with a mustachioed journeyman named Jim Clancy, only to see Ryan sign with the Texas Rangers, throw a couple of no-hitters and become the most beloved 46-year-old power pitcher in the universe; the team that replaced its cuddly mascot, Orbit, with a lanky menace named Junction Jack, a terrifying rabbit kitted out in very unAstros-like bib overalls and engineer’s cap; the team that — from Art Howe’s sideburns to Jeff Bagwell’s pharoah’s beard to Kaz Matsui’s long, strange sojourn on the disabled list due to, um, proctological misery — has both fascinated and horrified us.
Oscar Gamble, the extravagantly Afroed slugger of the Seventies, once noted that in baseball, “The things they do ... they do be shocking.” That’s the Astros. It’s a club that’s done some shocking things. It’s a club that breaks our hearts. It’s getting better. Jim Crane has excelled as Astros owner. He knows the city, and he knows baseball. He is possessed of a rigorous eye for detail and a relentless work ethic. Crane has been good for the team, and that’s good for all of us. This current regime gave us George Springer, for heaven’s sakes, and had the foresight to acquire an obscure Venezuelan utility infielder named Marwin Gonzalez in a trade with the Red Sox. Gonzalez is on pace to hit 43 home runs this season.
The Astros have been on a tear of historic proportions. Last month, they went on the road and treated the Minnesota Twins the way the Soviets treated Hungary in 1956, stomping around and making the hometown faithful miserable. They scored a club record 40 runs in three games, 11 of them coming in a jawdropping eighth-inning Memorial Day rally that featured 14 batters, a Carlos Beltran three-run homer, and from the Great Beyond, the faint voice of Milo Hamilton, exulting “Holy Toledo!” and encouraging us to attend the Astros Wives Charity Gala.
Crane is great. The team is great. ESPN.com declares, “Astros have AL West all but sewn up.” But it’s the beginning of June, not the end of September, and disaster is never far away. These are gifted, supremely well-conditioned athletes, at the pinnacle of physical prowess, but the human body, even the most well-tuned of them, is little more than a bag of treachery, ligaments and tendons and muscles and bones all waiting for the chance to snap or tear or shatter. When Altuve took a pitch to his right hand recently, I swear I teared up, convinced that his season was over.
He was fine, but you worry.
It was 31 years ago, but 1986 looms large in the collective Astros-fans consciousness. That was a summer: Tommy Lasorda, the rotund, bugeyed manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers snorted that the division-leading Astros were “renting first place,” and the Astros responded by running away with the NL West.
The Dome was constantly packed and perpetually deafening. Charley Kerfeld, all beer belly and Buddy Holly glasses, and Dave Smith, the most relaxed guy this side of Perry Como, anchored the bullpen. Mike Scott scuffed his way to a no-hitter and Cy Young Award. Doran and Walling and Davis anchored the infield. Kevin Bass hit .311, with 33 doubles. Cheo Cruuuuuz was our beloved wily veteran. It was a team of destiny, a team we loved immoderately.
That season unraveled in a pain that lingers three decades on. Game Six, a game so momentous, they’ve written books about it, was the “Game That Would Not End.” This is an actual fact: Several Houston-area children were conceived, carried to term, weaned, and enrolled in their first day of kindergarten, all during Game Six.
It went on for days, weeks, years. Billy Hatcher hit a game-saving homer in something like the 634th inning. Aurelio “Señor Smoke” Lopez gave up two runs in the 712th, and the Mets — the Mets – advanced to the World Series. Lopez left Houston, eventually becoming mayor of Tecamachaico, Mexico, where his campaign slogan, “Un partido de béisbol no debe durar tanto tiempo” (“A Baseball Game Shouldn’t Last That Long”) resonated with the populace.
The magic of the ‘86 season evaporated just short of glory. There’s no guarantee the current season will be sprinkled with enough of what longtime Houston sports columnist Mickey Hershkowitz called “the goofus dust” to see us through.
Fairy tales usually end badly. Ask Brad and Angelina, or Chuck and Di, or Brock Osweiler and just about everybody. Marwin Gonzalez could turn back into a pumpkin. Jose Altuve’s elfin brethren could call him back home, to help them fill an emergency cobbling assignment for some desperate shoemaker. Dallas Kuechel could realize that the whole hipster artisanal cheesemaker look is thoroughly played out and fall into an existential bearded funk. Everything could fall apart.
I hope not. But it’s early June, not late September, and the season is long, and you never know with baseball. The first third of the season has been magical. So was the first third of the Titanic’s maiden voyage. Yes, yes, I realize the analogy doesn’t hold: There are no icebergs anymore, they’re more like glorified cubes, and the anemic lineups of the Angels and Athletics are about as threatening to the Good Ship Astros as a couple of bags of that crushed ice they sell at Sonic.
We still must be wary. Don’t get cocky, that’s what Han Solo says. It’s good counsel.
Oh, and keep October 24 open on your calendars. That’s Game One of the 2017 World Series. George and Bar will be throwing out the first pitch. Keuchel will be on the mound. And we’ll all be dressed in orange and blue, ready, finally, to see a lifetime of bad mojo put to rest. Or not.
As mercurial Astros hurler Joaquin Andujar once told a reporter, “My favorite English word is ‘youneverknow.’ ” When it comes to the Astros, youneverdo.