Game 5 is a painful subject for most Nationals fans. I myself was raw from the loss for a week or so, until I forced myself to be over it. Now I still flinch when I think of the image of Drew Storen, sitting alone in the locker room, contemplating the loss.
This post will be a re-living of my Game 5 experience.
Despite the horrible loss, I truly enjoyed going to the game. It was my first playoff game of any sport, and I was extremely excited. I had bundled up for the chilly night and purchased a new sweatshirt. As soon as we got in (we being my father and younger brother and I), we watched BP from both teams and hoped for some home runs. Nothing came our way, so we instead went to our seats (section 412, 12 or so rows back). Being so far up, we were freezing. The wind whipped through my three jackets and thick shirts like a knife through water.
It seemed like an eternity passed before the game finally started. We swung the Natitude towels in the air delightedly, the energy and buzz of the postseason crowd charging in my veins, warming me and getting me pumped for the game. The beginning of the game was the part I'll always remember the most - all the home runs and singing "Take On Me" with the crowd, right into a single as we hit the high note. Those are the memories of Game 5 I carry with me.
Then Davey put in Edwin Jackson. My dad and I looked at each other, shaking our heads. We both believed, now and to this day, that putting Jackson in was a big mistake. But nothing could compare to The Inning.
Drew came on to pitch. I fist bumped my dad and brother and said, "We got this in the bag. Drew is so lights out." It was true, though. Two strikes. There was only one necessary to advance. One. One is the loneliest number. Only one pitcher felt responsible for the loss, as Pete Kozma nailed the coffin down and the rest of them threw the dirt over us. A lasting image was Drew walking slowly and despairingly off the field after the tragedy occurred.
The bottom of the inning hurt almost as much as the top. Watching the Cardinals run out and dogpile each other only drove another stake through my heart. It was like salt in a wound, watching them rejoice over what was rightfully ours. The bottom of the ninth was over too fast, but perhaps that was good. Less time to dwell on what had happened, so I could process it on the way home. When the final out was recorded, I was barely holding back the tears. Perhaps it was just being there, amongst the excitement, and the overwhelming feeling of my first postseason game. Or maybe I had really invested a lot of emotion and interest in this team. I think it was both, combined with the shock of it all.
My brother and father went to the men's room, so I waited outside, using the opportunity to shield my face and let myself cry. I was too upset to care who saw the big fat things roll off my cheeks. I stood there for ten minutes, leaning on a big support pole, silently sobbing over the sports team I had watched since I was twelve back in 2009, had hoped to do well. I wept in the car on the way home, too, and in my bed at 2 am. I'm not sure if it was all fueled by shock, disappointment, or the thought that the season was over and I'd have to wait until February and March to see them again.
I enjoyed Game 5, excepting the loss. I tried to console myself by saying "They'll get there again" or "Now they have the experience". But, I know that Game 5 is like a wound, similar to the loss of Michael Morse (another hole in the heart that can't be filled).
This is my Game 5 experience. I am happy to share it with all of you.
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