September baseball for players on eliminated teams is a grind. Men begin to reflect on the season, taking personal inventory and vowing that next year will be better. These are character check days.
As a member of the 2002 Colorado Rockies, the mood was sour as September waned. We were grinding our way through 92 losses. On September 24th, we headed to Los Angeles to play the Dodgers. Playing in my home city that late was a cruel tease.
I grew up 20 miles from Dodger Stadium; the first home I bought was even closer to Chavez Ravine. During that series, we had sensational weather. I hugged my best friend in the stands before the game; I held my baby boys in my arms on the field after it was over. The next morning found me sitting in my backyard by the pool in sunglasses, flip flops and board shorts, drinking my own black coffee.
All too soon, I had to suck in a deep breath and pack my bags, kissing my family goodbye on the way out the door. I had been living on the road for roughly 230 days at this point. I took an 0-for-5 on the chin that night, punching out in my final at bat against an absolutely filthy Eric Gagne. Like I had done so many times already, I boarded yet another plane to head to our final series of the season.
Seems like no big deal. It's only a few more days, right?
By that point, the mental exhaustion from the losses piling up takes its toll. The season beats your body and spirit down. There are still no excuses. Nobody gives a shit that you want to go home. The opposing pitcher isn't going to groove a fastball. It's just like every other day. To the clubhouse, in the cage for flips, BP, fly balls, eye black, breathing techniques, game time. Every at bat is still just as vital to our professional well-being as the ones way back on opening day.
That's baseball in September when you're mathematically eliminated.
