AMERICA'S PASSTIME
Astros score historic no-hitter in 8-0 victory over Yankees

"You can't expect to no-hit any major-league team," Astros manager Jimy Williams said. "But sometimes it happens. But usually with one (pitcher), maybe two. But not six. It just happened."

The Astros have now thrown 10 no-hitters in franchise history, the last being Darryl Kile's 7-1 victory on Sept. 8, 1993. The Yankees have been no-hit only seven times in their rich history, and they had gone exactly 6,890 games since being no-hit on Sept. 20, 1958, by Hall of Fame knuckleballer Hoyt Wilhelm of the Baltimore Orioles.

The last time New York was held hitless at Yankee Stadium was on Aug. 25, 1952, by Detroit's Virgil Trucks.

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The crowd at Yankee Stadium was well aware, however, and the Astros appreciated the standing ovation they received. For one night, at least, the place and the history belonged to them.

By the time the Astros returned to their clubhouse, the Yankees had left a bottle of champagne in front of the locker of all six pitchers.

"That's how the Yankees are, they're pretty classy," Wagner said.

Click here.

Every now and then something happens that makes me realize that I am not really a cynic.

I'm not really that much of a baseball fan. Baseball is slow. It tends to be long and boring (I much prefer football). I was never a very good player when I was young--coaches often sent me to the outfield where the balls hit by other children rarely went. As I grew older, the sport became increasingly associated with jock culture, from which I was slowly moving away. By the time I was in high school, some of the biggest jerks I knew were arrogant butthole baseball players (to be fair, I also knew some pretty cool baseball players, but they seemed to be in the minority). I've been pretty ho-hum about baseball for many years.

But like it or not, baseball remains a part of my identity because I am an American. Like many, many other American men, as a child I participated in the yearly springtime ritual of little league baseball (stunningly represented by the "good game" moment in the Richard Linklater film Dazed and Confused) from kindergarten through the sixth grade. I have vivid recollections of my little league days: the smell and taste of dust and chalk and grass, the smell of leather baseball gloves, free snowcones for recovered foul balls, Super Bubble apple flavor bubble gum, itchy uniforms, cool hats, chatter from the outfield--"hey batter, batter, batter...SWING!" These are all sweet memories.

And I have many other baseball memories. I remember from Hogan's Heroes and the numerous WWII films I watched as a kid, that the best way to uncover a suspected German spy is to ask him who won the World Series in, say, 1934. I remember Joe Dimaggio hawking coffee makers; I remember Steve Garvey singing about that special something possessed by an "Aqua-Velva man." I remember Tommy Lasorda's Los Angeles Dodgers and Billy Martin's New York Yankees. I remember the Pittsburgh Pirates' "We Are Family" season. I remember following Pete Rose's hitting streak. Much later, I remember being in New York City in October of 1996 when the Yankees won the World Series for the first time in over a decade--the moment the game ended, I heard, from inside the apartment where I watched the final game, the spontaneous sounds of celebration that immediately erupted througout the city; I felt like I was a part of it all.

I remember Yogi Berra's immortal line, "It ain't over 'til it's over," being repeated endlessly throughout my entire life.

But my favorite memories are of my home team, the Houston Astros (often lovingly called the "Lastros"). I remember the Astrodome's gee-whiz light show (later torn down for more seating). I remember watching Larry Dierker pitching on TV when I was four or five years old. I remember several Astros uniform changes, from a classic baseball style, to the orange dominated rainbow look of the 70s and 80s, back to a more classic look, to the modified classic look of today. I remember Nolan Ryan and Mike Scott and 1986's oh-so-close to the World Series season. I remember good, old Larry Dierker arising from the past/broadcast booth to rejoin the Astros as their manager. I remember Craig Biggio smoking a cigar while riding around the Astrodome on a motorcycle celebrating their division win during Dierker's first year back.

It's pretty strange that, even though I don't really care about baseball (and I also believe that professional sports, along with pretty much the entire entertainment industry, diverts the population from paying any attention to important political issues), I really love the cultural institution of baseball.

Earlier tonight while flipping around channels on TV, I happened on the game at some point between the eighth and ninth innings. Excited announcers related what was going on. "Wow," I thought, "this is pretty cool." I figured I could waste a little time and watch how the no-hitter in progress would play out. I put on my Colt .45s hat (the Astros' original name from the early 1960s, before a certain arms manufacturer threatened a lawsuit), and settled down to watch some baseball history in the making. It was, indeed, pretty cool.

Watching that final inning, I felt more American than I've felt in a long, long time. It felt pretty damned good. America is not about tanks and planes and guns and soldiers. America is about baseball. America is about the uplifting cultural institutions and functions that we all share, that unite us.

Baseball is something that the conservative parrot-pundit, George Will, and I, a leftist progressive, both have in common. Now, isn't that something?

ONE FINAL NOTE: My old school, the University of Texas, just sent its baseball team to the College World Series. Hook 'em 'Horns!

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