Game Report: July 2005 Archives

Washington at Atlanta. Series Report.

Cowards 5, Nationals 4.

CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA -

Houston at Washington. Astros 4, Nationals 1, 14 Innings.

CHANHASSEN, MINNESOTA - In a move of sheer desperation, Houston sent their most Guzmanic player, Eric Bruntlett, owner of a .167 batting average, to the plate with the game on the line.

And so we saw that the difference between the Astros and the Nationals, who are otherwise very similar teams, is that their Guzman can hit when it counts. Our Guzman can't.

Another game we lost not for lack of opportunity, but for lack of execution. A day off before the Atlanta series will help, especially if it really allows Nick and Vinny to be ready to play Tuesday. But if BallWonk were coach, shore leave would be cancelled and the players would spend Monday at the Bobby. And the only drill we'd do would be BP with fielders and a runner on third.

As prettily as the Nationals reach first, and as excitingly as they run bases two and three, this whole stranding runners on third thing just isn't as much fun to watch as the Nationals seem to think it is. We need to plate some runners, stat. Getting Vidro back hasn't helped. Benching Guzman hasn't helped. Trading for yet another league-average outfielder hasn't helped. Replacing Zach Day and Tomo Ohka with Ryan Drese hasn't helped, although that's not really the issue here.

So it's not which guys we play, it's how they play that counts. And the way the Nationals batters play sucks, but only with runners in scoring position. And this has been going on all season, even when we've been winning. How many times have we won 4-3 while stranding a dozen runners?

So whatever bad mojo is keeping Nationals batters from getting hits, or even useful outs, with a runner on third, we need to fins a way to overcome it. Practice, maybe, or an exorcism, or aromatherapy, or, well, BallWonk doesn't really care how we do it, just that we do something to end the unscoring curse.

Houston at Washington. Weekend Update.

Nationals 4, Astros 2.

CARVER, MINNESOTA - That's more like it. Lose the blowouts, win the close games. If you're going to give up 14 runs, do it the night Roger Clemens pitches and you only score one. And if you're going to hold the other team to two runs, do it on the night Carlos Baerga forgets the team rule about never hitting with the bases loaded. (Although, to Baerga's credit, it's not really his fault Willy Taveras misplayed what should have been a typical Washington bases-loaded fly out.)

What's more, a win Sunday avoids the series sweep, and despite of all our losing we're still tied for first in the division. Which is why BallWonk is not panicking. Yet. These last two games showed us back on pre-July form. There's a lot of season left, more than time enough to get Riker back in the lineup, stand Vinny back on his feet, talk Livo off the ledge, and put together another long winning streak. Or two. Plenty of time.

Houston at Washington. Astros 3, Nationals 2.

MAPLE GROVE, MINNESOTA - "City and state, please."

"Washington, DC."

"Name of listing, please."

"Don Buford."

"Thank you. If you press '1,' for an additional charge of 35 cents, Verizon will connect your call to number -"

Beeeeeep

"Thank you. Connecting your call."

Ring Ring ... Ring Ring ... Ring

"Buford here."

"Mr. Buford, it's BallWonk. I need to talk to the guys. Anyone still in the clubhouse?"

"Er, yeah, Guillen is still here. I'll hand him the phone."

Phsshhh Thunk

"Yeah."

"Jose? It's BallWonk. Have you and the guys been reading Harry Potter?"

"Yeah. Sniff. We've been reading it all together, me and Brad and Vidro and Schneider and Vinny and, you know, all the guys. We read the same chapters at home and then meet for book club before warm-ups in the morning."

"I thought so. And have you read chapter 27?"

"Oh, yeah. Hold on, I've got to blow my nose. Phhhbbbbllllltzzzz! We read chapters 25-27 Tuesday night, after we beat Colorado."

"Aw, geez. And you had book club before the game Wednesday?"

"Yeah, but it was mostly just silence. Nobody had much to say. It was like ... it was like the Dark Mark was over RFK, like we'd all been hit with the Muffliato curse."

"Oh, Jose, I am so sorry. That explains a lot about the last two games."

"Well, yeah. Who could play after reading 'The Lightning-Struck Tower'? Have you read that chapter, BallWonk? Could you hit big-league pitching finding out about, about ..."

"I know, Jose. I don't blame you. But have you kept reading?"

"No, after book club on Wednesday, we decided to take a break. None of us can focus. I mean, did you hear Livan? He wasn't upset at us or at Frank. When he said something's been bothering him for 'three years,' he was talking about when Harry Potter y la orden del fenix came out in Spanish. That was 2003. He's been telling us all his theory about Snape, and only Wil Cordero believed him, and then the same day he read chapter 27, Wil got cut, and then we couldn't win the game for him when he only gave up three runs, and, well, I know I'd go a little crazy if that all happened on the same day."

"Oh, man."

"Yeah, so we've put the last three chapters on hold."

"No, Jose, you've got to read them."

"I don't know if I can. After what happened in the Astronomy Tower, I don't know if I can bear to read what is happening down in the hallways. He said he stepped over a body, and it's all just too much."

"Jose, listen to me. Ms. BallWonk and I finished the book. You have to read the final three chapters. Really. Would Harry let his fear of what comes next stop him from following the book all the way to the end? Would Ron or Ginny? Would Dumbledore?"

"..."

"Jose, are you there?"

"Sniff. Yeah. Harry would find the courage to finish the book."

"Do you promise me you'll get the guys to read the last three chapters?"

"Sure. I'll call 'em tonight."

"Good. I think you'll all play better after you've discussed it in book club. And another thing. I know you guys have been losing a lot lately, and you're hitting like you're all back in single-A ball, and you've blown the division lead and all, but it's not so bad."

"How can you say that?"

"Well, July is almost over, and you've lost almost every game you've played this month, and to some really crappy teams too, and you've still got the second-best record in the National League. You've stunk up the ballpark night after night for most of a month and you're still better than 13 other teams in the league."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"And Frank has finally benched Guzman. Would that have happened if you'd won all those one-run games this month?"

"No, we'd still have Guzzie out there if we weren't in a slump."

"That's right. And Nick will be back soon, maybe in time for the Braves series. You take two from those guys, and everything will be fine again. But first you've got to clear your heads by finishing Half-Blood Prince. You promise me you'll finish the book and have a last book club?"

"Yeah, I promise."

"Good. Now is Vinny there?"

"Nah, he left already."

"Rats. Well, next time you see him, tell him Ms. BallWonk sends her love."

"Will do, man. Thanks for the call."

"No, thank you. And remember to give the phone back to Buford."

"Right."

Click.

Colorado at Washington. Rockies 3, Nationals 2.

CARVER, MINNESOTA - Livo was angry. Very angry. He hit Aaron Miles, and still his anger wasn't sated. He beaned Luis Gonzalez, and yet the rage was white hot as ever. He plunked Todd Helton, but that left him filled to the brim still with searing madness. Not even hitting another batter, Desi Relaford, cooled him, not one eensy-teensy bit.

Even holding the Rockies to three runs, which any pitcher knows ought to be good enough for a win, tempered Livo's rage at all.

And so after the game, steam visibly rising from around his neck, blood literally boiling in the whites of his eyes, Livo spoke to the press and described the Guillenian anger burning within him.

I'm not happy for three years. After the season, I'm going to tell you. ... It's 99.9 percent I'm not going to pitch no more. I'm done, I think, so let's see what happens. ... I'll go to sleep and I'm going to make a decision tonight. ... I'm tired of something. ... I'll tell you when the season's over. I'm mad.

Then he announced he was going to have season-ending elective surgery, and that he was therefore taking his glove and his ball and going home.

Frank Robinson, who has clearly been in Washington long enough to take notes from the likes of Scott McClellan, had this to say:

I have no idea who he's mad at.

Now, maybe this is just the result of BallWonk being on chapter 24 of Harry Potter and the Halfblood Prince, a book in which it's important to pay close attention to the exact words people say, but BW can't help but notice that Livo said he was tired of something while Frank said he didn't know who Livo was mad at.

Hmmmmm. Why does Frank assume the thing Livo is tired of is a person?

And anyway, what has been different about Livo's life the last three years? What changed between 2002 and 2003?

Well, that was when the Giants traded him to Montreal. That was when Frank Robinson became his manager. It was when Officer Schneider, Wil Cordero, Jose Vidro, Bluegrass, Pedro Armas, Joey Eischen, Sunny Kim, and Luis Ayala became his teammates. But Livo went on to say that Washington is "the best organization," so perhaps it's too facile to conclude that Livo has had it with Frank or that he's tired of rooming with Vidro.

Could we be witnessing the results of a secret plot by Castro against Livo's remaining family in Cuba? Could it be the workhorse pitcher's frustration at not being allowed to try playing outfield on days he doesn't pitch? Is he tired of everyone not taking him seriously when he confides his suspicions that Snape and Malfoy are up to no good together?

From whence comes Livo's rage?

For now, all we have are Frank's words of insight into the team he's supposed to be managing:

I have no answers for you. I don't have a full picture of it. I have no idea what's going on.

Colorado at Washington. Nationals 4, Rockies 0.

"Heave to and prepare to be boarded! Hyaaarrr!" the pirate captain shouted from the quarter deck as his crew ran up the red-and-gold Jolly Roger.

But the crew of S.S. Colorado would not give in. Instead they furled more sails and fired the stern-chaser in hopes of outrunning the notorious pirate ship National. The crew of the Colorado had faced this pirate band before, and in that encounter the piratical sailors had tangled their lines and abandoned ship after accidentally setting fire to their own powder. A bunch of scurvy lubbers they had looked, and so the crew of the Colorado were confident they could escape again.

What they didn't know was that command of the pirates was, by longstanding buccaneer custom, rotated among the five fiercest officers. And today the dread captain Long John Patterson was at the helm.

Having to rely only on his speed and accuracy in the hot, humid air, Long John fired his broadsides in rapid succession. Trying to steer free, the Colorado ran aground in the first, allowing the National to pull alongside and board her almost before the fight had begun.

The pirate crew set about plundering the Colorado, but found at first only two runs. "Where be your treasure chests of runs?" Long John demanded of the Colorado's crew. None answered. "Hyaaarrr! So be it then. I'll pick you one at a time to walk the plank until you yield up more runs for me and my crew."

He turned on the Colorado's carpenter, Matt Holliday, and demanded that he reveal the hidden treasure.

"You'll get no more runs from us," Holliday said defiantly.

"Hyaaarr! It's the plank for you, then," Long John cried, a gruff glee in his voice and a manic glow in his eyes. His men, led by First Officer Schneider, ran out the plank and shoved Holliday along it until off he fell with a splash.

Next it was the bosun's mate, Shawn Chacon, who revealed nothing and was forced to walk the plank.

Aaron Miles, commander of the starboard battery, refused also, and so Long John sent him, too, to Davy Jones' locker. Sharks were now circling below the plank, so regular was the pace of Long John's executions of the Colorado's crew.

Sullivan, Atkins, Garabito, Piedra, in all Long John sent eight men to their fates in the vasty deep before young midshipman Zach Day, who had only recently escaped from indentured service aboard this very pirate ship, said "Enough!"

First Officer Schneider led a picked crew of Bluegrass Brad Wilkerson, Guillen the Barbarian, and Mad Preston Wilson over to their former captive. "Cap'n Patterson will say when enough is enough, matey," Schneider growled.

"No, enough of this needless slaughter. I can show you where the remaining runs are hidden." So Day led First Officer Schneider and his men belowdecks, where they prised another two runs from behind a false bulkhead.

Meanwhile, up on deck, the crew of the Colorado tried to mutiny, what with Lon John's toughest enforcers away belowdecks. Long John himself backed away from the melee, and the rebels quickly cut One-Arm Mike Stanton down where he stood. The Dominican pirate Guzman had his hand cut off at the capstan, although none could see how the blade had come anywhere near touching him.

But then a puff of smoke bloomed high in the rigging, followed by a cracking report. The Colorado's bursar, staggered to the side, shot through the shoulder by the sniper above, and tumbled overboard.

The rebel crew shuddered to a man. The fabled sniper Chief Cordero! None was safe - and before the men of the Colorado could surrender, to more puffs bloomed, two more cracks sounded, and two more men lay shot dead on the deck.

"Hyaaarrrr, that be enough, methinks," Long John said in the silence that followed the third shot. "We've got all the runs this ratty ship has to offer. Set the remaining prisoners adrift in the small boats, burn the Colorado, and let us be on our way."

The crew of the National let out a pirate yell and did as Long John ordered. Their captain had brought them a prize at long last, some runs to fill their empty coffers after too many merchant ships had escaped their chase.

Colorado at Washington. Rockies 5, Nationals 4.

If the clothes make the man, how does a team that dresses like this

Beat a team that dresses like this?

Could it be because the Nationals played like a team that dresses like this?

With just a little offense, the Nationals were able to beat the Brewers Saturday night despite allowing three runs on bad defense. (Two passed balls by Gary Bennett, including one third-out dropped strikeout that allowed the batter to reach first and a runner to score, and a catch that even a mediocre center fielder makes but that fell just beyond Preston Wilson's flailing arms. On a related note, everyone in the BallWonk row at Miller Park last weekend noted how odd Preston looks when he runs. He has the frenetic motions of a fast runner, but your eye keeps getting ahead of him. He looks fast, but he's actually really, really slow. Team BallWonk is pretty sure that Preston would come in last in a race with Bennett, Officer Schneider, Frank Robinson, and Vinny's bum knee.)

So it's not so much the three errors that cost the Nationals, although those proved costly in terms of pride. And in terms of Pedro Armas' balance; all the bad D made him dizzy and disoriented. Understandable; with all the errors even the fans weren't sure anymore that they were really watching the Nationals out there. The Nationals may not win every game, but at least they play good, fundamental baseball, or so we've been telling ourselves these last months. But not so much in July. Anyway, point is that we can overcome three bad defensive plays, even when they cost us runs. We just have to score a few runs. The way the Nationals are playing lately, even with the addition of yet another league-average outfield bat, you'd think they believe you get points for reaching second base. Which is true in cricket.

The whole team is in Chad Cordero territory now. Atlanta trails us by only half a game, and the Cowards have a game in hand. As of today, any game we lose can cost us the division lead - and we won't be safe until the Cowards lose on the same day the Nationals win. That hasn't happened since, oh, June. It's like we have a one-run lead going with no outs in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded. The Chief has proven that he can get out of that kind of jam and save the lead. Can the whole team?

Washington at Milwaukee.

Brewers 5, Nationals 3.

Professor Bowdenegall directed Preston to sit on the stool at the front of the Great Hall, and then placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

"You may be number 44, but you're not a Rockie anymore," the hat shouted after a moment. "I place you in ... Washingdor!"

The long table under the blue, red, and gold banners erupted in cheers. Preston walked across the chamber and found a seat next to Mike Stanton, who had also just joined the Washingdor house.

As Preston reached for the mug of butterbeer before him, it transformed with a poof of green smoke into a frog. A chorus of giggles rose from the Slytherwaukee table.

An older boy leaned over to Preston, who was frozen in shock. "Don't bother about them," the boy said firmly. "That's just Tomo Malfohka and his gang. They can be rather a pest."

The kind words had almost unfrozen Preston from his mortification when he noticed the lightning-shaped scar on the older boy's forehead. He recognized that the boy must be Bradley Potterson, who had famously survived the Dark Lord Seligmort's killing curse to become the last Expo.

Preston stared.

"Yes, I'm Bradley Potterson," he said exasperatedly. "Welcome to Washingdor. These are my friends Vidron and Vinnione; they've both prefects."

"Prefects?" Preston was just able to squeak.

"Yeah, house prefects, so you have to do what they say. Oh, and that's Guillen and Brian. Over there is Nevillivan Longpitcher and his brother Esteban. But you'll probably be rooming with Mike, the other first-year."

True enough, he was. But in his very first Charms class, Preston apparated the ball over the wall and off school grounds. That evening, in the Washingdor common room, the older boys invited Preston to join the house Baseballitch team.

"Ever since Hagrid's Crumple-horned Snorkack stepped on Nick Johnson's foot, we haven't had a cleanup chaser, and without a cleanup chaser we're in danger of losing our lead in the House Cup competition this year," Vidron said adjectively. "Why don't you grab your broomstick and join us for our next game?"

"I guess I could try," Preston said hesitantly.

It was the Washingdor house team's second and last Baseballitch game of the year against Slytherwaukee. The opposing beaters targeted Preston with their bludgers, hoping to intimidate him, but Preston held his own and came close to giving Washingdor its first point. But Damian Millerfoy stole the quaffle at the last moment and flew up the field. A Washingdor bludger slammed him in the shoulder, momentarily threatening to throw him off his broom, but the several thousand fans in the stands from Millerfoy's hometown of La Crosse kept him upright with their magical support and he scored the first goal.

In the second quarter, Washingdor sent in the first-year Mike as a backup keeper to give Nevillivan a rest. As he took up his position in front of the Washingdor hoops, he accidentally pointed his wand at Slytherwaukee's chaser Rickie Weeks, who just then hit his bludger into Lyle Overbay, who dropped the quaffle.

The umpire, Professor Davidsnape, blew his whistle. "Magical interference on Mr. Stanton of Washingdor," Davidsnape snarled. "Point to Slytherwaukee!"

When the teams stopped play for halftime, the score stood at 2-0 for Slytherwaukee.

After the half, Washingdor chasers Vinnione and Vidron combined a pair of double-throws and a long pass to get the quaffle through the Slytherwaukee hoop to make the score 2-1. Defensive miscues abounded on the play, and Washingdor students had high hopes that their team could at least eke out a tie.

Another set of substitutions brought Vincentomo Crabbe into the game as a substitute seeker for Slytherwaukee. Crabbe had been a keeper for Washingdor before he was expelled for using magic against a teacher. When he was readmitted, the sorting hat sent him to Slytherwaukee. The Washingdor team called a time out and huddled together at their end of the field.

"We used to play alongside Vincentomo all the time," Vidron said confidently. "They must think of him as a secret weapon against us, but we know his moves better than anyone, so let's go get him."

Vinnione agreed. "Preston, we need you to press the attack and focus on keeping the quaffle on their end to set us up to score. Bradley Potterson, we need you to find the snitch and make sure they don't end the game before we score again to tie the game."

"I'll try," Bradley said distractedly, and they all flew back to their positions.

Despite the Washingdor chasers' efforts, including a double-pass and a long shot, Vincentomo proved more than a match for his old classmates. Geoff Jenkins, meanwhile, circled the field alongside Bradley Potterson, until suddenly the Slytherwaukee player went into a steep dive. Bradley followed a fraction of a second behind. Just as Washingdor's chasers were mounting a drive to score the tying run, Jenkins swerved hard and closed his outstretched hand around the snitch, bringing the game to a 3-1 close. It was a mirror image of the earlier match between the two houses, which had ended with a 3-1 score in Washingdor's favor.

A sombre mood filled the Washingdor common room that night; out in the halls the happy, taunting songs of Slytherwaukee students could be heard late into the night. And from a tower across the castle the taunts and boasts of Hufflebrave students could be heard. They had already gained a game on Washingdor in the House Cup standings, and had high hopes of catching their rivals soon.

Preston, Bradley, Vidron, Vinnione, and the rest of the Washingdor team sat silently, slumped into the sofas and soft chairs of the common room, sipping butterbeer but finding little solace. Syltherwaukee had bested them, and Hufflebrave was gaining. It was already feeling like it could be a long semester.

Washington at Philadelphia. Series Report.

Phailers 5, Nationals 4.

By the end of the series, Officer Schneider was dizzy with confusion. In the first game, the Nationals went on a scoring binge. Those eight runs could feed the Nationals for almost a week in normal times. They were enough runs for the Nationals to win five of six games. But Friday night, they were barely enough runs to win a single game.

It was like we suddenly had a normal team's hitting, but also a normal team's pitching. And while Bluegrass came through for the real Nationals and earned Majority Leader honors with his three hits, two runs, and one game-saving catch at the 401 sign - only 401 feet to dead center! - backup players Carlos Baerga and Matt Cepicky supplied most of the real punch.

Baerga, in particular, went 2-4 with three runs and three RBIs, so of course Frank rewarded him with a trip to the bench to watch Wil Cordero finish the game for him.

And where had all the pitchers gone? An eight-run blowout was a long time coming for the Nationals, who hadn't won a game by more than two runs since April. Or so it seemed. It was good news that the Nationals could pound out eight runs in a single game. But it was very, very bad news that the only way they could win even a single game against the Phailers was to score eight runs in a game.

You score any runs with the kind of pitching the Nationals had in May and June and you should win five of seven from the Phailers, even at the pretty brick miniature toy they call a ballpark in Penn's town. As it was, we needed that last, eighth run just to win one.

Actually, the pitching was on in the second game of the series. Long John Patterson pitched seven shutout innings, allowing only four baserunners while striking out eight. Hector Carrasco struggled a bit, but only gave up one run on three hits and a walk in the eighth and ninth.

But the Nationals scored all of zero runs on six hits and a walk by the time the lone Phailers run crossed the plate to end the game with a Philadelphia win. Where had all the batters gone? Frank didn't even have to send in Wil Cordero to cool off our offense - although he must have been tempted, what with Baerga going 4-3 and constantly threatening to score the one run we needed to turn the ninth into a save situation and win the game.

BallWonk is positive that if we had gone into the ninth leading one-nothing, the Chief would have come in and saved the game.

But no. We just couldn't score the last run, which Saturday was also the first run.

Sunday was the same basic story, although enlivened with a bit more plot in the first act. Up 3-1 after the fourth, the Nationals just needed consistent pitching and a couple more runs to ensure a win and a series victory (and to gain back a game on Atlanta, which lost to Milwaukee Sunday).

Things started for the Nationals when Leiber hit Vidro in the foot but the umpire didn't see it. That made Guillen the Barbarian, who was on deck, very angry. Big mistake, Philadelphia. Vidro laced a single, and then the Barbarian smashed a homer. Two nothing Nationals.

But Gary Majewski made the mistake of throwing a single pitch that a good batter could hit 403 feet to dead center. At RFK Canyon National Monument, that's an infield popup. At a real big-league park that's an easy outfield fly. In Philadelphia's bonsai park, it was a game-tying home run.

Once the game was tied, and it became a race to see who could score the last run, things didn't look so good. Then, in the eighth, Frank brought in Joey Eischen just to walk a guy. At that point, BallWonk said to Ms. BallWonk, "We are not going to win this game."

It's not that BallWonk lacked faith in the Nationals, who have shown this season that they can win any game, any time. But Frank Robinson was clearly engaged in another one of his character-building exercises where he does everything he can as a manager to lose the game, and even the best team can only overcome that kind of nonsense so much of the time.

Frank kept it up. First, he sent in Wil Cordero to bat seventh, which brought him up every time the Nationals had a real chance to score the last run. Philly's ballpark is so small that even Jamey Carroll could hit a homer. Wil Cordero, not so much. If Frank wasn't trying to lose the game, he'd have left Chad Cordero in to bat in the top of the tenth. If Frank wanted to win, he would have sent Livo up to bat. Instead, he sent Wil the Game Killer Cordero.

Who promptly sucked his way into inning-ending outs in the 10th and 12th, stranding four runners (two of them in scoring position).

But preventing the Nationals from scoring the last run wasn't enough. Frank also had to find a way to let the Phialers score. So he called for intentional walks every time the bases weren't already loaded. You walk enough guys in extra innings and somebody's gonna score. Someone did in the twelfth, when Frank intentionally walked the bases loaded with one out.

Well, OK, BallWonk is just casting blame. Lots of old-timey managers would walk the bases loaded in that situation. But added to the two-out pass given to Ryan Howard in the ninth and it shows a Robinsonian compulsion for giving the other team extra outs.

It's good news that we have the All-Star Break coming up. The Nationals can mostly rest and recuperate. A team meeting or two can help the Nationals sort out a strategy for overcoming Frank's escalating efforts to throw away games. And hopefully everyone can spend Tuesday afternoon in silent prayer together at National Cathedral for the Preston Wilson trade to fall through.

New York at Washington. Metropolitans 3, Nationals 2, 11 innings.

"Hey, Doc Robinson, it's me, Jose McVidro. I'm back from the hospital."

The wild-haired inventor barely acknowledged his young friend as he fiddled with what looked like a cross between a DeLorean and the bridge of the starship Enterprise. "Yes, yes, Jose. Let's see, hydrospanner connected to the flux capacitor, power cycling at 213 hertz ..."

Young McVidro, used to his mentor's absentmindedness, gazed over Doc Robinson's shoulder at the mess of wires, odd devices, and flashing lights that used to be the car's engine compartment.

Just then the distinct whiz-ping of a ricocheting bullet, followed by the blatablatablata of automatic weapons fire, panicked them both. Doc Robinson shoved McVidro into the vehicle.

"Quick!" shouted Doc Robinson. "Activate the flux capacitor while I charge the cells!"

"Flux capacitor?"

"The red switch! The red switch!"

McVidro fumbled with the dashboard and found the big red switch. He flipped it to on, just as a high-pitched whining filled the compartment, and more gunshots pinged off the car.

"That's gunfire! They're shooting on us!" cried a confused McVidro.

"That's Atlanta, and they're gaining on us. I stole a shipment of their mojo to power this thing, and it looks like they've tracked me down," Doc Robinson answered. "I need you to count to ten and then floor the accellerator."

"What is this thing?" McVidro asked.

"It's a time machine. It'll keep you safe while I deal with Atlanta. Now floor it!"

A bright orange light filled the front screen, the distant sound of a sonic boom echoed outside, and then the car screeched to a fiery halt.

He was alone in the RFK staff parking lot, parallel flaming lines extending backwards toward a bright red Porsche Cayenne that looked like it had imploded. Doc Robinson and the Atlanta gunmen were gone.

"Wow," McVidro said, as the engine creaked and groaned, and smoke rose from the engine compartment. A small blue LED was flashing "APRIL 2005."

He got out and ran up to the employee entrance to the ballpark. "What month is it?" he asked the guard.

"Why, it's April," the guard answered.

"Hot dog!" McVidro shouted. "There's still time to save Doc Robinson!"

He ran to Doc Robinson's office and tried to explain about the time machine and the shooting, but Doc Robinson just stared at him in disbelief. "Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?" the Doc asked.

Then McVidro remembered the Post sports section he had folded into his back pocket that morning. "I can prove I'm from the future. See, here, look at the date. And the lead story about London getting the 2012 Olympics."

He unfolded the paper on Doc Robinson's desk.

"By jove, boy, you are from the future!" Doc Robinson shouted. "My future self must have a breakthrough on the timeflux equations that allows me to build a time machine. Show it to me, and I'll see if I can't send you back to the future."

But as he spoke, but the word "London" in the newspaper headline was fading, and "Paris" was beginning faintly to replace it.

"What's going on? London got the Olympics, not Paris," McVidro stuttered.

"Your future history is changing. Your presence here must be changing the timeline. You say the Nationals were in first place when you left?"

"Yes," McVidro answered as Doc Robinson flipped to the baseball pages. There, the Nationals were dropping in the standings, and a story was materializing about New York's record-setting two-month losing streak, starting with an April loss at RFK, and how the rest of the division has climbed ahead of the Nationals by beating up on New York.

"That's it!" Doc Robinson said. "We play the Metropolitans this afternoon. In your future, we must lose to them today, and the victory prevents New York from losing its confidence. Something you've done since you arrived in our time must have changed things so that we win the game."

Just then, Officer Schneider stormed into the locker room and threw his helmet against his locker with a loud crash. "Some jerk in a souped-up DeLorean totaled my car!" he shouted. "Looks like he drove right through it. The parking here sucks! I am so going to take my anger out on the Mets today! Oh, hi there, McVidro. Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

"Er, yeah," McVidro said. "But I'm feeling a lot better today."

Then he and Doc Robinson snuck out to the parking lot to look at the time machine. Doc Robinson spent several minutes examining the device, muttering to himself and writing in his notepad.

"Can you send me back to the future, Doc?" McVidro asked after a time.

"It's not that simple," Doc Robinson said. "The fuel cell needs time to recharge, and I have to recalibrate the flux capacitor for forward travel. A time machine makes rocket science look easy, kid. Even if I get this thing working, there's no telling where it will end up. It could be July 1, or it could be July 31. Although my calculations show that the energy released by a 9-2-6-2 double play could give this thing the boost it needs to pinpoint its arrival to a specific date and time."

"A 9-2-6-2 double play?" McVidro said. "Wait a second." He opened the paper back up to the story about New York's losing streak. "It says here that there will be a 9-2-6-2 double play that wins the game for the Nationals today. Somehow, we've got to stop the Nationals from winning today, but we've gotta make sure we still make the 9-2-6-2 double play."

"I have an idea," Doc Robinson said. "Leave it to me, but I need you to play today to make sure everything goes to plan. When the 9-2-6-2 play happens, you'll have only ten minutes to get to the car and activate the flux capacitor."

McVidro agreed to do what he could as they walked back into the ballpark.

"Listen up!" Doc Robinson shouted to the team just before the game. "I'm making a few changes to the lineup. Baerga, you're batting cleanup."

"What?" Baerga asked. "Why?"

"Um, because you're playing first base. When Riker plays first, he bats cleanup. Well, sometimes, anyway. So that's where the first baseman bats. Guillen!"

"Yeah?" the Barbarian grunted.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Just fine."

"You don't sound fine to me. Clear your throat once."

Guillen cleared his throat.

"Sounds like bronchitis to me. Can't risk your health out there today; you're sitting. Bluegrass, you take right, Byrd, you're in center, and Cepicky, fill in in left."

The whole locker room started to mumble their confusion.

"Guzman!" Doc Robinson shouted.

"Si," the injured shortstop answered.

"Can you stand up yet?"

"No, Senor Robinson," Guzman answered.

"Damn. Well, Carroll, you're still in at short. Pedro Armas, I want you on the mound. Now go out there and, um, win!"

Sure enough, the Nationals jumped to a 2-1 lead in the third, after giving up a run on no hits in the first. Well, there was a hit, but in keeping with the day's theme of inverted causality, it came after the run had scored. The Metropolitans tied it in the fourth, and the score stayed locked at two all.

Officer Schneider already had two hits, but thanks to Baerga's 0-5 day in cleanup and the unproductive at-bats of the rejiggered outfield, the Nationals were consistently choking with runners on. Playing like it was April, which after all it was.

Between innings, McVidro played on Guillen the Barbarian's emotions. "Doesn't it just steam you to be benched like that?" he asked. Or, "Man, I bet Doc Robinson would never bench you if he saw how good you are at throwing out runners from right. Does he think Bluegrass or Cepicky has the kind of cannon you have for an arm?"

Once Guillen was completely mad with rage, McVidro pulled Doc Robinson aside. "I think you should put the Barbarian in to play now. I have a feeling he'll deliver for us."

So Doc Robinson put Guillen in to play right field. The gamble payed off in the eleventh, when he fielded a Piazza hit and tried to throw out Carlos Beltran at home, as though in punishment for the indignity of being kept out of the game for so many innings. The throw wasn't there and Beltran scored the go-ahead run, but the still-enraged Schneider threw back to Carroll covering second to tag Piazza. Carroll then threw back to Schneider, who tagged Floyd at home for the 9-2-6-2 double play.

But the winning run had scored. McVidro looked at the sports section he had brought from the future. It had changed back, showing London winning the 2012 Olympics and the Nationals back in first place. He hugged Doc Robinson, who told him to hurry. So McVidro raced to the parking lot, hopped in the DeLorean, and flipped the red switch.

The orange light came back, along with the distant boom, and suddenly the car was screeching to a halt again. Nine figures loomed in the front windscreen, but before the car stopped it drove over them all with a series of jarring bumps.

When the car stopped, McVidro stepped out and saw that he had run over the Atlanta Braves. He looked across the parking lot, and saw Doc Robinson jump into an identical DeLorean and disappear with a fiery bang. He ran to where Doc Robinson had just been, and as he arrived another bang flattened him as the DeLorean showed back up.

The door opened, and Doc Robinson stepped out.

"Doc!" McVidro shouted. "You're OK! I was back in the past, and I changed history, but you helped me fix everything and send me back to stop Atlanta from attacking you!"

"Never mind all that," Doc Robinson said. "I've just come from the future, where kids ride hovering skateboards, movies are in 3-D, the Nationals are able to score eight run in a game, and Carlos Baerga hits like a cleanup batter. Hop in and I'll take you there!"

New York at Washington. Metropolitans 5, Nationals 3.

Dear Nationals,

Please do not let Wednesday night's loss get you down. It's not every week you face future Hall of Fame pitchers on consecutive nights. And when you do face future Hall of Famers on consecutive nights, there's no shame in winning only one of those games, especially when you beat the better of the two pitchers.

Listen to Mr. Hernandez, who said after the game, "If you want me to be better, you're asking for too much." Which is true; in baseball even the best team loses a few games. Just look at the Cardinals. Speaking of them, if you want to think some happy thoughts, here is what the National League playoffs would look like if the season ended today:

Atlanta at St. Louis.
San Diego at Washington.

BallWonk, for one, likes those odds. Anyone can beat anyone in a five-game series, but you've gotta like our chances against the Fathers. History shows that wild-card teams usually win in a five-game series, so we have good odds of playing Atlanta for the NL pennant. And if there's one team the Nationals would love to face in the playoffs, it's Atlanta. The ghost of Gen. Sherman seems to be with us this year, allowing us to burn Atlanta again and again whenever we face them, and besides, the Cowards always fold in the playoffs anyway.

St. Louis would be a tougher opponent, but pitching tends to tell in the postseason, and the Nationals would have the edge there. And win or lose, playing the Cardinals in the NLCS would be a glorious cap to this season.

Of course, there are another 78 games to play, one of them Thursday afternoon to try to salvage a series split and win back that half game we lost from our lead over Atlanta in the division, so it's too soon to count our eggs and call them chickens.

But early as it is to think playoffs, we do need to focus on the positive to prevent the bad vibes of a single tough loss from starting a season-ending collapse, as happens more often than you'd think. For example, although a chicken little would point out that the Nationals twice loaded the bases without scoring any runs Wednesday night, a more positive observer would note that the Nationals always suck with bases loaded, so it's good news that we only loaded the bases two times. Any more bases-loaded situations and we might not have scored any runs at all.

Or we could note that Atlanta, which had a game in hand, saw its Wednesday game in Chicago postponed. So the loss only cost us half a game in the standings, and we're now even at 84 games played each.

Or we could take comfort that only two Nationals are going to the All-Star Game, so the rest of the team will be well rested after the break for 11 straight games against mediocre teams.

Or we could cherish the memories of the good plays in this game, like Vidro's kamikaze bunt with two outs and Bluegrass on first, which would normally be the most foolish play of any big-league season, except it was so ridiculous that the Metropolitans didn't see it coming, and of course Vidro laid down a perfect bunt, so everyone reached safely. How could you not smile at the memory of that play? And what about Vinny's incredible play and perfect throw to end the fourth? That was a thing of beauty.

So please, Nationals, keep thinking positive thoughts. Don't let the loss to Tom Glavine and his Metropolitans get to you. Remember that George Washington got swept in his series against New York, but the Continentals still won the pennant. You've already avoided the sweep, so take it easy on yourselves. Oh, and try not to load the bases.

P.S. Can someone in the dugout tell BallWonk what Frank was thinking when he had Livo walk Miguel Cairo to get to Glaven in the second inning? We already knew that Mike Dimuro was calling a 37-cent strike zone, and a lot of Livo's pitches on the edges were being called balls. Hopefully someone, maybe Cowboy Randy, dope-slapped Frank when Glavine managed to draw a walk to load the bases.

Frank, it's OK to leave first base empty. Really, you don't have to walk someone just to achieve some sort of aesthetic balance on the basepaths. And you certainly don't need to give the other team an extra out that early in the game. When Jose Reyes came up with the bases loaded, it took everything Livo and Bluegrass had to make the final out and prevent any runs scoring.

The Nationals had to be perfect to overcome Frank's bad decision. This happens all too often; it's a tribute to the Nationals that they are good enough to overcome their manager's mistakes. But wouldn't it be better if they could focus on overcoming, say, their own inability to hit, or even make productive outs, with the bases loaded instead of spending all that energy climbing out of holes Frank digs for them?

New York at Washington. Nationals 3, Metropolitans 2.

A little bird landed on Bluegrass' shoulder. "Are you my daddy?" it asked.

"Yes, but only a little," said Bluegrass, taking a walk to first.

Then the little bird flew to Vidro for Victory. "Are you my daddy?" it asked.

"Yes I said yes I am yes," the newly returned secondbaseman said, a tear in his eye.

So the little bird perched on Guillen the Barbarian's helmet. "Are you my daddy?" it asked.

"Yes," the Barbarian said, "Yes, and again yes," hitting ball after ball into the outfield.

Then the little bird flew to Vinny. "Are you my daddy?" it asked.

"Si," Vinny said, hitting a double.

So the little bird hopped over to Officer Schneider. "Are you my daddy?" it asked.

"Yes," the good constable said. "Anything you pitch can and will be used against you on the field of play. You have the right to be yanked before the eighth. If you cannot afford a hook, one will be provided for you."

Then the little bird flew to Jamey Carroll. "Are you my daddy?" it asked.

"Very much so," the besocked shortstop answered.

Despairing of finding anyone who wasn't his daddy, the little bird flew the the mound and there alighted on Esteban Loaiza's shoulder. "Are you my daddy?" it asked in the first.

"Yes," Esteban said.

"Are you my daddy?" the little bird asked in the second.

"Yes," Esteban answered.

"Are you my daddy?" the little bird asked in the third.

"Yes," said Esteban.

"Are you my daddy?" the little bird asked in the fourth.

"I just retired eight straight batters and got a hit, while you gave up a run and struck out, so yes, I believe it is safe to say that I am your daddy," Esteban growled.

"Are you my daddy?" the little bird asked in the fifth.

"Yes," sighed Esteban.

"Are you my daddy?" the little bird asked in the sixth.

"Indeed it is so," Esteban said.

"Are you my daddy?" the little bird asked in the seventh.

"Quite," answered Esteban.

"Are you my daddy?" the little bird asked in the eighth.

"You know it," Esteban said, and shooed the little bird away.

After the ninth, the little bird was confused. "Are you all my daddy?" it asked the Nationals.

"Yes, we are your daddy!" the whole team shouted.

The Battle of RFK, July 4, 2005

New York at Washington. Metropolitans 5, Nationals 2.

Once upon a time, while the rest of America celebrated its independence, a band of second-raters, old men, raw rookies, the lame, the sick, and a small core of regular veterans answering to Washington faced battle against a mercenary army based on Long Island, in New York.

Washington's men got themselves spanked but good.

It was 1776 when all this happened. Or maybe it was 2005. Either way the situation and the results were about the same. In fact, Monday's contest at the Bobby was less a baseball game and more a historical reenactment.

Of course, Washington the general didn't have the excuses that Washington the team had. His bullpen wasn't exhausted from a 12-inning game against Chicago at Wrigley the day before. His best batter didn't retroactively go on the DL. He wasn't depending on Matt Cepicky to spark his offense. On equal terms, maybe Frank Robinson could get a better result than George Washington. But these were not equal terms. Old George had it easy compared to Frank.

And it's not like Frank can count on the French to show up and bail him out. Oh no. He just has to hope that Vinny, Bluegrass, and the Barbarian score a couple of early runs so Ayala, Tex, and the Chief can close it out. Except they're all either tired or hurt, or both.

So while the father of the nation could count on help from Baron von Steuben, Lafayette, and the French navy, all the father of the Nationals has going for him is Jose Vidro, who came off the DL after the game and might yet play against the Metropolitans.

In 1776, Washington lost three straight battles around New York. Just avoiding the sweep this time around will be a good enough result, especially with Atlanta 4.5 games back and starting to flag.