Game Report: August 2005 Archives

Washington at Atlanta. Nationals 3, Cowards 2.

Awww. Don't you just want to hug Long John? Or, at least, give him a manly pat on the back, or maybe a handshake or something? Poor kid. He's got the red glove. He's got the eyes of the national media, who have finally noticed this kid with the third-best ERA in the bigs and a decent haul of recent wins. He's got an extra day of rest, for a big game against a team the Nationals have handled pretty well this year and whom we will have to go on beating if we are to keep playing in October.

And then he has stomach cramps. Oh, the indignity! All that attention and pressure bearing down, and suddenly it's his time of the month.

Well, BallWonk certainly hopes somebody gave him that hug, or that pat on the back, or that handshake. Long John, BallWonk is sure that Vinny will kiss it and make it all better if you ask him.

Or maybe that's what all that Pattersonian relief pitching was all about. "Hey, big guy, you lie down and we'll pitch it and make it all better," they said, and that they did.

Jason Bergmann pitched his second big-league game and ran his shutout streak to three and a third innings, and was the pitcher of record when the Nationals took the lead. First big-league win, first big-league hit. Nice game for the kid.

Yet it was Hector Carrasco who pitched the most Pattersonian game. In two innings he gave up one hit, one walk, and issued three strikeouts. If there is an anti-Patterson on this team, Carrasco is it, in every way but ERA. BallWonk imagines the tall, lanky, dour, young Texan Long John is awkward whenever he's alone on the field with the squat, laughing old Dominican Hector. Long John kicks the dirt a bit and doesn't say much. But if you only watched the camera that zooms in on the batter from left-center, you might think the umps let Patterson back in the game when Carrasco came on.

Gary Majewski saw the night as a chance to do a little Civil War reenacting -- it's his hobby -- right there in Atlanta. You know, the bit where Sherman led his corps of Midwestern boys deep into Georgia, offering battle to the several Reb armies nearby, but the Rebs were all cowards who ran away while their country burned and so Sherman's men cut their famous swath to the sea. Which is pretty much how Majewski's inning went, only instead of marching to Charleston, he was clearing the way to the Chief.

The Chief was the only pitcher not mainly concerned with winning one for the Big Nasty. Chad was looking for redemption for his blown save against Atlanta. Plus, when he came to Washington, he set a goal of making one save for every man who has been chief executive, and Tuesday was his chance to finish the job with his 42nd save. (As the Chief well knows, George W. Bush is the 43rd president only because Grover Cleveland was both the 22nd and 24th presidents.) "This one is for you, Lincoln," the Chief could be heard dedicating the game when he left the bullpen. He had been saving the Great Emancipator for last in hopes that it would be a particularly special game.

Was there ever a better time to win one for Honest Abe?

Of course, the pitchers had help. There was the outfield fly ball Preston let drop just to add to the tension. Then there was the sure double Preston stole at the wall in the ninth. Andruw Jones laughed to see such a sight, even though it was his double that was robbed. Man knows a good play when he sees one. Preston laughed too, as if to say, "Hey, Chief! I've got your bacon right here."

And so Bergmann, Carrasco, and Tex won one for Long John, and the Chief saved one for Lincoln, and Washington's men in blue once again conquered Atlanta.

St. Louis at Washington. Series Report.

Cardinals 6, Nationals 0.

It's amazing how the weekend can make Friday feel like a million miles and a thousand years ago. Like when you get in the car Saturday morning and drive up to a B&B in the Shenandoah Valley and by the time you're back on I-66 Sunday night you can't even remember why you wanted to throw that chair through your computer screen at work on Friday.

Or like when your batters make the dregs of the Cardinals pitching staff look like Nolan Ryan, except better because Nolan actually gave up a lot of walks in his day and the Nationals batters this weekend couldn't have reached base if you spotted them three balls before coming up to bat and then made the pitcher throw six strikes. After all that, it was easy to forget just how good the Nationals played on Friday.

And then there was Sunday's story in the Post, in which it was revealed that Frank Robinson is pretty much the only guy left in the world who doesn't realize that bunting is just about the stupidest thing a person can do on a baseball diamond most of the time. The list of really dumb things that will get you in trouble every time pretty much reads, "(1) Kill a pigeon with a ball in Toronto; (2) Issue intentional walks; (3) Bunt."

Because, as anyone who's ever, you know, watched a baseball game can tell you, all that feel-good pablum you hear from Ken Burns and George Will about baseball being the only game without a clock is a lie. Baseball does too have a clock, but instead of counting minutes it counts outs. You get 27 of them, just as surely as a football team gets 60 minutes. If a football coach came up with a plan that involved giving the other team two extra minutes on offense, no sane person would call that a good idea. But in baseball, there are still a few holdouts like Frank Robinson who think it's a great idea to take the equivalent of two minutes off the clock.

But as the Post reported, Frank is one of the only pro-bunt holdouts left. Even his own old manager Earl Weaver (.583 winning percentage with four pennants and one World Series title) kind of told Frank (.476 winning percentage, no pennants) off for loving the bunt so much. BallWonk has long observed that, if Barry Bonds was a National and he came up to bat with no outs and Jamey Carroll on first, Frank would tell Bonds to bunt. BallWonk has never, ever been kidding. He believes with all his heart that this is what Frank would do.

Anyway, point is that Jose Guillen apparently saw the Sunday Post and read the sports section and said to himself, "How dare these fools attack my adopted father like this? If Frank says a bunt is as good as a double, then that's good enough for me." So of course Guillen set out to vindicate his adopted father by bunting with runners on first and second and no outs in the fourth. Our best hitter, in our best scoring opportunity of the weekend, and he bunted. He freakin' bunted. Into a fielder's choice, of course, which put a runner at first to set up the DP and a runner at third to activate the Nationals third-base curse.

You know, the season-long thing where the presence of a runner on third absolutely prevents any Nationals batter from getting a hit or even a sac fly.

And, true to the curse, Preston "King Suckerman" Wilson grounded into the DP to end the inning and, effectively, the game. We went on to notch 21 straight scoreless innings on the series, which pretty well proves the argument against Frank-style bunting. You play offense the Frank Robinson way and, well, you too can play .476 ball like the teams Frank manages average. You too can make Cal freakin' Eldred look like Roger Clemens. You too can lead the third-most talented team in the division to fifth place.

So from now on, BallWonk would like to ask the School Board to require the Nationals to attach this sticker to the Nationals playbooks every spring:

All hope is not yet lost. We have a lot of games against the NL East left, and we've pretty much had Atlanta's number most of the season, and we're still four games above .500, which is something considering all the sucking we've been doing for two months now, and we still have three solid pitchers, and Drese might have surgery, which improves our rotation significantly.

But for crying out loud, can we please stop bunting with our best hitters when the game's on the line? Strike that; can we please stop bunting?

Cincinnati at Washington. Godless Commies 5, Nationals 3.

Stupid butterfly.

The paid attendance was about 41,000, bringing the yearly gate up above 2 million. Bang! Zoom! went the fireworks, which was nice, since it was at that point a dismal 5-1 game with very little to celebrate and the Bobby was bleeding fans to the point that only about 15,000 remained. Oh ye of little faith!

BallWonk had already seen some things he'd never seen before at a ballgame. A balk, for example. Never seen a balk called in person. Then another. Never seen two balks called at a game before. And then a third, and wouldn't you know it, but BallWonk had never seen three balks called at a game before either. And a home run by Ken Griffey Jr. It wasn't too long ago that Junior was going to be the best player of all time, and now a fan can be excused for wondering whether he's even the best player in Cincy, but still. Hadn't seen a Griffey homer before, not in all his years coming to the Dome with the Mariners.

Oh, and a quick note to the team: When your ace starter can't find the strike zone in the first and walks three guys, one with the bases loaded, and goes 3-0 on another guy before he hits a single, maybe choose a better song to play when the pitcher strikes out the first batter of the second inning than "Wild Thing." OK? Mixed message there, when the situation calls for clarity.

Anyway, back to the bottom of the ninth, when most of the many groups of cubicle-mate hooky-players had left the Bobby, as had most of the other denizens of section 508, including the rabbinical man with his thousand-page book and Mike and his brother from the OC. Could the Nationals pull off a four-run rally to tie the game and send it to extra innings?

Six-Three led off with a namesake out. But you expected that; with Six-Three due up first you just knew that the Nationals really had a two-out inning in which to rally back. Then, as Officer Schneider was coming up to bat, BallWonk saw the butterfly.

A monarch, actually, or maybe one of those other butterflies that looks just like a monarch, which makes it the same thing unless you're planning to go into the butterfly breeding business. BallWonk had just looked up at the sky, and there the butterfly was above him. The little guy had flown all the way up and over the Bobby's roof. Talk about determination! It was like an inspiring children's story. Now the butterfly was riding the currents down, down, down, gliding in a haphazard curl.

Transfixed, BallWonk watched the butterfly glide crazily down, its wings locked in a wide V. It got smaller as it arced down and over toward home plate until BallWonk lots sight of it close to the ground by the visitors' on-deck circle.

BallWonk, of course, took it as an omen. Think of the butterfly effect: a butterfly can flap its wings in the Amazon, and change the wind currents around a tree, so the leaves flutter differently, and that breaks up a gust, and so on, until a hurricane hits the Georgia coast all because of the change that one butterfly made in the atmosphere. And the Nationals clearly needed a change in the atmosphere. So go, little butterfly, go!

Just about the time BallWonk lost sight of the beautiful monarch, Officer Schneider's undercover sting operation paid off and he was hit by the pitch. Wounded in the line of duty, substituting for a fellow officer! He's an officer and a hero.

Then Bluegrass stepped up, after having gone 0 for 3 with a balk-inducing walk, and sourmashed a pitch over the center field wall to make it 5-3. That was half the comeback right there, and BallWonk was thinking that the butterfly was having its effect. The air was shifting. The crowd, whittled down to the 12,000 or so loyalest fans, was suddenly in the game and making more noise than 41,000 fans had earlier. It was Teddy Time, and the big stick was answering the call.

The Commies put their closer in, but Vidro ripped a single anyway, even though he had gone 0-4 on the day, bringing the tying run to the plate with only one out.

Riker stepped in and hit a long bounder to short that was thrown, not in time by the way, to second. Vidro was safe, and there was no chance for a play at first, but the ump called Jose out and the scorekeeper, who had been poised to pencil in "1B" instead marked "FC" for Nick and "6-4" for Vidro.

At that point, BallWonk made a horrible realization:

The butterfly never flapped its wings.

The whole time BallWonk watched that butterfly, from the lip of the Bobby's roof to a few yards above the splotchy green grass, it never once flapped its wings. It glided the whole way down, shifting this way and that in the currents like a hang glider off Lookout Mountain.

All that time, BallWonk sat there thinking, "What a pretty butterfly," when he should have been standing up and shouting, "Flap your wings, damn you, flap your wings!"

Sure enough, Guillen the Barbarian came up the plate and let rip with two home-run swings to go 0-2 and then Greg "Strike Zone of a Drunken Sailor" Gibson -- it actually says that on his business card -- called the third strike and that was the game.

Stupid butterfly.

What lessons did we learn from the game? First, that the whole basis of the butterfly effect is the flapping of a butterfly's wings. If the butterfly doesn't flap its wings, there is no effect. No hurricane in the other hemisphere, no game-winning rally for the home team. Nothing. Rien. Nada.

The second lesson was never leave the game early. Because the only time it was ever much of a ballgame was the ninth, when Preston made a terrific play in center to help put the Commies down 1-2-3 and then the Nationals rallied to threaten a comeback.

The third lesson was that it's the defense that's killing us. Sure, ¡Livo! looked a lot like Drese out there. But the Commies' run in the first came after ¡Livo! couldn't keep his foot on the bag to complete a double-play on Griffey. In section 508, BallWonk could see the gap between ¡Livo!'s foot and the bag on the play. The ump got the call right, sad to say. Then, in the dread seventh, Sean Casey reached on what the official scorer called a single but BallWonk's scorecard still calls "E-3." A ground ball comes that close to the first baseman and he doesn't even touch it? That's an error, no matter what the rulebook says about the fielder touching the ball. In that situation, the failure to get your glove on the ball is the error. If our defense gets the 3-6 out, or even better the 3-6-1 DP, then that's a one-run inning. Take away the two defensive misplays and we go into the ninth down 2-1 and Wilkie's homer wins the game, 3-2.

BallWonk doesn't mind losing a game every now and then. But BallWonk does mind losing a game to shoddy defense.

On the season now, the Nationals are 6-2 when BallWonk attends. But they're 0-2 when BallWonk attends without Ms. BallWonk. Which is to say, Ms. BallWonk brings the good mojo. BW himself, not so much. Had Ms. BallWonk come to the game Thursday, that damn butterfly would have flapped its wings and Guillen would have doubled to set up Preston Wilson's game-winning homer.

Cincinnati at Washington. Nationals 5, Godless Commies 3.

BallWonk is thinking of starting a cargo cult to worship Long John's red glove. We would gather the whole tribe from across the island once every fifth day to drink mai tais under the tiki torches while the high priest passed the glove around. We'd each touch the glove, and say a prayer for prosperity, and we'd leave an offering in the webbing before we passed it on. Maybe a conch shell or a ticket stub from June or some plastic made-in-China flotsam from the beach. Then there would be dancing with grass skirts and leis and we'd all pull our flat-brimmed caps down over our brows really low and we'd throw stones out at the darkness to drive away the bad spirits.

And when the forest produced enough coconuts and wild boars for us to eat, and the sea produced enough delicious sushi and goldfish crackers for us to snack on between coconut-boar meals, and we could kick back every evening on a tropical beach beneath a clear, sunset sky and watch the Nationals whup the hell out of the other teams, because we'd have DirecTV and not Comcast, we'd thank the glove for our good fortune.

"Oh holy Red Glove!" we'd say. "We thank you for protecting us. You are truly great and wise and powerful, and we can only hope that we make ourselves worthy of your beneficence. Please, keep the mai tais and the goldfish crackers coming, and help the Nationals to keep kicking the bejezus out of all those other teams, especially the Commies and the Cowards and the Failers."

And then in the bright moonlight we'd watch a castaway raft founder on the breakers beyond the lagoon and we'd feel bad for the lost sailor as we heard the dolphins carry him straight out to the sharks, but then the next morning a pair of ripped golf pants would wash ashore and in the pocket would be business cards for C. Petegomery Angelos and Emperor Selig, and we'd shrug and think that things worked out pretty well either way.

Did Long John's red glove help Riker suddenly find his power stroke? Did the mighty red glove make Guillen the Barbarian's bat as potent at home as on the road? Did Patterson's crimson mitt clear Frank and Eddie's heads so that they'd start Jamey instead of Six-Three? Was the red glove of courage responsible for reminding Vinny that he used to be somebody? Has anyone got a better explanation?

A stathead or a godless commie would say that it's just a fluke of the law of averages, or that it's the natural result of dialectical conflict between the pitching class and the batting class, but BallWonk keeps an open mind. The holes in the scientific theories about this win could in fact be evidence of a higher power at work. Where the cold-hearted look at the Nationals scrappy win and see only random chance, BallWonk sees the power of the red glove.

And if that's not worth starting a cargo cult over, well, then what are all those tiki torches and rum bottles for?

Cincinnati at Washington. Godless Commies 6, Nationals 2.

The following public service announcement was broadcast on Radio Free Mid-Atlantic's shortwave service after Tuesday night's game. President Eisenhower has asked BallWonk to reprint the transcript in its entirety.

The communist will use deception to fool you. Do not be tricked! His way may seem to work at first, but it will fail in the end.

Just think back to the 1950s. In its fourth decade, communist Russia had beaten back the Fascist menace, built up great industrial cities, built the a-bomb, conquered half of Europe, spread the revolution to China, Korea, Vietnam, and Cuba, and launched the first satellite, dog, man, and woman into space.

But remember! These seeming triumphs were illusory. Within just a generation, Germany would own most of Europe, Russian industry couldn't compete with a Yugo or a Trabi, the USSR lost its a-bomb lead, let Eastern Europe go democratic, lost the space race, and suffered a visibly drunk candidate dancing his way to victory in a free election for president.

And so when the communist sends Luke Hudson to the mound to face you, and instead of giving up his average 5.3 runs over six innings, he shuts your lineup down like Russia turned Finland in '47, do not be cowed. The communist wants to impress you with superficial displays of strength in hopes that you will surrender quickly, before the inherent superiority of the Nationals way of life turns the tide against his godless ways.

The communist is adept at using showy displays of power to puff up his image, to give his dupes confidence and make his enemies doubt themselves. Sometimes he will succeed, and his audacity will lead his opponents to blunder. Do not be suckered into trying a first-and-second hit-and-run play on two consecutive pitches! This was the mistake the Czechoslovak leaders made, a mistake the Czech people paid for with 40 years of tyranny.

Ultimately, containment will defeat the communist. And who better to contain the Commies of Cincy than Long John Patterson and ¡Livo!, who will take the mound on behalf of all free people Wednesday and Thursday. With grim resolve, we can rid ourselves of the Reds menace by denying them any further territorial conquests -- specifically, denying them conquest of the territory between third base and home plate.

So do not lose heart! Though the communist may act as if today belongs to him, in truth the future belongs to those who remain steadfast in support of truth, justice, and the Nationals way.

Good night, and God bless the Washington Nationals.

END OF TRANSMISSION.

Washington at New Yawk. Metropolitans 1, Nationals 0.

Who's the best pitcher in the NL?

ERA - Pitcher, Team, Record
1.53 - Rogers Clemens, HOU, 11-5
2.29 - Chris Carpenter, STL, 17-4
2.38 - Long John Patterson, WSH, 7-4

Our very own Long John Patterson, obviously.

"But wait, BallWonk," a Cardinals fan might object, "Chris Carpenter has ten more wins than Patterson. Even though their ERAs are about the same, Carpenter is clearly the better pitcher because he wins more games."

Well and good, but no pitcher has ever been credited with winning a game in which his team's batters scored zero runs. It has never happened. Ever. Never will, either. It's like dividing by zero or accelerating to the speed of light: even thinking about it risks collapsing the very structure of spacetime itself and destroying the universe with a new big bang.

And Patterson has "lost" four games now, out of 23 starts, in which the Nationals scored zero runs. Give the Nationals a league-average offense and they would be 19-4 on days Long John starts. Give him the Cardinals' offense, and Patterson would be 21-2.

"Yeah, I agree that wins and losses are bogus," an Astros partisan might then interject, "But look at the Rocket's ERA. It's almost a run lower than Patterson's. Clemens is clearly the better pitcher."

Ah, but Long John never gets to pitch against the Nationals. Or the similarly anemic-batted Royals. Take away Clemens' shutout innings against those two clubs Patterson doesn't get to face and the Rocket would have an ERA of almost 2.00, right there in the ballpark with Patterson. Alternately, give Patterson starts against Washington and KC and his ERA would drop to 2.15.

Throw in how Clemens is pitching fewer innings per game as the season goes on, while Patterson is throwing ever-longer stretches, and that Patterson never, ever gets to stay home from road trips to play with his family, in short take away the luxuries and mollycoddling Clemens gets but no other pitcher does, and what emerges is a picture of the most pampered starter in the history of the game barely beating the stats of one of the gutsiest young phenoms in recent memory.

Imagine Goliath, but with union hours, a personal trainer, and his own jacuzzi. That's Roger Clemens. Now imagine David, but without any run support. That's Long John.

Plus, Long John has the red glove. Does Clemens have a red glove? No, he does not. In fact, while we're at it, can someone get our players some red bats? We totally need red bats.

Washington at Philadelphia. Series Wrap-Up.

Nationals 5, Failers 4.

Hey, Phillies fans!

Yeah, you. You over there behind home plate. And you, you whole bunch of guys behind the Philadelphia dugout. And all of you all over there, yeah, with the Cub Scout troop, I'm talking to you. You kiss your mother with that mouth?

You win two games in less than 24 hours and all you do is boo your own team as they win game after game in a critical late-season series for you? What kind of fan are you?

Oh, and dude, yeah, you, the fat one, it only works to shout things like, "Hey, Blue! You're missing a great game here!" if the umpire is actually wearing blue. When he's wearing a black shirt and tan pants, well, calling him "Blue" just doesn't make any sense. I mean, come on. Who's the blind one here?

You've got a good team that plays hard for you, day in and day out. Sure, they're a bunch of chokers, and always have been, except for that one time in the fall of 1980 when BallWonk's family moved to Philly from Iowa. And no, Larry Bowa wasn't the problem. But even if they're in second place again and battling for a wild card spot when any other team with your players would be running away with the division, you've got a lot to root for and not much to boo at.

And when it comes right down to it, all that booing is just plain un-American. In this country we're sports fans, not tribe members. This isn't European soccer. BallWonk has been to enough Premiership matches to know the difference. Americans love good sport. We root for our team, sure, but we enjoy a good play or a triple or a no-hitter no matter who does it. We're good sports. In Europe, folks turn up at the stadium and they don't care if the game is any good, they just want to see their team win. They call out death threats, chant hate songs, spew bigotry, and even imitate the sound of a gas chamber when a team historically associated with Jews* comes to town. They have to be segregated in the stands or they'd literally kill each other during the game.

And they boo. They boo a lot. Any time the other team does something good, they boo. Any time their own team misses a chance, they boo. Any call that goes against them, they boo. If their team wins, but doesn't completely humiliate the other team in the process, they boo. If one of their players took off his cleats and hit an opponent across the face with his spikes and got ejected, they'd boo. They wouldn't boo at the attack, they'd boo at the ejection, and then they'd explain how the guy bleeding on the grass with his face ripped off had it coming for going down a little too hard inside the penalty box three seasons ago.

Recognize yourselves yet, Phillies fans? There's an American way to cheer for your team, and there's a French way, and you in the City of Brotherly Goddammit Phillies You Suck are on the side of France.

Which makes beating you, even once in three games when we really needed to win two of them, sweeter than three wins anywhere else. It is just so nice to give you something to boo about.

You booed Placido Polanco on opening day because he wasn't Chase Utley. (No, he's only a .329 hitter this year. In Detroit.) Now you've got Chase Utley at second, just like you wanted, and he's batting .300 with 17 homers, slugging over .500, and he's chasing 100 RBIs and he's even stealing bases with an 85 percent success rate.

Thursday night, Utley drove in three of your four runs, with a sac fly and a homer. And then, when he came up in the eighth and led off with a grounder to Ayala, what did you do?

That's right. You booed him.

You booed this guy, still just a kid, who all he ever wanted was to play in the big leagues and give fans like you a little pleasure, and who's already just about the best player you've got, and any team would pay dearly to get a kid like him in its lineup and all that team's fans would be proud to have him giving his all for them every day. This player, for whom you drove another good player out of town with your booing, had already given you three runs in a game you only needed six to win. A guy doesn't hit a home run every single time he comes up to bat and it's not good enough for you, so you boo him.

Well screw that. BallWonk used to really have it in for Atlanta on account of how the fans behaved during the 1991 World Series. Well, truth is, he still does. But as of this week, BallWonk is fully on board with the rest of the Nationals Party behind the plank naming Philadelphia our chief rival in the division. Not because Philly stands in our way for the pennant -- you're chokers, after all -- but because Phillies fans are just so ... so ... French. And nobody likes the French.

In the course of this series, you climbed into the Wild Card lead and you split four games when the Nationals really, really needed to win three. (Treading water with a split didn't bury us like a Philly sweep would have, but we're quickly approaching the game-a-week horizon in the division.)

Any other city would look at this series and call it a success for the home team. But not Philadelphia. In Philly, they boo their own players while they win themselves into the lead for a playoff spot.

So shame on you, Philly fans. Especially you over there by the press box. BallWonk looks forward to your inevitable choke, even if it lets Atlanta reach the playoffs. (Someone's gotta get the wild card when the Nationals rally back to win the East.) BallWonk just hopes that you give the Nationals the chance to deliver your choke in September, when you play six games at the Bobby.

You want something to boo about? We'll see what we can do to oblige you.

*Absolutely true.

Washington at Philadelphia. Nationals 6, Failers 3.

Before Monday's game, Preston asked his teammates to gather around in the clubhouse. He said he had something to say, that he'd been working on it for a while now, and that he finally felt that he had been inaugurated into the team, what with all the respect they showed him during the Denver sweep. So the Nationals gathered around. Vinny and Loiaza shushed the team into silence, and Preston stood up on the bench and began to speak.

My fellow Nationals.

Let the fans of every team know, whether they wish us well or ill, that we will hit any pitch, field any ball, throw any pitch, beat any opponent, in order to assure the survival and success of the Nationals.

This much we pledge -- and more.

To those teams who would make themselves our adversary for the pennant or the wild card, we offer not a pledge but a request: Don't even bother. The Nationals are back, baby.

We dare not tempt them with weakness. For only when our bats are sufficient beyond doubt can we be certain beyond doubt that our great pitching will be enough.

In the long history of baseball, only a few teams have been granted the role of climbing back into the pennant race in their hour of maximum suckiness. We do not shrink from this responsibility -- we welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other team or any other city. Certainly not Montreal or San Juan, am I right? The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this pennant race will light our team and all who root for it -- and the glow from that fire can truly light the entire Washington area.

And so, my fellow players: Ask not what the Nationals can do for you -- ask what you can do for the Nationals.

We are creating a baseball city once again vibrant, robust, and alive. But there are many series yet to win. We will not rest until every fan enjoys the fullness of series victories, especially against Philly.

These will be games when Nationals fans have restored their confidence and tradition of winning; when our values of shut-em-down pitching, just-in-time hitting, and solid defense were restated for a modern age.

My fellow teammates, the Nationals are poised for greatness. We must play the game right and do it with all our might. Let history say of us, "These were golden years -- when the Washington Nationals were reborn, when baseball in Washington gained new life, when the Nationals beat the crap out of Philly every chance they got."

Thank you.

Washington at Colorado. Series Report.

Nationals 9, Rockies 2.

Sometimes things in life are bad,
They can really make you mad,
Other things just make you swear and curse,
When down the standings you creep,
Don't grumble,
Win a sweep
And this'll help things turn out for the best.

Always look on the bright side of Nats!

If life seems jolly rotten,
There's something you've forgotten,
And that's to hit and run and score and double.
When you're playing in a slump,
Don't be hitless chumps.
Just swing your bats and sweep.
That'll get you out of trouble.

Always look on the bright side of Nats!

Baseball is quite absurd
October's the final word.
You must always face the autumn with a bow.
Forget about your sins,
Give the fans three wins.
Enjoy it. It's off to Philly anyhow.

Always look on the bright side of Nats!

Seven weeks remain,
A game a week to gain,
And Atlanta will be looking up at you!
You just need another run
Or maybe more than one.
You can win the NL East it's true.

Always look on the bright side of Nats!

Frank Senior Moment

This is what Frank had to say about Riker after Sunday's game. You know, the game where he went 1 for 3 with an RBI sac and a three-run homer.

Nick Johnson is coming back slowly. We want him to be a little bit more consistent.

In his last 10 games, Riker is batting .294 with a .442 on-base percentage. Since coming back to the lineup, he's batting .292 with a .390 OBP. Before he was injured, he was batting .320 with a .428 OBP.

Oh, and slugging. Riker was slugging .508 before his injury; he's slugging .538 since.

Which is to say, Frank, that Riker needs to be "more consistent" about like the pope needs to be more Catholic.

While he's at it, perhaps Frank can tell us that Preston needs to be a little bit more aggressive on the bases, or that Officer Schneider needs to be a little bit more accurate on his throws to second, or that Guillen the Barbarian needs to be a little more intense.

Washington at Houston. Astros 6, Nationals 3.

Cork bats.

No, not corked bats. Corked bats are illegal, and anyway they make you hit better, not worse. Not much better; the extra force a corked bat lets a batter apply to the ball represents about 20 extra inches on a 409-foot drive. Still, ask anyone hitting in RFK 82 games a year if he'd call an extra 20 inches on a 409-foot hit "minor."

No, BallWonk's speculation turns to whether the Nationals are using perfectly legal solid-cork bats. The problem with a corked bat isn't the cork, it's that a bat has to be a single piece of wood. An all-cork bat be perfectly legal. And, for players who don't understand the physics, and think that the benefit comes from the cork plug's springy softness, rather than from how the lower-density filler allows a man to swing a bat 1 percent faster than otherwise, at a loss of only four-tenths of a percent in bat mass, the notion of an all-cork bat might seem like a quick and easy fix to batting woes.

"You know how a corked bat gives you extra distance," the salesman in the seersucker suit and straw hat asked, sidling up to the Nats and leaning in with fawning familiarity.

"Yeah, but if you get caught that's a suspension right there and a fine and the fans will turn on you. Cheating is never worth it," the Nats said.

"Too right, dear boy, too right. But read the rules! Section 1.10(a) clearly states, and I quote, 'The bat shall be one piece of solid wood.' That's why a bat with a little bit of cork in the end breaks the rules -- it has two pieces of wood."

"Two pieces of wood?"

"Two pieces of wood. But what about a bat with only one piece of wood?"

"One piece of wood?"

"One piece of wood. That would be perfectly legal. Like this young fella's black-and-tan bat with the maple wood mark and the 'Sam Bat' seal. One piece of wood, only one, bright American ash or hard maple from the Canadian north."

"I see."

"Bright young men like you, of course you see where I'm going. (Here's your bat back, sport.)"

"Gracias."

"So I know, whip-smart as you are, that you're waaaaaay ahead of me, asking yourselves, 'Well, why not a bat made entirely of cork.'"

"An all-cork bat?"

"There you are. And why not? Cork is wood, real wood, comes from a tree like your ash bats do. I'm not here to offer you an extra foot on a pop fly from a six-inch plug, an illegal six-inch plug. No sir. No sir, I'm here to bring you yards, yards on your hits and yards on your flies and yards on your long line drives. Yards from an all-wood bat, an all-wood bat made of solid cork. The finest, springiest Portuguese cork, grown in the sun and Iberian soil, dried in a kiln, and turned on a lathe by craftsmen, skilled bat craftsmen from Louisville. Here, champ, try one out. You too, slugger. Give it a swing."

"Wow. This is light."

"Ever swung a bat that fast before?"

"Never."

"A light bat for a fast swing, but it's still solid wood. Legal for use on a pro ball field. Easy to grip, and when it hits the ball, compression."

"Compression?"

"Compression. The name of the game is elasticity. Compression pops the ball like a jolt of nitroglycerine, like a blasting cap, TNT, like a rocket ship. You'll feel bad for the ball. And the pitcher, well, his mistake pitching to you, throwing the ball where you can reach it with your new cork bat. Shoulda walked you, but now you're on your victory stroll, the ball long gone off your new cork bat with the faster swing and the compression."

"Where can we buy one?"

"Sorry, boys, only for show. This is my sample bag, and I'm on back order. Back order 'till the winter time."

"Then sell us your samples."

"No can do; what'll I show the other guys? I'm a salesman. What'll I show?"

"Awww, come on. We're starting to slump. We can't get a hit. We need some bounce, some bash, we need your all-cork bats."

"Weeeeeeeeeell ..."

"Two grand."

"Two thousand? You know, I like you Nats, I really do. You've got spark and verve, that little extra something folks call 'character.' Moxie, too. So you have a deal. Two thousand dollars a bat, and you can have all seven in my bag right here."

And so, with no shy raven-haired librarian to set the crooked salesman straight, the Nats bought those all-cork bats and have been using them since. Notice how many sore shoulders there are, sore shoulders from overswinging too-light bats. Notice how the long drives, that used to drop in for a double or out for a homer, now wind up in the second baseman's glove. It's all from the cork bats. Might as well swing a garden hose as a cork bat. Which would go a long way to explaining why the Nats are hitting like guys facing big-league pitching with a three-foot length of garden hose in their hands. Except on days when Brandon Watson starts.

Washington at Houston. Astros 7, Nationals 6.

Why did we shell out $17 mil to sign Six-Three at short, and why do we bench him in favor of Jamey Carroll, when we've had ¡Livo! right here all along? He hits for on-base, he hits for power, he's got a great arm, good infield defensive skills (last night's error notwithstanding) and terrific range. Heck, he even won the team's Home Run Derby last month. He's easily the best shortstop in the division, if only Frank would start him there.

And why do we bat ¡Livo! ninth when he pitches? By Nationals standards, he's a number-six batter. So bat him sixth and then, later in the game, you don't even need to make a double-switch to get the pitcher out of the nine spot.

Ah well. It's nice to see the Nationals put a bit of stick about, and BallWonk totally understands both Long John and ¡Livo! flagging a bit. It's August; pitchers get tired, especially when they average 183 and 348 pitches per game, respectively, without being assured of a win even when they hold the opponent to two runs.

Washington at Houston. Nationals 6, Astros 5.

Memo to Houston

Re: The train.

A train?

What is that, some kind of commentary on the decline of the space program since you became the Astros? Because, frankly, BallWonk doesn't get it. You're the Astros. And your signature home-run celebration is a choo-choo train.

Sure, people don't talk about the space age anymore, and whereas we once sent men to the moon and back now we struggle to send people the equivalent of Houston to Dallas straight up, but still. America just returned to space and brought seven astronauts home safely in a vehicle made of Commodore 64 computers and duct tape and you celebrate home runs with a choo-choo train?

BallWonk hopes you laid in a good supply of coal. It's like they hand out home runs to the first 15,000 fans over the age of 16 at that bandbox. Pop-ups that were falling on the infield dirt last week at RFK were clearing the fences at Minute Maid Park. So even with the Nationals -- the Nationals -- out-homering the Astros, that choo-choo train is going to burn a lot of fuel running back and forth.

Oh, and if he's ever in town again, BallWonk will sit in the outfield. Folks out there have class. They don't throw opposing homers back on the field, but they'll give the ball up if it's a guy's first big-league hit or home run if they're asked, and they'll smile and be polite about it too. Even the kids.

Not so much the infield fans, who first tried to wrestle the ball from Vinny's hand and later sprayed popcorn all over the field trying to grab a foul bounder. Pardners, if it means that much to you, Target sells big-league balls for 12 bucks. BallWonk doesn't want to sit with you, not with all the real baseball fans in the outfield.

But the truth is, BallWonk hopes he never has to visit Houston again. He's strictly an Austin and San Antone man. The day BallWonk spent in Houston a few years back was a lot like the bottom of the sixth. BW was in town to see a museum exhibit he missed in DC -- long story, but he was in Austin for the week anyway -- and the city was flooded. In the middle of a drought.

So BallWonk was not surprised when the baseball gods intervened to make Washington's visit to Houston really, really unpleasant in the sixth. Two handy outs, then a hard-luck single and a walk. Then the ump blew the call on Vidro's play of Guzman's toss at second and the bases were loaded. Then, faced with the prospect of having to get four outs in the inning, Guzman fielded the very same hit on the next batter but this time he threw to first, wild, for a two-run error to make it a one-run game.

In BallWonk's experience, pretty much everyone who's been there has a story of everything going wrong in Houston. It's just one of those cities like Detroit where you feel lucky if you can escape with a 6-5 win and nobody injured.

Memo to Trader Jim

Re: Brandon Watson.

You mean you've had this guy in New Orleans since like 2003 and you tried to build the lineup around Endy Chavez? You've had a super-hustling contact hitter with good plate discipline just hanging around and you traded for Preston Wilson?

It's almost enough to make BallWonk hope we don't make the playoffs just so the new owners will feel free to fire your ass. If we go to the playoffs, win or lose you'll be nailed to your perch for another year, and who knows how many other Brandon Watsons we'll miss out on while you trade away good prospects for has-beens with park-effect-inflated RBI totals.

So please, tell BallWonk that Brandon was completely unready for the big leagues until last week. Say that he was batting .093 through the middle of July but then he made a wish on a broken fortune machine at Coney Island and woke up in the body of a real major-leaguer and started hitting and so he only came to your attention in the last two weeks. Say that and BallWonk won't have to hate you.

Memo to Brandon Watson

Re: Your first game.

Right on. You just keep on keeping on, and we'll get along just fine.

Memo to the Nationals

Re: Broken curse.

See? You can too win one-run games like you used to. Heck, that was a lot of big stick you were putting about too. Teddy would be proud. Just look at all the crap you faced in the sixth inning, but this time you didn't let it break you. Folks have been talking about you not getting the breaks since the All-Star Game, but Tuesday night you proved that if you play good ball you don't need the breaks.

To heck with the breaks! Let the other team have all of them. "Here!" Guzman said. "Have another break. I'll give it to you! Take two runs, make it a one-run game, we don't care. We'll beat you anyway!" And you did. And let's not forget that Houston is a very good team, maybe the best team in baseball right now, or anyway the team that most resembles last year's Red Sox. Or, to be precise, the Astros are the Nationals but with good hitting. Point is, they're a tough team to beat even if you're getting the breaks.

Which you didn't, but you beat them anyway. Good on you, and thanks, and please, stay loose and give 'em hell tomorrow too.

San Diego at Washington. Padres 3, Nationals 0.

Ah, Sundays. Family days at the ballpark. And this Sunday, "kids take over" day. The Nationals brought in lucky youngsters to help put on the ballgame: in the concessions stands, up and down the seating aisles, on the PA system, in the TV booth.

On the field.

Yes, in order to give the regulars an extra day of rest before a two-week road trip, Frank and the grown-ups sent the bat boys in to play against the Padres.

Well, the bat boys, Esteban Loaiza, Commander Riker, and Six-Three. There was little Jamey Carroll, fresh from his morning paper route, filling in for Vidro. Third base was manned by Carlos Baerga, who's been acting a lot more mature since his bar mitzvah last month. Babyfaced Ryan "Roy" Church took over center field from his uncle Brad. Longtime Nationals equipment manager Tony Blanco finally got to start in left, while ballboy Matt Cepicky saw his dream come true when he started for Guillen the Barbarian.

All the kids running around in Nationals uniforms meant a lot more work for the grown-ups than Frank expected. Understandably so; Frank has spent 50 years in the big leagues, and therefore lacks even BallWonk's experience coaching little league. On the bench in the bottom of the second, Carlos hit Jamey. "Owwwww!" Jamey shouted. "Carlos hit me!"

"Only because Jamey was spitting seeds at me!"

"Cut it out, you two!" Frank bellowed. "I don't care who started it, just stop it now."

Which only united Jamey and Carlos against Frank. Kids are like that. You've gotta make them sit on opposite sides of the bench, or they'll only band together to undermine your authority.

Soon they were dropping ice down Tony's back when he stood up to walk to the on-deck circle.

"Ahh! Geez!" Tony turned around, clawing at his back with one hand and untucking his shirt with the other. "Who put ice down my shirt? Jamey, I know it was you. Coach, Jamey put - "

"I don't want to hear it. Get the ice out of your shirt and get up there. Cepicky just singled and you're up."

After Deputy Bennett grounded out to end the inning, Tony's anger at Frank not taking him seriously put him in league with Jamey, Carlos, and Matt, who were now planning all sorts of mischief. Between innings, someone filled Vinny's favorite water cooler with Coca-Cola and shook it up, so that when the Old Man Corner tried to fill his cup from the spout he was met with a caramel-colored liquid explosion. Later, someone else took two of Vidro's sunflower-seed bags, threw the contents of one away through a tiny slit in the top and then filled it back up with the empty shells of the second bag. Vidro poured three mouthfuls of disgusting shells before he realized he'd been had.

Then, before the seventh, Frank took off his hat and saw that everyone was staring at him. Everyone except the kids, who were laughing, but trying not to laugh at the same time, like kids do. Frank looked around at the adults. "What?" he asked, quietly. Cowboy Randy just raised one eyebrow and pointed at his own forehead. Frank raised his hand up to his own, felt something sticky, and then looked at his fingers. Shoe polish. He turned his hat over and saw that someone had smeared white shoe polish on his cap's sweat band, so now he had a bright white halo.

"You think this is funny, do you?" Frank roared.

The kids kept giggling.

"Well, this isn't funny. I give you the chance to play in a big-league game, and you waste your time hitting each other and fighting and pulling pranks, and you don't score any runs. Esteban is up there busting his hump for you, so all you need to do is score four runs and you can win this game, but no, you can't score and you can't sit still and you think this is all some big joke!"

Now the kids had stopped laughing. They all had that look that kids get when you call them by their full names. Not guilt; most kids don't really have that in them. It's more that angry grown-ups are just really unpleasant to be around if you're a kid, because it reminds you that adults have so much control over your life and you have none and it doesn't matter if they're right or wrong or completely unhinged, you have to do what they say even if it makes no sense or it's completely not fair. Your teammate pisses the coach off and he doesn't say anything but then you don't get your glove all the way down on a grounder because you just forgot and he's yelling at you. Grown-ups are like that, and they're a lot less fun to be around than they think they are. So you try to be small and not get noticed and you don't laugh or smile and you don't look at the grown-up in hopes that he won't see you.

"All right, all of you, turn your pockets inside out!"

"What?" "That is so unfair!" "This is such a police state!"

But when Frank glared at them, each and every one, they turned out their pockets until Tony tried to palm his can of Kiwi brand white shoe polish, but his hands were too sweaty and it dropped on the dugout floor. Matt gave a nervous giggle.

"That is it," Frank said. "Tony, you're out of the game. Go home. Matt, if I find out you were involved, you're off the team. Vidro, you're up. Bluegrass, get ready, you're in the game."

Tony dropped his shoulders and walked past his silent teammates and back under the stands to the clubhouse.

"As for the rest of you, I hope you've learned a lesson. Jokers are losers. Now I don't want any chatter on the bench, and I don't want any kids sitting next to each other. Sit between two grown-ups or you can sit Indian-style on the floor."

And so they sat and thought about what Frank had said, and when Coach Don and Coach Randy passed out juice and popsicles after the game, none of them felt very happy at all.

San Diego at Washington. Padres 3, Nationals 2.

Before the game, Frank called a meeting so that the team could administer itself a little tough love. Two hours of tough love.

In real life, "tough love" is when know-it-alls like Dr. Phil get parents to blame their teenagers for not learning all the character-building lessons the parents never bothered to teach the kids when they were younger. There's lots of yelling and grounding and crying together, and then Dr. Phil gets his paycheck, and it's a big one, and smiles at the camera and says something you could learn on your own buying a used copy of Life's Little Instruction Manual at a yard sale.

So BallWonk imagines that Frank's tough-love session was probably similar, with Frank blaming the guys for all the mistakes he's ever made. Then came a lot of mutual incrimination, then some guys cried, and the session ended with a lot of hugs and promises to be better. As the trainers opened the clubhouse doors, Frank said, "When I came back from fighting the commies in Korea and made it to my first All-Star Game in '56, Willie Mays pulled me aside and said to me, 'Frank, it isn't hard to be good from time to time in sports. What's tough is being good every day.' Words to live by, fellas."

The thing is, if Frank said that, he would be right. You see a lot of Nationals batters up there swinging for the fences these days. About once a week, they hit one out, usually a solo shot, and the rest of the time they strike out or pop out and contribute three or four easy outs day in, day out. They're just trying so hard to hit their way out of the July Slump that they're sacrificing what made them good every day for the chance to be great just once.

And so the Nationals need to look at Cristian Guzman as their exemplar. Yes, Six-Three. Six-Three had a terrible swing in Minnesota, where he stood on his front foot. He batted better from the right side, because batting lefty he would literally lift his back heel up off the ground before he swung. You go down the batting cage and try batting while standing on your front foot. But those crappy mechanics worked for him. When he came to Washington, Six-Three tried to fix those mechanics. He planted that back foot down on the solid earth like an Irish refugee staking his claim under the Homestead Act. And he proceeded to bat .180, with a terrific hit about once every other week.

Now, Six-Three is back to his old, deeply flawed mechanics, and he's back to day-in, day-out success. Of course, he's also making fielding errors like they're going out of style, but that's another question.

Heck, it's even possible that Frank made Guzman stand up at the tough-love meeting. "I'm not going to name names -- but I do want to make sure Vinny, Jose, Jose, and Ryan are listening -- but I want some of you to stop trying to bat like Mark McGwire and start batting like Guzzie here."

"What?" "No!" "Bat like Guzman?!" "Bwa-ha-ha-ha!"

"Hush up, fellas. Guzman has been hitting just fine this last week. He's loosened up. He's not trying to be a batter he isn't, and he's getting on base a couple of times a game. You're all trying to hit your way out of the slump with homers, and you're averaging three runs a game. Guzman here is just swinging for contact and he's putting most of you to shame this last week. It's better to be good every day than great once a week."

During the game, Guzman undoubtedly endured much ribbing. Sometimes it's not so easy to be the teacher's pet. Yet he doubled his first time up, then scored the game's first run on pure hustle. So that put a certain damper on the teasing of Six-Three.

But the thing is, the kind of "tough love" Dr. Phil practices never works in the long run. If the parents had it in them to run good families, they wouldn't have gotten to the point of needing Dr. Phil in the first place. And so, for now, with the Nationals. All the tough love they could muster couldn't get that third or fourth run across the plate.

Instead of tough love, maybe the Nationals could try some realism. Yeah, sitting atop the standings for five weeks was awesome. A real tribute to the grit and determination of the guys who survived the Canadian Exile. But this was never a first-place team in this division. Not that it's not possible for them to win the division -- it still is, and neither is the wild card beyond reason. But just being in the race, being a team the rest of the division had to contend with, that was always going to be enough this season. Anything more is gravy. Good gravy, gravy you really, really want, but on their own the mashed potatoes of playing decent, .500 ball ought to fill you up.

After all, if the Nationals could lose a few games without getting all tense about the division standings, they probably wouldn't be slumping in the first place. The loose, free-and-easy Nationals of April, May, and June managed to lose without letting the losses get to them. That, more than anything else, is what the Nationals need to recapture, the ability to lose a game and come back and play the next day like it doesn't matter.

Well, that and better defense.

San Diego at Washington. Padres 6, Nationals 5.

And we thought flip-flops were bad. This is Washington. We dress up here. Even our baseball team wears crisp white shirts at home and suits of navy blue on the road.

Yet here come the Padres dressing in khaki like this is a sales meeting in Encinitas and not the sacred home of American democracy. Might as well show up at the White House in a sweatsuit as wear khakis to the Bobby. Does San Diego not have anyone handing their protocol?

Even worse, the slacker sumbitches jumped all over Livo and then exploited a Six-Three error to win the game and give the Chief a loss he didn't deserve. Can you blame Livo for throwing his clothes in the stands? There he was, dressed respectfully in a bright white shirt like a good Washingtonian, and then here come a bunch of hippy provincial Californians dressed for casual Friday and they hit the heck out of him. It just wasn't right. That's not how we do business here in DC, where "casual" means you loosen your tie a bit, or change into more sensible heels, before you meet for drinks after work.

Brooklyn at Washington. Nationals 7, Dodgers 0.

Just to put Thursday's victory in a little perspective:

K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K. K.

Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit. Hit.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.

Given everything that has befallen the Nationals of late, those three lines might just summarize the game of the year. Of the regular season, anyway. Long John Patterson made each and every Dodgers batter walk the plank. Then he pulled a few of them back up out of the vasty deep and made the poor, dripping lubbers walk the plank again until he had sent 13 of them to Davy Jones' locker having never put bat to ball.

On the other side of the ledger, the Nationals started out in typical fashion, stranding the bases loaded early. Why did Dave Huppert hold up Vidro at third base in the first? Better to send the runners and force the Dodgers to make a play than to leave the bases loaded. Sure, maybe the Dodgers would have thrown Vidro out at home. Probably would have. But maybe they'd have thrown wild, or thrown to the wrong base, or gotten greedy for a DP on the other runners in motion and opened up a chance for Riker to score from third. Worst case scenario was runners at second and third and two outs, which for the Nationals is a heck of a lot better than bases loaded and one out.

The Nationals, after all, have been known to score runs when at least one base is empty. But a bases-loaded RBI? It feels like the last time that happened was Spring Training, although BallWonk knows that Bluegrass had three bases-loaded hits in four chances going into the game. Out of something like seven total bases-loaded hits on the year for the team.

But none of that mattered, because Long John was perfect and because the miracle eighth was on its way. A single from the increasingly Vinny-like Preston Wilson. A walk by Roy Church. Another walk by the increasingly Guzman-like Vinny. Then a popup from Deputy Bennett. Then a single from the increasingly Vidro-like Guzman for his second - second! - RBI of the night. Then Patterson popped up to a standing ovation.

After all that work and only one run scored, Bluegrass came to bat. Now, most of the time, when the Nationals work really hard and load the bases, they get no runs. Maybe one if the loaded the bases with no outs; it's just plain hard not to score with three runners and no outs. It's too bad we're playing baseball and not cricket. In baseball, 18 total bases for the Nationals means we've loaded the bases three times and scored zero runs. In cricket, 18 total bases would earn us nine runs. In cricket, after all, you just have to run to first base and back again, and the Nationals are pretty good at running two, even three bases. It's the fourth base that's a killer.

But the look in Bluegrass' eye as he settled into the batter's box seemed to say "enough is enough." He was staring buckets of ice at the pitcher. Maybe he was inspired by Bob Novak's explosion on CNN, or maybe it was seeing moonshine folk heroes Bo and Luke Duke reunited on the big screen, or maybe he was just sick and tired of seeing his teammates work so hard with nothing to show for it. Whatever it was, Bluegrass just looked mean up at bat. We needed some runs. It was Teddy Time, time to carry a big stick, and Bluegrass seemed to know it.

BallWonk saw the look in Brad's eye and thought to himself, "well, maybe he can get the double and if we're lucky Guzman will beat the throw home and we'll get three runs."

But then BAM! he Kentucky sourmashed the ball so hard that you just knew it was gone. You didn't doubt, you didn't wonder, you weren't on the edge of your seat. You leaned back and pumped your fist and high-fived everyone else in the room because that ball was gone. Not even the mighty depths of RFK Canyon National Monument could contain a blast like that, no sir. They heard that hit in Baltimore, tell you what. Somewhere, not far from the orphanage that raised Babe Ruth, young Charm City baseball fans were still weeping over Raffy's betrayal and fall from grace. But they heard the crack of the bat on that mighty hit and they perked up and they went to their computers and checked online and saw the streaming-video replays of the grand slam and realized there is another team in town, a worthy team, in good uniforms with patriotic colors and decent, honest player-heroes like Brad Wilkerson who might let them down some games but who will never break their hearts like that low-down cheater Raffy did and today those kids are Nationals fans. That's how loud that hit was, how sure its path and how glorious its fall on the far side of the outfield wall.

August 4, 2005: First grand-slam in Washington Nationals history. Hit by Bluegrass Brad Wilkerson, the Kentucky sourmasher, and scoring Church, Castilla, and Guzman. Mark your calendars, and be ready for the trivia question five years from now.

Brooklyn at Washington. Nationals 3, Dodgers 1.

"Oh my god!" Ms. BallWonk shouted. She had just arrived home to find the TV tuned to the game, to which her husband was listening from around the corner in the kitchen.

"What?" asked an alarmed BallWonk, fearing some horrible turn of events like those that had befallen the Nationals in pretty much every game since June.

"Frank isn't wearing his jacket!"

"You mean he's in a normal uniform?" BallWonk asked with some wonder.

"Yes!"

Well, about time. After 50 season in baseball, Frank has certainly earned the right to wear his own team's uniform. Preston Wilson and Six-Three should maybe think twice about donning the honorable uniform of a Washington National, but Frank belongs in nothing else. In fact, he should probably wear his home whites around town, too. Sort of like how college professors can wear the cap and gown pretty much any time and nobody thinks it amiss.

BallWonk sought high and low to find a photograph of Frank in a regular uniform instead of that pajama top in which he normally bedecks himself. But to no avail. Alas. Here is hoping that Frank realizes the slump-breaking power of putting on his team's real jersey and continues the practice as we play tonight for our first series win since, um, well, the details are pretty depressing. Let's just say "in a while."

As for the game, Preston Wilson and Riker got Barry Svrluga's attention, but please. In a 3-1 game it's not the batting what won it for us. It was the pitching, from the fine throwing of Pedro Armas to the dominating relief of Ayala and Cordero, with acceptable showings from Stanton and Tex thrown in along the way. Yet Barry was not wrong to praise the batting, since July's losses came despite pitching that was better on the month than it had been in June. We have been doing all this losing because our hitting has gotten worse faster than our pitching has gotten better.

BallWonk's theory has always been that the real game of baseball is a competition between a team's own pitchers and its batters. The pitchers establish the price of a win by giving up as many runs as they give up. It's like the dealer's hand in a game of blackjack. If the house stands on 12, you only need 13 in your own hand to win; whereas if the house deals itself a 20, you need a perfect hand or you lose. Thus with pitching: when your staff regularly holds the opposing team to 3 or 4 runs, 5 runs win you the game every time. That's roughly the position the Nationals have been in all season, like a lucky gambler at a blackjack table where the house deals itself a 14 every time and stands pat. Well, a lucky gambler whose dealer stands pat on a 14 every time but who keeps getting a jack when he says "hit me" on 13.

So if batting has been our problem, then even three measly runs from timely power hitting merits praise and adulation. Hurrah, Preston! Hip hip hip, Riker!

Brooklyn at Washington. Dodgers 5, Nationals 4.

There was a demon that lived on the field.

They called it the run barrier.

It was the bottom of the eighth and the Nationals were pumped. Vidro and Guillen had back-to-back hits with no outs and the Nationals were down 5-2. Two runners on, no outs, and the ball flying out of the Nationals ballpark like Delta and USAir fly out of National Airport -- well, the conditions were just right to make an attempt to break the run barrier.

Nick "Chuck" Johnson, in the on-deck circle, called back to Bluegrass. "Hey, Brad, you got any Beaman's?"

"Yup," Bluegrass replied, smiling at their running pre-launch joke.

"Well, lend me a stick. I'll pay you back later."

"Fair enough."

Mouthing his chewing gum, Riker climbed into the batter's box and got ready for his attempt. He saw the Dodger sidearmer Schmoll try to burn one in. Time for launch. Riker calmly worked through his preflight checklist.

Launch sequence activated? Check. Right foot forward? Check. Hips rotating? Check. Bat lifted into motion position? Check. Shoulder attitude adjusted? Check. Right arm pulling bat forward and down? Check. Left arm controlling bat angle? Check. Ball still in sight? Check.

Well, that's how good pilots do it. You work to your checklist and trust your training and just trust that your equipment can take what you give it. You know you can take the bat to the edge of the envelope and even a bit beyond, and you hope that your bat can bring you back.

Crack-Bam!

The crowd that had gathered to watch Riker's attempt to break the run barrier heard the sound of the contact and knew that Riker had done it. He had launched that ball but good. Up and up, out and out, until it was no more than a speck in the darkening sky.

But somewhere out there over center field the control surfaces stopped responding. Thrust and drag took over, forgetting about lift entirely. A stall, then a spin, then the ball was dropping, not flying, and Milton Bradley - who coulda been a National - was under it for the catch on the warning track.

Rounding first, Riker bailed out of his home-run trot just in time. The runners tagged and advanced, but the run barrier stood.

(As an aside, BallWonk realized the worst thing about not playing the Orioles this year: Missing the chance to see Sammy Sosa do his little "look at me!" home-run dance, only to have the ball fall neatly into Bluegrass' glove 408 feet away.)

Vinny "Gordo" Castilla, hired mainly because Trader Jim believes that RBIs are an individual stat, came up after Riker. With great determination and focus, Vinny also launched one deep to center, but his ball lost control and crashed and burned at the same point Riker's ball had done. Runners advanced, and Vidro scored, but still the run barrier remained intact.

Next came Preston "Buzz" Wilson, like Vinny hired from Colorado because Trader Jim believed RBIs are an individual stat, but he couldn't even make contact. He walked, which is a rare enough accomplishment for him, but it didn't score a run.

Guillen and Wilson forced an error to make another run, bringing the Nationals score to 4. But still the run barrier stood.

Officer "Deke" Schneider walked, and Carlos "Gus" Baerga pinch-hit for Six-Three.

Gus attempted to launch the ball, but something went wrong with his swing. The explosive bolts fired too early, and he got his bat on top of the pitch instead of in front of it. By the time the Navy helicopters arrived, the ball was sinking into the second-baseman's glove for an easy groundout. Gus walked back to the dugout cursing and pleading that it wasn't his fault, the damn bat had just gone up on him.

And that was that. The run barrier withstood every Nationals attempt to break it. That demon still lives on the field, ready to tear apart any National who attempts to break it and score the fifth run a team needs to win a game.

Washington at Florida. Series Report.

Nationals 4, Fish 1.

COLUMBUS, OHIO - One out of three ain't bad, all things considered. The things being considered being along the lines of "it could have been seven in a row" and "we kept starting Guzman while resting the real ballplayers" and "a win on July 31 makes August a whole new month."