Cusp

A couple of days ago, I bought a cupcake at a bakery on my way home from work. That wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but in my world, it was.

I’m pretty obsessive about my weight, seldom allowing myself such fat-and-calorie-laden decadence. But this was a celebratory cupcake. A cupcake purchased specifically to mark an event that last occurred on September 12, 1992—the waning days of the George HW Bush administration, for some way-back machine perspective.  A cupcake that, ideally, I would eat sometime around 11:30 that night, as soon as the Pittsburgh Pirates had wrapped up and made official the 82nd victory of their baseball season. The victory that would assure them a winning record of 82-80, even were they to lose all 24 of their remaining games.

This was Wednesday night. The team was in Milwaukee, facing a woeful Brewers squad that hits particularly poorly against left-handed pitchers. On the mound for the visiting Buccaneers was southpaw Francisco Liriano, who is in the midst of an outstanding season and most recently pitched eight shutout innings against the formidable St Louis Cardinals, with whom the Pirates are improbably vying for first place in the National League’s Central Division. The stage was set for history to be made, and for my near-midnight snack to be consumed.

That didn’t happen. Liriano quickly turned from powerhouse to punching bag. By the end of three innings the Pirates were down 7-2, and, given that offense is not the team’s strong suit, it was evident that win number 82 wasn’t going to happen this night. Lynn advised me to freeze the cupcake, lest it become as stale as are my team’s 20 years of futility. Into the freezer my bakery item went. The Brewers were leading 9-3 in the eighth inning when I went to bed. In the morning, my smartphone told me I’d been smart not to bother staying up. The final score was exactly 9-3.

Thursday—yesterday—was an off day. The Pirates are back in action later tonight, in St Louis. The Cardinals’ home record is 41-25, while the Pirates’ road mark is 36-33. The Redbirds’ pitcher will be right-hander Joe Kelly, who’s put together a string of outstanding starts, including six innings of one-run ball in a St Louis victory over the Pirates last Sunday in Pittsburgh. So, the odds would seem to be against win number 82 coming tonight. Which is why I sort of suspect it will come. Baseball is funny that way. Just when you think you have it figured out, a star gets injured, or a slugger chokes, or a benchwarmer gets the big hit. The counterintuitive steals the limelight from the expected. At any rate, I’ll be monitoring the game’s progress closely on TV, PC and/or smartphone, ready to defrost and eat that celebratory cupcake if and when victory is achieved.

Any freezer-related flavor degradation will be lost on me. That cupcake will taste great to me tonight, tomorrow night, Sunday afternoon, next week—whenever that next win comes. My baseball-fan friends don’t get it. They’ve been telling me my focus should be on whether the Pirates will win the division or instead have to settle for a wild-card spot. They note that with three weeks left in the regular season, a winning record is certain and a playoff spot nearly a lock, given that the Bucs own an 81-58 record and a 10-game lead in the wild-card race. They think my eyes should be focused unblinkingly on the prize of postseason baseball.

But those people haven’t endured the two decades in the wilderness that Pirates’ fans have—an unholy mating of cheap and clueless ownership with bad players and worse luck. Much has changed for the better of late, and even the horrendous late-season collapse that guaranteed a 20th consecutive losing season in 2012 doesn’t sting nearly so badly anymore. The present is bright, the future promising. But I’ve seen too much to get ahead of myself.

First things first. I was a 34-year-old single newspaper reporter living in Savannah, Georgia, the last time I scanned the regular-season final standings and saw a winning percentage of .500 or better next to the Pirates’ won-lost record. To pervert the old football quote, 82 might not be everything, but to me it’s really the only thing.

I will feast on it.