Sleeping Sickness

Matt Bruce

"If this is a dream, don't wake me." -- Derek Jeter, USA Today, October 26.

I fell asleep during Game One of this year's World Series. I didn't mean to, of course, since it was a 1-0 struggle the entire time I slept. My parents were in town; I had just spent a long day accepting lavish gifts from them, and my Italian roommate had made a big pasta dinner for us all. I woke up just in time for the Yankees to ruin a perfectly good game with their four-run eighth inning.

The last time I had drifted off in front of a playoff game involved the 1996 ALCS. On October 9, 1996, an overcast Wednesday afternoon, I called up a classmate to ask her out, left her a voice mail message, and flipped on the Yankees-Orioles game. As dusk approached, my classmate did not call me but at least half a dozen other people did. (What's odd about this is that I barely get half a dozen people to call me in some months.) Acquaintances called to chat and catch up; my mother gave me a heads-up on an important piece of mail; and I was invited to see comedian Louie Anderson perform that evening. When the phone finally fell silent, I rested my eyes.

I woke up to find Armando Benitez warming up in the bottom of the eighth. Moments later, Derek Jeter lifted a lazy fly ball to the track in right. "And what happens here?" Bob Costas famously asked as a 12-year-old reached over the fence to snag the ball and an oblivious umpire called it a home run. I called my classmate again but she rebuffed me. I went to meet my friend for the Louie Anderson show but learned that Louie had canceled due to illness. We went out for coffee anyway and ended up at a tiny Italian eatery a block from where I lived.

Had I reflected on that day's game, I would have drawn the lesson that life is emphatically not fair. Instead, I discovered a profound want. For the first time in my life, I desired something that I not only could not have, but could not even seek with a clear conscience. Explaining my passion would require ten times as many words as I have here. Just pretend for the moment that what I wanted so much was Derek Jeter's head on a platter.

New York went on to the World Series and I spent most of the weeknight games on the phone. Game 4 was my fault, really, since Atlanta's 6-0 lead began to unravel the instant I hung up. Some say that a Yankee championship is best celebrated with the blues. Fortunately, Boston University hosted a free B.B. King concert that Sunday. The opening act, legendary Boston comedian Stephen Wright, added just the right amount of irony to the occasion.

After B.B. crooned that the thrill was gone, I was invited to an upscale restaurant called Cafe Lompara (which, folks later insisted, translates to "exit pursued a flying lamprey"), where I listened to stories about intimate dinners past. In November I vowed to follow my heart, come what may. Those of you who took the beheading reference literally should now picture the arms training scenes from Taxi Driver. I would have mentioned The Godfather instead, but the restaurant that inspired my move was actually a certain American-food franchise. Somehow, mob violence would be far less realistic over baby back ribs.

Days after my vow, I was mocked by a plot twist. Lee Smith recently remarked that the best way for the Chicago Cubs to build a championship pitching staff would be to stick a fake Cleveland Indians logo on their free agent contracts. The best hurlers would sign on the dotted line, and then Ed Lynch would pull back the logo and exclaim, "Ha ha, we fooled you! You're a Cub now!" I'm not sure in hindsight how I let myself become a Cub, but it involved a Friday night bar trip, an a capella performance of the U2 song "With or Without You," and a juggling troupe that tossed knives around my head. Did I mention that every detail of this narrative is painfully true?

Speaking of the Cubs (never mind that my two-month fling was with a Padre fan), one big source of angst in Chicago newspapers this October has been the theory that Robin Ventura actually wanted to be a Cub. The story goes that Lynch never even contacted him, settling instead for elder statesman Gary Gaetti. Give Lynch some credit, though: At least he didn't approach Ventura in mid-season, begging him to turn back time, ditch the Mets and play at Wrigley after all.

As April 1997 brought Larry Walker to the national spotlight, my posse took a road trip. I shared a delicious "Italian dinner for two" at the Empire Diner on Route 9. The next day I got into a cataclysmic quarrel. Mind you, this wasn't Nolan Ryan pummeling Ventura about the head. Rather, it involved a chicken carcass, a peach schnapps bender, and the kind of malicious shunning that only women can do skillfully. Things were so bad that the tiny eatery by my place shut its doors that very weekend (bistro owners just know) and converted to a burrito joint.

We reconciled about six weeks later, the night before I drafted my first fantasy baseball team. Bobby Witt, of all people, was 7-0 at the time, but he and I both blew it that August anyway. Then Mariano blew it two months later. He may be Mr. October ERA now, but it was Sandy Alomar's home run off him that sent #2 home a loser. Rumor has it that I celebrated the Yanks' demise by scamming on freshmen.

Do you remember where you were on August 19, 1998? Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa were at Wrigley Field, where Sammy went deep once but Mark did twice. I was in North Quincy, being entertained by a nice enough lady a couple months shy of her thirtieth birthday. We had eaten a fancy meal in the North End, thus driving that extended metaphor deep into the ground. Barely a week later, the same woman took me to see There's Something About Mary, which shocked me into remembering my old mission. Brett Favre may be twice the man Jeter is, but the pinstripes were maddeningly invincible that year.

I woke up a year later -- or was it three years later? -- and wanted to cry. Part of me still hopes to discover that it was all a dream, to find Bobby Ewing in my shower. Too much has happened, though. The Orioles crashed and burned but Armando Benitez became a dominating playoff pitcher. Seinfeld left prime time television but Louie Anderson hosts "Family Feud." George Steinbrenner paid millions of dollars for Hideki Irabu but the better post-season hurler turned out to be Orlando Hernandez. Kerry Wood came and went, as did the Florida Marlins.

I wiped sleep wax from my eyes and tried to forget. I've had to let go of my dream, so it seems. At least that's what I'll insist when they ask me about that guillotine. Honest, officer, I have no idea how an overrated shortstop could have got in here. All I know is there's a diva out there who needs a new "platonic friend." What do you say, Mariah?

about the author

Matt Bruce did have two steady girlfriends as an adolescent, but they both dumped him within days of the Twins' winning it all. Reassure him that Tom Kelly is no Romeo either at mb@strikethree.com.