Takin' a T/O with BT: Afternoon Action with Doc Halladay and the Blue Jays

I guess you can call me lucky.

After all, I did get to take in seven-and-a-third innings of vintage Roy Halladay ball, came the closest I've ever gotten to catching a foul ball, and was one of the first of 10,000 fans to enter the stadium—meaning I took home my very own Aaron Hill Bobble Head doll.

Pretty sweet, eh?

Well, I hadn't seen Halladay pitch live since 1998 (the whole "no-hitter until two away in the ninth when Bobby Higginson hit the most worthwhile home run in his career" in the mind of this young Toronto fan). Needless to say—my palms were sweating.

From the first inning, his stuff looked great. The curve had great dip, the cutter was biting, and the splitter was doing its thing as the Good Doctor worked his way through the top of the first, striking out the side.

Needless to say, in true Blue Jay fashion we followed that with a three-up, three-down inning. Go team!

Doc continued his dominance over the next two innings though. He struck out another White Sox player, while something weird happened for the Jays. They started hitting and with runners on base to boot.

Okay, so a ground-out to first to move Matt Stairs over after a double, followed by a sac fly isn't exactly "hitting" in the traditional sense.

But for a team that's had an anemic offense all season, what we saw in the second inning left Trevor, Scott, Ryan, and myself with the distinct impression that one of two things was happening:

A) This was it. The Jays will get this one run, and Doc will have to go the distance, biting and clawing to keep them up by the slimmest of margins. We know he can do it, but seriously, he shouldn't have to every time he goes out there, or

B) This was the day our offense would finally turn around. Eight runs sounded awfully nice that afternoon.

Well, we got a little bit of option A, a little bit of option B, and a whole lot of option C (the magical John "Jimy Williams" Gibbons' moments).

In the bottom of the third the Jays actually sustained some momentum and scored some runs—with two out!

Following a Gregg Zaun single and an Alex Rios double, David Eckstein and Scott Rolen proceeded to suck all of the hope out of the early rally. (We're also ignoring a possible interference call that could have had Rios killing the rally, too.)

Then Matt Stairs came through again with a huge two-run double. But we weren't done! Vernon Wells did it, too!

Out of nowhere, Halladay was staked to a four-run lead. There was finally a buzz in the stadium.

(One of my biggest pet peeves about games in Toronto—they're all ex-girlfriend games where the fans are just putting in an appearance. Check back on Facebook for that one. Really cool, ain't I?)

As I sat there my palms started to sweat and my stomach started to churn.

Roy Halladay worked through the first three innings perfectly. He gave up a lead-off double to Nick Swisher (who has outstanding range in center field, I might add), followed up by a David Eckstein throwing error (Surprise!).

The inning ended with eight Sox coming to the plate, and three runs being scored.

Side note: I've determined that I will eventually have a heart attack at a Jays game. The SkyDome (Anyone who corrects me has given into the corporate machine and appreciates nothing of the Jays' history.) is where I will die.

I start sweating and get a queasy feeling in my stomach after three perfect innings, thanks to McGowan and Doc—it's great.

I couldn't go to a four home run game or something like that! That would have been invariably easier on the nerves—they always have to tease me with pitching.

Ah well, we all gotta go at some point; at least my time will come in a baseball stadium. And at least I don't have to worry about hearing Jamie Campbell talk about the "potential for a perfect game" as early as the second inning.

You never mention shutouts before it's over in hockey, and you never say the "p-word" or the words "no-hitter" in baseball before it happens, Jamie. Please, please stop. 

To save you the boredom of me going through it offensively, there was one hit the rest of the game. Pitching-wise, it continued to be solid.

I'll spoil the surprise right now and say that of the two starters, only one threw a complete game, and it wasn't Doc. Jose Contreras stuck it out through eight innings.

But here's where the fun starts.

Top of the seventh, after Doc finishes off Pablo Ozuna, John Gibbons comes out and brings in Jesse Carlson. Good move, normally.

However, following Ozuna was the top of the order: the switch-hitting Nick Swisher, and the righty Orlando Cabrera.

For those who don't know, Carlson (probably the Jays second best pitcher this season) is a lefty. Needless to say, Jesse was almost flawless in relief, striking out Swisher and Jim Thome (sandwiched in between was an Orlando Cabrera double).

Then, at a point at which I thought nothing would surprise me, Gibbons brought out Jeremy Accardo and Scott Downs in the ninth. If Scott didn't get his one batter out (Sox catcher AJ Pierzynski), then Jason Frasor was prepared to come on in relief of Downs. 

Heart attacks and brain cramps aside, it seemed to be a pretty good day—and if you had just gone for baseball, it definitely was.

But with Toronto being Toronto (that's not a rip-off of "Manny being Manny," there's just no better way to say it), there were a couple of other incidents that caught my eye.

First of all, Toronto fans are jerks—to our own players.

I'll admit that I'm probably getting too old to stand in line for autographs pre-game (we determined that your best shot is as a cute four to eight year old). But we decided to head down just for kicks anyhow (that, and we wanted to see Nick Swisher's beard—it's awesome actually).

As we stood in line, there were two older ladies (probably mid-40s to early 50s—proving I wasn't too old, I guess) literally yelling at the players.

Things like, "You should go and tell your teammates to be more like you," or "Come and sign for your new biggest fan," or "Don't turn into Troy Glaus, Scott," were shouted constantly at them.

Then when Jesse Litsch came over he was absolutely bombarded with paraphernalia, affected by the waning of his teammates' willingness to sign autographs.

This culminated in a kid of about 12 literally throwing a ball at Jesse while he was signing something else for someone.

I was just embarrassed standing in that line.

Side note (again): There isn't enough I can say about Jesse Litsch. The kid is a saint. He obviously didn't want to be out there while people ripped on his team, but he signed for a good 15 minutes—an eternity for some players.

And despite the fact he was treated with less respect than I had for myself after a $10 plate of nachos, he stayed out there. Thank you, Mr. Litsch. Thank you.

While we're thanking people, I want to commend the White Sox fans and players for being so nice and good-hearted.

Decked out in Blue Jays gear, we stood in line to try and meet AJ and Toby Hall. We failed—it was probably the gear. At least we made small talk with the Sox fans that didn't involve slamming their team.

That, and the Sox players honored their word as Hall sent Pierzynski over to autograph a woman's jersey, and Nick Swisher made a beeline for a fan in a Swisher shirt he promised a signature to earlier.

But with all of those stories behind us (Trust me, there's more, just ask.), at least one of them had a happy ending. (And I don't mean the girl who yelled "I love you" at Jesse Litsch during that signing who then got to say "play ball!")

I'd like to say that I'm fine with kids being excited and energetic at ball games. Yell at your favorite players, yell at the ones you don't like. It does start to eat at your nerves a little, but I can deal with that because at least it signals passion.

But when my recognition of passion turns into "buy me a hot dog so I can throw it at that kid" is when that kid starts to do the wave.

After every single out.

For four innings.

But why fight your own battles when a professional baseball player can do it for you?

Enter: Jermaine Dye.

After an at-bat that seemed to go on for ages, resulting in two or three foul balls hit our way (including one caught by the guy right in front of us—he brought his three-year-old—making it the most heart-warming thing I had witnessed since watching Field of Dreams the night before), Jermaine Dye fouls off another one.

Although it initially looks like it's coming right at us, it starts to tail towards the right, and Mr. Wave's eyes perk right up.

He's in prime position (seats right behind the guard rail so no one can get in front of him) and his glove is out, ready for the catch. Ball goes in, ball comes out, ball drops down to the crowd below.

The kid never was heard from again, and I'm still wrestling with the idea of buying a Jermaine Dye jersey.