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This is Part 3 of a three-part series. Read Part 2 here.
"In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened!" — Vin Scully during Game 1 of the 1988 World Series
6. Sometimes, miracles can happen.
When I was 9 years old, after a decent amount of begging, my parents finally agreed to take me to a movie that I had been treating as the cultural event of a lifetime: Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo. Apparently, I wasn’t the only '80s kid that felt this way because when we got there, it was sold out.
Beyond bummed, my parents tried to convince me to see the other movie that was starting at the same time. But it was Boogaloo or bust for me, and so I only had an interest in the movie that had, at a minimum, three breakdance battles. Though their stating over and over that this was a better movie sounded ridiculous, after some hardcore begging of their own, I conceded. I agreed, with zero enthusiasm, to see the movie I was sure would be a complete waste of an evening: The Natural.
I never use this word, but that might have been the first time in my nine years that I had ever been enthralled. Roy Hobbs, perhaps the greatest player you ever saw, single-handedly brings his ball club within a game of winning the pennant. In his final at-bat, with blood on his shirt from an old injury that could cripple him at any moment, he hits a home run off of the hard-throwing reliever. He wins the pennant for the fictional New York Knights, and Hobbs rounds the bases as his entire team celebrates in ecstatic amazement.
I fell in love with The Natural, and for days after, I kept replaying that ending in my head. The epicness of it. The beauty of it. Even if it was a miracle that only Hollywood could create, I didn’t care; I loved it. Except five years later, The Natural happened for real.
In 1988, The Oakland Athletics were the powerhouse of the majors in a men-amongst-boys kind of way. With names like McGuire, Canseco, and pitching ace Dave Stewart, the A’s looked like the Ivan Drago of Major League Baseball. They also had what was known as their “secret weapon,” Dennis Eckersley. With 45 saves that year, Eckersley was lights out, the best relief pitcher in baseball.
As expected, Oakland rolled over the rest of the American League, winning 104 games, sweeping the Pennant, and were obvious favorites to dominate and win the World Series. Just under six hours south of Oakland were their awaiting victims, the Los Angeles Dodgers.
The ’88 Dodgers were the Acura Integra of baseball teams. They were good. They were solid. They were also completely out of their league when it came to matching up against the A’s. Whereas Oakland did what everyone expected them to do, Los Angeles overachieved all year and really did it on the back of one man—Kirk Gibson.
Gibson was the MVP of the National League in 1988 and the heart and soul of the Dodgers. More than just MVP numbers, Gibson had MVP traits. He had the fire, he had grit, and he had the passion and charisma that could carry a ball club all the way to the World Series, which is exactly what he did. However, as impactful as Gibson was, the Dodgers were still thought to have no chance as they were David to Oakland’s Goliath.
Which is why the World Series was over before it began. Gibson had injured both legs so badly in the previous series that he couldn’t walk, which meant he couldn’t play. And if there was no Gibson, ostensibly, there were no Dodgers.
Game 1 started with the announcement that Gibson wouldn’t be playing. They tried everything from ice to cortisone injections, but apparently, Kirk Gibson could barely stand. With that, the game took on the quality that everyone expected. Oakland led 4-3 going into the bottom of the 9th, and as had happened so many times before, Dennis Eckersley came in to shut it down.
Eckersley worked quickly, getting the first batter to pop up and the next to strike out. Mike Davis was up next, followed by the pitcher’s spot, which meant that if Davis got on, there would be a pinch hitter. The obvious question became, is Gibson coming? The TV cameras scanned the entire Dodger’s dugout, looking for any sign that he might be lurking. But Vin Scully let everyone watching know that Kirk Gibson was nowhere to be found. Instead, Dave Anderson waited to pinch hit if needed.
Uncharacteristically, Eckersley walked Mike Davis. Dave Anderson then turned around, went back to the dugout, and just like a movie I had seen when I was nine, Kirk Gibson came hobbling up to the plate. He took a few practice swings that hurt to watch, you could feel the electricity coming from the television, and then Gibson stepped in against Eckersley.
Eckersley fired in two fastballs; Gibson gave them each late emergency swings, fouling them away, and just like that, Gibson had one strike left. Another foul ball, and with each swing, you could feel the brittleness in Gibson’s lower half. As he made his way back into the batter’s box, Vin Scully remarked, “It’s one thing to favor one leg, but how do you favor two?”
Then a ball. Another foul ball. A ball again and again. And somehow, Gibson got himself to the line that my friends and I would say every time we played stickball against our garage. World Series…bottom of the ninth…three and two…two outs. With everyone in Dodger Stadium on their feet, Gibson called time out, took a deep breath, and stepped back in one more time.
Dennis Eckersley then threw a slider that started to tail away from the plate, Gibson lunged at it with what looked like a one-armed swing, and the baseball took off, sailing higher and higher, not stopping until it landed in the right field stands. Dodger Stadium exploded as Kirk Gibson limped around the bases and pumped his fist until he crossed home. The game was over, the Dodgers won, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.
On the radio, legendary Jack Buck announced, “A homerun by Gibson! I don’t believe what I just saw! I don’t believe what I just saw! Is this really happening?!” Buck had been calling ballgames for over 30 years by 1988, and what he just saw he couldn’t comprehend. The Dodgers went on to win the World Series, and we had all just witnessed a baseball miracle.
Sometimes, miracles can happen. That is what I learned 33 years ago witnessing the Gibson home run. Sometimes, they can happen, and we need to make room for them. Because things we thought would never exist can.
Trauma imprints on our nervous system that the things we never got, we never will. And the ways we are, we will always be. This means to some, a better, easier way does not exist.
“It’s miraculous, Josh,” a patient said to me and his wife in a recent couple’s session. “I’m not kidding. The fact that I can wake up in the morning now, not anxious, not feeling dread, but feeling good. That I can feel good and hopeful about my day—it feels like a miracle.”
Alcoholics can stop drinking. Those who never think they’ll find a loving partner do. These things happen.
If mediocrity knows nothing above itself, our making space for a miracle from time to time can be the beginning of us tapping into our greatness. Allowing for something that is difficult to believe in to exist. Like Kirk Gibson with two bad legs and one arm hitting a home run to win a World Series.
I don’t believe what I just saw!
Happy opening day, everybody.
