Each Saturday during the ongoing apocalypse, I’ll revisit an older column that ran on this site, accompanied by a handful of current observations about it at the bottom.
This one ran Sept. 23, 2014:
ATLANTA -- "Atlanta ..." Jeff Banister breathes out, as if by way of a wistful sigh.
It's 6:32 p.m., about a half-hour to first pitch Tuesday at Turner Field, and the Pirates' bench coach is down at the far end of the visitors' dugout. He enjoys doing this before games, usually with the bill of the cap pulled down, immersed in the many intricacies the sport of his life might throw his way by sunset.
Only this time the bill's up.
"Atlanta," he repeats with a small smile. "Here, of all places."
Yeah, here, of all places.
6:33 p.m.: Other end of the dugout. Clint Hurdle's curious smile suggests he wants to know what Banister was musing. So he hears it. And as he expects, it was about Oct. 14, 1992. You know, as Hurdle is reminded, the day the franchise died.
"Right," Hurdle came back softly. "The franchise died. So I've heard."
9:58 p.m.: Tony Watson induces a smooth 3-6-3 double play for the final outs of a 3-2 victory over the Braves, one that propels this remarkable, resilient-beyond-words 128th edition of the Pittsburgh Baseball Club into the National League playoffs for a second consecutive summer.
There isn't excess to the celebration, no Steve Blass leap in Bob Robertson's direction. Players trot from the dugout, meet at the mound and exchange handshakes and backslaps.
"Pretty business-like, huh?" Neil Walker will say later. "It's kind of like it's expected now."
Do it once, it's a fluke. Do it twice, it's for real.
The franchise might have died here. But it's also now officially reborn here.
10:01 p.m.: The players file back toward the dugout, and a throng of roughly 1,000 black-and-gold clad fans -- pretty much all that's left out of the original crowd of maybe 10,000 -- presses toward the front. They'd been shouting 'Let's go Bucs!' throughout Watson's ninth, relentless in voice, remorseless in tone.
This scene happened in Atlanta:
Rich Johnston, 31, grew up in Mt. Lebanon but lives here. As a child, he watched the unspeakable game ended up by the unspeakable player's single. And in 2012, while attending a Braves game at Turner Field, he forced himself to watch on the JumboTron as the entire ninth inning was replayed. That was the night that controversial Sid Bream/Mike LaValliere bobblehead was given out.
Johnston was part of that throng Tuesday.
"To see the Pirates clinch in person, and to do it here, it's fantastic," Johnston says later. "But it's funny, it felt like 82 last week, like it was expected. No one was satisfied. And it's so weird to say that after those 20 years of terrible."
What became of that bobblehead?
"We took it on family vacation, where we took turns wrecking it with a pitching wedge. Cathartic."
10:05 p.m.: This ...
3:46 p.m.: To fully appreciate the essence of this team, it's mandatory to rewind, if only because it's criminally unfair to ignore its work ethic. And no, that's not about hustling doubles and headfirst slides. It's about the preparation that baseball -- especially the modern brand, with all its reams of data -- now demands.
Watson is staring at his iPad, reviewing possible matchups. Nick Leyva, the third base coach, reviews a play with Josh Harrison at his stall. Tony Sanchez, who has about as much chance of catching this game as Jane Fonda, can't take his eyes off the monitor displaying recent Atlanta at-bats. In the batting cage, spare parts Brent Morel, Chase d'Arnaud and anything-but-spoiled prospect Gregory Polanco are taking extra cuts in the cage, an option the nosediving Braves bypassed.
And up in the seats, Edinson Volquez is doing his daily sprints up and down the stairs, occasionally crooning to the tune blasting in his buds.
3:51 p.m.: "This team works harder than any team I've been around," Volquez says, huffing back at his stall. "That's who we are. That's what we're about."
4:28 p.m.: Hurdle, who drew more than a few laughs the day he was named manager for vowing to "re-bond a city with its baseball team," has this to say when an Atlanta radio reporter asks about newly raised expectations: "Nobody wants to be a one-and-done. You know, last year, there was so much energy around our city and the organization because the hunger was so great. I thought I had a pretty good feel for the hunger going in."
He shook his head.
“But two years of getting to live it, walk through it, smell it, taste it and all that … no. ... It was real, and it was significant. For those who were there, to feel the electricity in that ballpark, that was 20 years of hunger. Twenty years! That’s generations! You saw grandfathers, fathers and sons at that ballpark for their first playoff game in 21 years … I’ve been fortunate to be in a lot of places. Nothing like that. Nothing as meaningful as that. So yeah, now where do you take it? We’ve got to keep going. That’s all. Keep going.”
4:45 p.m.: Russell Martin does a live hit with MLB Network out on the field. As he does, no fewer than eight players or coaches inside the clubhouse rise in unison to stand near the set and hear what he has to say.
5:10 p.m.: Neal Huntington is hanging near the dugout with assistant Greg Smith and ... well, just about everyone in baseball ops. Men who, in some cases, see each other no more than a couple times per year because they're spread all over the continent.
Among those here is Tyrone Brooks, the scout who, along with independent leagues specialist Mal Fichman, found the human storybook that is John Holdzkom.
"Guys like that, guys behind the scenes, they never get the credit they deserve," the GM says. "I'm glad they're here, to be part of this."
7:10 p.m.: First pitch. It's cool, it's breezy, it's September.
7:13 p.m.: Martin records two of the first three putouts with bazooka throws. Of course he does.
7:19 p.m.: Gerrit Cole falls behind early, 2-0. Of course he does.
7:58 p.m.: Hurdle calls a double-steal with two outs and Andrew McCutchen at third. An errant throw ensures it pays with a run, even as the same call by Hurdle flopped badly over the weekend against Milwaukee.
The Braves' lead is 2-1.
8:24 p.m.: Travis Snider, quietly anointed the right fielder while being anything but a quiet presence in the clubhouse, launches an Alex Wood fastball over the left-field fence in the fifth inning. He rounds the bases with a solitary fist-pump and, after touching the plate, raises finger to mouth for a shhhhhhh motion, which no doubt confounds the many millions of Atlanta fans who weren't there.
The score is tied.
8:55 p.m.: McCutchen doubles and sprints home when Starling Marte does likewise in the sixth.
It's 3-2.
Of course it is.
9:05 p.m.: Scott Bonnett, the Pirates' equipment manager, has the 20 cases of champagne and 85 goggles wheeled into the clubhouse. All of that was originally ordered last Friday, but it was kept out of the actual room for fear of karma issues.
"Seventh inning felt about right, when Cutch scored," Bonnett says later.
9:47 p.m.: Reds win. Brewers lose. The symmetry of Johnny Cueto pitching the Pirates into the playoffs is one his good friend Volquez later calls "just crazy, huh?"
10:05 p.m.: The reserved celebration on the field goes full-blown pandemonium once inside. This call also is Hurdle's. He's adamant that, for all the work that goes into a long baseball season -- 157 games at this stage -- every achievement, every step deserves its own recognition.
And so it goes, in a singing, stinging celebration every bit as rambunctious as those last fall.
Here's Snider:
And Cole:
And Huntington:
And Hurdle:
10:28 p.m.: The party is finally fading, though Marte -- he of the now-famous par-tay moniker -- is trying to keep it going by squirting anyone in sight.
Volquez and Ray Searage, the pitching coach he credits with reviving his career, stand together against a far wall.
"Thank you, my brother," Volquez tells Searage with a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."
Ike Davis, rescued from the Mets in April, is chomping a cigar.
"This is what it's all about, being part of a group like this, a group that wants it so bad," he says.
McCutchen is wearing bizarre space-age goggles, accompanied by his own cigar. As is often the case on the field, he's in his own solar system and loving it.
Walker is watching with family from the side. And he, and they, get it.
"Here we are again, and it's in Atlanta," the Pittsburgh kid says. "Can you believe it?"
10:42 p.m.: As some of the mess begins to get cleaned by the stadium staff, Banister spots a familiar face leading the way.
Since 1975, John Holland has been the Braves' visiting clubhouse attendant, caring for big-league teams that come through this city, whether at old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium or this place. Everyone knows him. Everyone respects him. He's one of those people that stars and rookies and staff alike can approach with any favor and expect a smile and service.
Banister approaches Holland.
"John," he starts, "we've been coming here for a long time, and our two franchises have been through a lot together. I have to tell you I couldn't be more proud of what my team did because of it being here."
Holland silently, stoically reaches forward to embrace Banister.
"Congratulations, Banny," he says. "You've all earned it."
____________________
As promised, a few remarks:
• I mean, people ... that was less than six years ago. Feels like forever, right?
• Oh, and this one's for anyone in the Friday Insider comments yesterday who questioned whether or not reporters belong in locker rooms. Enjoy!
• I miss Hurdle. The human. What a heart. What a naturally empathetic, giving soul. Look at that gorgeous Getty photo atop this coverage. Says it all.
• Same goes for Marte's reaction. I could only imagine his emotions that night. Kid from a dusty lot in the Dominican, one I got to know while he was still there. The degree to which a lot of Pittsburghers were wrong about his passion can't ever be overstated.
• On that note, I had a tough time picking a pic. This was the other option:
GETTY
Starling Marte in Atlanta, 2014.
So, mostly for fun, I asked last night on Twitter for people to pick one, and they overwhelmingly chose Hurdle, accompanied by some warm remembrances of the man:
Gotta go with Clint.. it may not have ended well, but the man had a goal to rebond the city with its baseball team. He did that and more. He helped change who the pirates were. Him, cutch and AJ.. they wouldn’t let the pirates continued to be bullied, they simply put n end 2 it
— Scott Meier (@smeier87) May 16, 2020
Have to go with Clint. Only person I’ve ever seen turn purple when mad. Will miss that...and him.
— Tristin (@Tristin_Elise) May 16, 2020
The pic with Clint, no doubt. I'll always be a fan of his. He did it the right way....and along the way brought my sons and I a very special moment in July 2018 pic.twitter.com/PCisrrdO0z
— Dan Patterson (@dgpoh) May 16, 2020
• I was leaving the clubhouse when I spotted that scene between Banister and Atlanta's clubhouse attendant. No matter how big the scene was around me, no way that wasn't going to be the finish. In fact, as best I can recall, I deliberately wrote the piece upside down to make sure that was where it wound up.
• Some will recall that I became something of a social media meme that night because the Root Sports cameras caught me in a lot of those locker room scenes, simply moving around to do interviews ... you know, without celebrating and whooping it up with the boys. As if that should've surprised anyone who knows anything about journalism, but hey.
• I'd made up my mind on the flight down to Atlanta that, if the Pirates clinched there, I'd find a way to focus on that place being the setting. But I couldn't have dreamed I'd get the material to support it that I did, particularly what came from the franchise's heartbeat: Banister.
• It can't be overstated how big a part of those teams Martin was. It feels like we now look back more admiringly at A.J. and Cutch, but it was Martin who made the most seismic difference. He changed everything.
• Not sure how I left this out, but Holdzkom, who'd been pitching for the equivalent of the Washington Wild Things just months earlier, sat at his stall and stared straight ahead. Even when his teammates would come over and try to get him involved, he barely budged. Unforgettable.
• That scene up there is one among a billion reasons I laugh when cynics say those teams never won anything. In the baseball world, the regular season's what feels the most real, what feels the most ... honorable, for lack of a better term. Comparing a 162-game achievement to getting beaten on a single night by Madison Bumgarner, they aren't close to the participants. Trust me on that.
• This'll come again someday. It really will. And when it does, the barriers that those three playoff teams broke will have, in one way or another, been part of it. Because next time, it won't feel like man-on-the-moon news, you know?
They'll always have a special place in the Pittsburgh Baseball Club's history. Resurrection comes with special challenges.
• If they ever win it all again, half of you will just drop dead from unbridled joy. Don't dare deny it.
