An Unexpected Gift
Atlanta, GA
November 6, 2021
Almost five years ago, we made plans for a parade. Unfortunately, we did so too soon, and confessed it out loud.
My sons and I couldn’t believe what was happening, but we were elated. We’d never seen our team play this well. Of course, by then were hardly watching the game, which at that point was a forgone conclusion. Then, a single question changed the course of history.
“Dad?”, David asked. “Can we skip school Tuesday to go to the parade?”
“Absolutely!”, I assured him. “We’re definitely going. After all, this may be a once in a lifetime event.”
As it happened, it wasn’t even that.
By the end of the third quarter, we returned our attention to the Super Bowl. The Atlanta Falcons had yielded what appeared to be a meaningless touchdown to the New England Patriots, who reaffirmed our confidence by missing the extra point. With only a quarter to play, the Falcon lead was 19 points.
We resumed our parade planning.
A few minutes later, our plans began to change. New England had kicked a field goal that seemed cosmetic. But with six minutes remaining, the Patriots performed invasive surgery. They scored a touchdown and a two-point conversion, bringing them within eight.
The Falcons seemed to respond well. They marched into New England territory, and within range of a field goal that would put the game on ice. Instead, they lit a match. They took a penalty and then a sack, before ultimately having to punt.
The rest of the game was as fruitful as a vasectomy. New England needed a touchdown to tie, and had only a couple minutes to get it, which was enough.
As they approached the end zone, Alexander was stunned, I was beside myself, and twelve year-old David started to cry. With just under a minute remaining, the Patriots scored. They made the inevitable two-point conversion, and forced overtime.
The coin toss was the Falcons only hope. Their exhausted defense was unable to stop New England in the fourth quarter, and there was no way they’d do so now. They had to receive the ball and score, without Tom Brady having a chance to see the field.
New England won the toss.
David let out a scream, and more tears flowed. Within a few minutes, the Falcons walked almost comatose through a blizzard of confetti, as New England hoisted the trophy that should’ve been theirs.
The next morning, a pall fell over this city. Streets were empty, offices were vacant, and our sons attended a full week of school. The parade that was to proceed up Peachtree instead passed down Bolyston. And all because my sons and I presumed to make plans to attend.
We’d never make that mistake again. A few weeks ago, the Atlanta Braves beat the Milwaukee Brewers, and started a series with the Los Angeles Dodgers for the National League pennant. The Braves had no shot. Or at least that’s what we assured ourselves.
My sons had never seen an Atlanta championship. The closest they’d gotten was one of them playing golf with the pitcher responsible for winning the last one, which came six years before either of them were born.
The Dodgers were the reigning World Series champions and the best team in the league. We convinced ourselves the Braves couldn’t win so we’d not be disappointed when they eventually lost.
And we weren’t, because they didn’t. They won the pennant, and proceeded to their first World Series in two decades. They faced the Houston Astros, another recent champion, and a team we convinced ourselves was far better than our over-achieving Braves.
Then they did what so many Atlanta teams do. They gave us hope. But not confidence. Up three games to one, the Braves took an early 4-0 lead at home in Game 5.
But there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip. And our local teams always find a banana peel. Within a couple innings, right on cue, the lead was gone. Houston won going away, and the series returned to Texas for the next two games.
And, despite the Braves needing only one win to clinch the series, we were sure there’d be two games. They had their chance in Game 5, and blew it. We couldn’t fathom them returning to Houston (ominously, the city that hosted the Falcons’ Super Bowl collapse) and coming home with a ring.
By the middle of the sixth game, they were at it again. A home run gave the Braves a three-run lead. After a second one a few innings later, they were up by six. We knew it wasn’t enough. We’d seen this before.
Atlanta fans are paranoid. We build an ark every time the humidity rises. Tho’ the Braves were up in the series, this was now a must-win game for both teams. If the Braves blew this one, there was no chance they’d win Game Seven. David and I became more uneasy with each Astros out.
Up by six with four innings to play, we awaited the implosion. Alexander, after the first Braves home run, had lost his senses and forgotten where he was from when he texted us from Auburn, “Houston we have a problem!”
“No!!”, David exclaimed, recalling the hubris that had cost us before. He refused to read any more incoming messages from his optimistic brother.
Despite (or because of) the big lead, we eased toward the edge of the couch, and braced ourselves for the collapse. But it never came. A seventh inning home run gave the Braves a 7-0 lead. All of us began to feel better, but none of us admitted it. Not until the ninth inning, after the first Astros out, did we begin to believe.
Two outs later, the Atlanta Braves won their first championship in 26 years, and we began planning our parade.
It was yesterday, and there were two of them. One flowed up Peachtree, thru the heart of the city, from Centennial Park to Midtown. The caravan then shuttled north, and resumed along Cobb Parkway and into Truist Park.
David and I opted for the first leg, and were glad we did. For whatever reason. the center of the city just feels right for victory celebrations and ticker-tape parades. It was a cold day, but the mood was warm. Happy faces, high fives, and all ages lined both sides of Peachtree to cheer their heroes, and each other.
After the convoy passed, the throng filled the street, which for many miles was a sea of exhilaration, and jubilation. They poured in and out of bars, cafés, and hotels that line the three-mile route from the Ritz Carlton to Margaret Mitchell’s house. David and I took it in, marveling that this was happening here, and wishing only that Alexander and Rita could revel with us.
Confetti fell, strangers hugged, and drinks were shared. From balconies above, residents raised glasses, as memories were made and shared in the crowded street below. I was grateful to be with David, and to do both.
For sports fans…and especially in this city…it’s often winter, but rarely Christmas. This week we finally received a long-awaited gift, perhaps because we were smart enough not to expect it.
JD
