What did I love about last night?

The feeling of walking up into Monument Grove at 4:30, hours before the game started and seeing the crowd of Braves fan. Looking at those statues of Aaron, Spahn, and Niekro…it felt like…history.  Looking at the Phil Niekro statue. Knowing that, like his fellow Grove-mate, Warren Spahn, he’s not going to be with us forever.

The smell of the ballpark food.

Batting practice. Where any slob (myself included) can, for a moment, be a big league outfielder.

The Braves showing the ultimate salute to one of their own. Asking Javy Lopez to throw out the first pitch. You gave us your best years, Javy. And, most recently, you gave us everything you had. Yeah, it wasn’t enough, but we love you for the effort.

And catching Javy’s pitch? In a beautiful and timeless role-reversal: One John Smoltz.

Tom Glavine. Not only was he wholeheartedly cheered when announced in the roster, but at his first pitch, the stadium stood and screamed encouragement and approval.

But how about the game itself?

A couple observations:

When your two best hitters (Chipper and Tex) go 2 for 12, everybody else has to contribute. Do we have depth and not just a couple of super-stars? That’s where you see if all the time that Frank Wren spent roster-planning worked. So, despite the whole 2 for 12 from Chipper and Tex, if the team still scores 11 runs, you are doing something right.

And if you were a Braves reliever who *didn’t* get to pitch last night, you really must feel dejected. Partly because the bullpen was flat, partly because Bobby Cox kept trying to inject some offensive pop with designated hitters, the Braves used every card-carrying member of the relief corps.

We were running through relievers the way Elizabeth Taylor used to run through husbands. (Really sorry if I lost you on that little hyperbole.) By the end of the 12^th inning, I was expecting to see Jeff Francoeur on the mound.

Dude, I’m serious. Who made rubber appearances?

After Tommy Glavine took us through a very respectable 5 innings with just two earned runs, we begin our relief journey with Chris Resop. Join me , won’t you?

You don’t want Resop? Ok, here’s Will Ohman.
You don’t want Ohman? Ok, here’s Peter Moylan.
You don’t want Moylan? Ok, here’s Royce Ring.
You don’t want Ring? Ok, here’s Manny Acosta.
You don’t want Manny to give up a third home run? Ok, here’s Jeff Bennett.
You don’t want Bennett? Ok, here’s Soriano.
Tired of him? Ok, here’s Blaine Boyer. (Throwing 97 MPH, I might add)

Yes, it’s still early in the season to make too many judgments.
Yes, the team is still getting its legs underneath it.
Yes, we had three throwing errors.

But, based on one game, we also had two huge nagging questions answered.

1)  Escobar can handle himself. Mi ese Cubano (See? I am so groovy and cosmopolitan that I just called him “My Cuban Brother”-which I will henceforth declare him to be. I’m not Latino, even on my best days, but that’s just how I roll, amigo.) made six plate appearances and got on base five times. That included a triple, two singles, and 2 walks. Is it me, or is Mi ese Cubano showing some hardcore plate discipline?
2)  What’d you say? KotSAY. Dude is a stud. A single, a double and a walk doesn’t begin to tell the story. Given that he was the offensive catalyst for both late inning (game-tied) rallies, the fact that he recorded an assist by throwing out a runner at home, and the fact that he waived off an eager (and semi-inexperienced) Escobar from a crucial fly-ball and potential collision, I am thrilled to see this guy here. Andruw who? (I know, I know, that isn’t fair.)

In closing, do you know what the best part of last night was?  Knowing that, despite scandals, wars, crime, greed, White House turn-over, and Old Yeller dying (hey, tell me you didn’t cry and I’ll call you a cold-hearted hoser), the game of baseball continues to reflect the best, and at times, the worst, of America.

Despite personal and national disappointments, the death of dreams, and human beings constantly letting you down, Opening Day still whispers hope. A hope that your team has a chance. That it’s your cheering that will be the spark plug that the batter needs to put him over the edge and extend that long-fly ball into a home run. That the collective will of tens of thousands of maddened fans can, by their very passion, turns the poor fortunes of a game into an indescribably adrenaline-laced rally-that you are part of.

So, yeah, welcome to 2008, Braves fans.

I’ll be the one with the Braves cap on.

Smitty