MOLI VIEW™

It was a weekend of human moments, the only kind that make up the culture of sport. From the Saturday a.m. humanity of watching Eric Gagne step to the mound for the biggest, most doomed moment of his long and checkered career to Sunday night's well-played and rain-soaked National League championship game, aficionados were privy to the sort of surprises that change the nature of your rooting. If, say, you're the sort the of fan who heard the name Torrealba and thought Jessica had an older, less celebrated sister, you're a different person this morning.

Just weeks before the highly anticipated release of Senator George Mitchell's long-awaited report, Gagne carried some of the heaviest baggage in baseball with him to the mound. The score was tied and it was 1:30 a.m in the 11th inning of the league championship series' second game. Seemingly every member of Fenway's cold, full house expected him to fail. I saw a dead man walking to go out and pitch. It was if every single possibly pilfered thrill of his record 84-game save streak was to be paid for right there, right then. And on national television. He had convinced just about everyone with a ticket and the few clued-in ones watching from their couches that he had nothing in his tank. As he pitched himself into that situation where 2004 Red Sox World Series hero Trot Nixon, now pinch-hitting for the Indians, could drive in the game-winning run, Gagne showed heart. There's actually an underreported amount of identification with his situation. But heart only cuts it in bad movies and T-ball, and Gagne lost the game. It truly sucks to be Gagne. Game Over, for real.

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