The Moore-al of the Story: Home Runs Help Get Wins

Bryce Harper practices his right-handed golf swing. I think his hands are mixed up, though. (Jeff Zelevansky/Getty Images)

Final Score: Nationals 5, Mets 3

Dame of the Game: 

Tyler Moore: 1-1, HR, 2 RBI, R. [Bonus Moore pun] Every time Moore does something good from now on, I’m going to describe it as a “Moore-ality play.” Ideally the Nats would do the same and have him battle the seven deadly sins as he rounds the bases before being greeted happily by the Virtues as he reaches home.

Shame of the Game:

Frank Francisco: 0 IP, 2 ER, 3 H, BB. San Francisco’s younger brother just never could measure up. The elder sibling became a great American city, while the younger became a bad pitcher for a bad team.


Davey Johnson said after last night’s game that it’s “time to be looking at magic numbers.” Now, in any other context, that would be taken as the mad ramblings of a senile old man or the drugged musings of an LSD user (or in the case of Davey Johnson, probably both). I mean, “magic numbers”? Numbers tend not to have any magical properties, for two reasons: 1) they are really just abstract concepts and thus cannot have physical properties at all that could be magical, and 2) no things actually have magical properties because magic doesn’t exist. Furthermore, the idea that one could “look at” “magic numbers–things that are not viewable and couldn’t exist even if they were–seems preposterous.

And yet here I am, “looking at magic numbers,” and I am neither on LSD nor unusually insane. That’s because after last night’s delicious combination of a Nats win and Braves loss (the best combination of two things since sliced bread on top of another sliced bread), the Nats have a magic number. That magic number is 13.

“But 13 is an unlucky number!”, you protest. “What kind of black magic is this?” And you’re right. Were you really so naive to think that the Nats could have had such a good season without a little help from the dark arts? A little bit of virgin’s blood spilled while Davey Johnson stood over her muttering weird incantations that he was making up on the spot? A little bit of Mike Rizzo going tomb raiding in some exotic African locale and returning with a mysterious artifact that grants him great powers of foresight but with each use steals away a small piece of his soul? You fool. You poor, poor fool.

Incidentally, the Mets tried their hand at black magic before the season as well, but naturally they messed it up and ended up casting the spell on themselves. Not that they would’ve necessarily won last night’s latest Met-debacle if they hadn’t been harmed by self-inflicted sorcery, but still. Probably didn’t help.

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