WORLD SERIES: ATLANTA BRAVES vs. CLEVELAND INDIANS : In the End, There Is Justice

The fat lady has sung. Death as it must to all things came to the Cleveland Indians’ title hopes Saturday night.

The Indians lost the World Series because they couldn’t get any Justice, a not uncommon circumstance in the America of ’95.

You might say, though, that, looked at another way, Justice finally prevailed.

David Justice is the best-looking ballplayer I have ever seen. I don’t mean the best-looking in the technical sense--hitting, running, fielding. I mean the best-looking, period. Movie star good looks. Matinee idol stuff.

He’s lean, rangy, nice smile, classic features. He would get the girl in any old-time movie.

He had a so-so year by any yardstick of Justice. After a 40-homer year in ’93 and a .313 year in ‘94, you would have to say his ’95 season, weighed on the delicate scales of Justice, would be wanting. Lots of players would settle for a 24-homer, 78-RBI season and even a .253 average, but for Dave that’s a miscarriage of Justice.

On the face of it, his World Series average up to Saturday night (.167) would seem to indicate that Justice was not being served here either. But you have to look behind the figures. Justice walked six times, Justice got key hits in Game 2 and Game 4, where he slapped the two-run single that gave the team a 4-1 lead they never relinquished.

Justice is patient. Justice is even swift. But Justice’s greatest day in baseball came Saturday night in Dixie. He saved his best for last. On Saturday night, he became Chief Justice.

You know, all these years we’ve been figuring it was pitching, catching, hitting and running that won World Series.

It isn’t. It’s cheering.

It’s not your rotation, your bullpen, your utility players, your relief pitchers; it’s bleacher bums. It’s not the nine players on the field; it’s the 50,000 in the seats. It’s not the cleanup hitter; it’s the guy in blue paint in the front row.

Dave Justice came back to Atlanta in the wee hours of Saturday a disappointed young ballplayer. He was disappointed that the team lost Game 5 with its best pitcher on the mound and he went 0 for 4. He was disappointed because he saw in Cleveland a fandom that was another designated hitter, an 11th player in the game.

He teed off recklessly on Atlanta fans. They were, he suggested, too downbeat, too uninvolved, almost inimical. If the Braves, who had lost World Series in ’91 and ‘92, lost this one, it would be their fault, Dave suggested.

“If we get down 1-0 tonight, they will probably boo us out of the stadium,” he said bitterly. “You would have to do something great to get them out of their seats. Shoot! Up in Cleveland, they were down three runs in the ninth inning and they were still on their feet.”

He ignored the shocked silence and went on. “All I know is, if we were to get the same type of support this weekend that Cleveland did, I know we will win.”

He added: “If we don’t win, they’ll probably burn our houses down.”

Take that, Atlanta.

Well, Atlanta did take it. Like a good nightclub performer, Justice had worked the crowd.

Atlanta--the crowd, not the team--came out Saturday night wired. The fans cheered and howled and whooped. They rose at every two-strike count by the home pitcher, they rose at every three-ball count for the home team. They couldn’t have been more involved if they were in the dugout. This was not the laid-back Atlanta of earlier games, earlier Series. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine you were in Cleveland. Or in ancient Rome watching the Christians and the lions.

Did the crowd win it? Hardly. Baseball isn’t football. Emotion doesn’t win baseball games.

Guess who did win it? Of course! David Justice. The pariah. Atlanta’s worst tormentor since Sherman marched through.

Justice came up in the sixth inning to a chorus of boos. He had already walked and doubled in his first two plate appearances. Cleveland changed pitchers to bring in a left-hander to face the left-handed Justice.

This Justice is not blind. Justice waited for a fastball. When he got it, he hit it in the seats. It was the only run of the game. It was a script right out of a B movie. But, it’ll play in Peoria. It played in Atlanta. The fans he had jostled out of their indifference raised the decibel level to that of a World War II battle.

Dave now wants to be a Justice of the Peace. He had spent the day in Gethsemane. When he saw the damning words in the morning paper, “My stomach just hurt,” he admitted. “I couldn’t eat all day. I already had pressure enough. Now, it was me against the world. I couldn’t eat. When I got to the game, I had nervous knots in my stomach. I was shaking.”

So he wins the World Series for Atlanta. He may not have found a way to get the crowd to inspire Atlanta--although Tom Glavine managed to throw an unbelievable one-hit game in this bedlam--but tell that to Atlanta.

Instead of finding a way to get the crowd involved, he may have stumbled on a way to get Justice involved.

“From now on, I shut my mouth,” he laughed after the game.

Why? If it works, don’t break it. Other hitters spend their pregame hours in the batting cage, in the outfield, spend their lives studying films, practicing in front of a mirror, studying pitchers. Justice studies crowds. Looking for hot prospects he can storm into World Series performance. Never mind the lefty-vs.-righty stuff. Platoon the crowd. Go on out there and take them out of the game for a louder one. Never mind letting them watch the game as if it were a heart operation.

Of course, it helps if you can hit a homer into that crowd. And your pitchers pitch a shutout. But the crowd can go home tonight and say, “We beat Cleveland, 1-0. We hit a homer in the sixth. We won the world championship for Atlanta.” There is poetic Justice in the world.”