The hope diamond

I remember the orange “rainbow” jerseys — and loved ‘em.

I remember my mom fighting back the tears when Jose Cruz retired.

I remember my brother’s hopes taking a hit in Game Three of the National League Championship Series in ’86, not knowing just how foretelling his sinking feeling would be.

I remember holding up a bedsheet that read “We Love You, Astros!” about 25 years ago in Fulton County Stadium. Someone operating one of the stadium cameras put us on the Jumbotron, which brought a huge chorus of boos from the crowd but, more importantly, brought the visiting guys out of the dugout to turn around and wave at two young boys and their mom and dad.

I remember J.R. Richard collapsing on the mound.

I remember being frightened by the charging bull and the gun-shooting cowboy in the Astrodome.

I remember arriving in a hotel room in Connecticut in 2003 and learning my brother and I had missed the Astros pitching a no-hitter in Yankee Stadium that night. He and I would, instead, see them lose to the Yankees the following day and then, a day later, to the Red Sox in a rain delay at Fenway.

I remember Cesar Cedeno was my Astro Buddy.

I remember all the times the Braves have made the postseason a one-and-done affair for the Astros — a team that has not only never won a World Series but also never won a single postseason series.

So I hope you’ll understand when I don’t climb aboard the Cubs bandwagon. Some of us have had quiet devotion to other teams, with memories and heartbreaks of our own and, each spring, renewed hope for a change in fortune.

Go Astros!

Comments

[Lamar Cole]

Just like a rare jewel, some sweethearts are one of a kind.