It was Halladay's first taste of the playoffs. During the lengthy pregame analysis before the first pitch, the studio talking heads tried to push the narrative that the stage might be too big for the Phillies' ace.
For the next two hours and thirty minutes, Halladay silenced the doubters with a performance for the ages. By the end of the night, the Phillies were ahead 1-0 in their playoff series; October morphed into Doctober; and Roy Halladay joined the elite company of Don Larsen as the only pitchers to toss no-hitters in a playoff series. Larsen had achieved perfection in 1956. Halladay's only blemish was a walk to Jay Bruce in the 5th inning.
I remember a number of details from the day. I watched the game in my parents' living room. A bright orange blimp emblazoned with the name "Conan" had been meandering in the sky for much of the day, a floating advertisement for the comedian's upcoming show on TBS. I had a slow-pitch softball game later in the night, so I was wearing my red "Mill Pub" t-shirt. My friend Mike was getting married in D.C. that weekend. These memories are stuck in my head because the event I witnessed was unforgettable.
It will be the game we all recall when the inevitable debates about Halladay's professional legacy and his candidacy for the Hall of Fame arise. Halladay's career will be examined through the lens that numbers and figures provide. It's a myopic perspective that will never capture the extent of the pitcher's dominance.
There is no conventional statistic or advanced metric that will explain the way the ball danced when it left Doc's hand, or the way his pitch would zig when the batter expected it to zag. His dominance on the mound was clinical, and that night in October was magical.
Halladay was a disciple of Harvey Dorfman, the sports psychologist who compelled his charges to remain relentlessly focused on the present. In a game that obsesses over past results in an attempt to compile data that projects the future, Halladay was locked into the task at hand. His attention never shifted away from the execution of the next pitch. He never dwelt on the outcomes, whether good or bad. It was always on to the next pitch and the newest challenge.
It's no wonder, then, that a man who had accomplished so much on land would turn his eyes to the sky in search of a new conquest.
On Tuesday, Roy Halladay died when his small plane crashed into the Gulf. He was 40 years old. He leaves behind a wife and two children. They didn't lose an ace pitcher. They lost a husband and a father, and are left with a void that can never be filled.
Godspeed, Doc. You belong to the clouds now.
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It will be the game we all recall when the inevitable debates about Halladay's professional legacy and his candidacy for the Hall of Fame arise. Halladay's career will be examined through the lens that numbers and figures provide. It's a myopic perspective that will never capture the extent of the pitcher's dominance.
There is no conventional statistic or advanced metric that will explain the way the ball danced when it left Doc's hand, or the way his pitch would zig when the batter expected it to zag. His dominance on the mound was clinical, and that night in October was magical.
Halladay was a disciple of Harvey Dorfman, the sports psychologist who compelled his charges to remain relentlessly focused on the present. In a game that obsesses over past results in an attempt to compile data that projects the future, Halladay was locked into the task at hand. His attention never shifted away from the execution of the next pitch. He never dwelt on the outcomes, whether good or bad. It was always on to the next pitch and the newest challenge.
It's no wonder, then, that a man who had accomplished so much on land would turn his eyes to the sky in search of a new conquest.
What do clouds feel like? I didn’t know either until I got my new Icon A5! I’m getting bruises on my arms from constantly pinching myself! pic.twitter.com/BaObEUj3Xo— Roy Halladay (@RoyHalladay) October 13, 2017
On Tuesday, Roy Halladay died when his small plane crashed into the Gulf. He was 40 years old. He leaves behind a wife and two children. They didn't lose an ace pitcher. They lost a husband and a father, and are left with a void that can never be filled.
Godspeed, Doc. You belong to the clouds now.
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