My son John deserves his own bobblehead.
Reason: The Astros have won every game that John has ever attended.
I can show you the ticket stubs. I take him to the games, and they win.
Like the leprechauns in “Brigadoon,” the Astros, for a single magical day, play winning baseball when my son is in the stands.
Example: On John’s 10th birthday, Jordan Lyles, then the youngest player in MLB (20) and winless in his career (0-6), got his first victory, 5-4 win over the Reds. J.D. Martinez, then the latest kid in the Astros’ speed-dating turnstile of minor-league prospects, homered and drove in four runs. The game was a remarkable display of clutch hitting and solid relief pitching — a real game, not Strat-O-Matic.
That win kept John’s DiMaggio-esque, Ripkenian, Dale Long-ish streak alive. John went home happy once again that night — even though I threw out my back, my daughter had a beer dumped on her and I had to change a blown-out tire in Vidor on the drive home.
After John left, the Astros returned to form. They were promptly swept by the Brewers — who hit home runs at will, bullied the Astros out of their lunch money and saw Craig Counsell end his 0-for-45 hitless streak.
But before that collapse, though, the Astros won. Thanks to my son.
Yes, John at the game is like having Kate Smith sing before faceoff. He’s a walking good-luck charm, happily oblivious to the mixed fortunes that otherwise surrounds Minute Maid Park.
Somebody tell Steve Sparks.