My Figurative Punch in the Stomach

Almost six years ago now, Bill Simmons wrote one of his most famous columns for ESPN's Page 2. On May 28, 2002, the Sports Guy brought us his "13 Levels of Losing" column, which has to have achieved the status of most cited column in describing any devastating loss in a sporting event.

From that column, Simmons described what has become the most popular classification of the 13 levels, the "Stomach Punch" game. The Stomach Punch classification has, in essence, manifested itself into its own niche in pop culture, independent of the other 12 levels. Simmons refers to the Stomach Punch game with regularity. Devout and casual readers alike cite the Stomach Punch game in describing their own personal affairs and athletic events. Google "Stomach Punch Game," and you'll be greeted with 645 search results including a recent post from an S3B favorite, Boston Irish.

Here's how Simmons defined the Stomach Punch game back in 2002:

"Now we've moved into rarefied territory, any roller-coaster game that ends with A) an opponent making a pivotal (sometimes improbable) play, or B) one of your guys failing in the clutch ... usually ends with fans filing out after the game in stunned disbelief, if they can even move at all ... always haunting, sometimes scarring ... there are degrees to the Stomach Punch Game, depending on the situation."

We all know the feeling. We've all experienced the Stomach Punch game. If you haven't, you're either too young to appreciate sports, or you're simply not a sports fan, which is borderline un-American anyway. To borrow the example Simmons used in his column, just imagine what it was like to be a Buffalo Bills fan as the Music City Miracle commenced. It's hard to argue against this game as being the quintessential Stomach Punch game in the history of sports.

A punch to the stomach is a more than adequate way of personifying a game of this magnitude and with this type of result. But I like to think of these games in another way. To me, these games feel less like a punch in the stomach than they do a thrill ride. I get the same feeling in my stomach when I free fall 240 feet at 60 mph as I do following a proverbial Stomach Punch game. My stomach leaps up into my throat and threatens to never return until some sort of order is restored.

When you think about it more intently, it's not the games themselves that provide the stomach punch or the 240 foot free fall; it's the moments within the games that cause our stomachs to leap like Dominique Wilkins. It wasn't the loss to the Titans that wrenched the guts of Bills fan, but it was the Music City Miracle, the flawless execution of trickery by Frank Wycheck and Kevin Dyson, that delivered the punch to the stomach. That was a Stomach Punch moment.

The most recent - and most applicable - example that pops into my head occured in the Super Bowl. With the Patriots ahead by four points with 2:42 remaining, the Giants took over possession of the football absolutely needing a touchdown to win. Following two first downs, the Giants apparently prayed for and received one of the most impossible acts of God in the history of mankind. Eli Manning somehow escaped a sack he had less of a chance escaping than Alcatraz. He then threw up a Hideki Okajima-like no-look bomb that was somehow inexplicably caught by David Tyree despite being in the grasp of Rodney Harrison.

Felix Pie is the real life equivalent of Cedar Point's Power Tower.

That was a Stomach Punch moment! It's magnified now for the impact it had on the result of the game, but had the Patriots hung on to win, the effect of the Stomach Punch would have lingered. Had the Pats won, the result would not have reversed the fact that the Stomach Punch moment had already occured. The fact that I survived and enjoyed a ride on the Power Tower does not mean I didn't have to wait five extra minutes following the ride's conclusion for my stomach to slowly flutter back down into my lap.

Anyways, the point I am trying to make here is that it is the individual moments of a Stomach Punch game that make a game worthy of that designation. Frank Wycheck was the punch in the stomach for the Music City Miracle. David Tyree wore the boxing gloves in the Super Bowl. Aaron Boone punched Red Sox Nation in the gut in 2003.

The Stomach Punch can even transcend meaningful games, which brings me to the minutiae of this whole post. Last night, while watching Dice-K issue more walks to the Tigers than the state of Pennsylvania has gun permits to Marvin Harrison, ESPN cut to an in-game highlight of the Reds-Cubs game. It piqued my interest simply because of Griffey's pursuit of 600 home runs. It was a completely meaningless game to me, as I was concerned with only one detail.

Sure enough, it was a Griffey highlight. He was standing in the left-handed batter's box doing his wiggle that I so often imitated as a child (and now as a young adult). His at-bat was preempted by the standard 597 home run mantra, so I thought for sure this was foreshadowing of #598. He clubbed an offering from Ryan Dempster deep toward the center field bleachers of the Great American Ballpark. Everything had the look of yet another home run in a historic, chaptered career. Griffey had the swing. He had the pose. He had the, dare I say, pimpage...

...until Felix Pie delivered a gut-busting stomach punch for the ages. With my arms raised in anticipation, I witnessed Pie climb the wall and snag what would have been - what should have been - #598 just over and beyond the yellow line. I could only relax my arms, fingers interlocked, on top of my head in sheer disbelief as my stomach knotted up in my throat. Felix Pie of all people, a guy with a last name resembling a great American dessert, had just figuratively punched me in the stomach.

In the metaphorical world, Felix Pie, as a thrill ride, sucks.