The real reason the Atlanta Braves won the World Series when no one thought they would

You can be forgiven for thinking the Atlanta Braves won the World Series Tuesday night because the Cuban Paul Bunyan Jorge Soler hit a ball slap out of Houston’s ballpark.

Or because string bean pitcher Max Fried shut out the Astro’s astronomical offense for six innings to clinch the 7-0 win.

But actually this sweet victory for the ages happened because I ate a bowl of vanilla ice cream after all six games.

It was the least I could do.

We’ve learned to expect heartache in October. They’ll push our guy off first base, deke our runner rounding second, hit a three-run homer off our closer, or drive a 1-0 stake through our heart in 10 innings in Game 7.

We’ve also learned to expect greatness, like the “Braves win, Braves win, Braves win” worst-to-first season. That’s when we named our new kitten Tomahawk (“Tommy”), and when Aunt Chilada’s restaurant got chopped down by the Town of Hilton Head Island for putting an oversized tomahawk out front.

We’ve seen 13-game win streaks, and that 11-game losing streak broken only when pitcher Pascual Perez missed a start because he got lost on the way to the stadium and circled the city three times on I-285.

It’s all rendered me unable to listen to the telecasts because the announcers aren’t biased enough. And I have to work crossword puzzles during the game to keep from obsessing over all its injustices.

WORLD WAR II

The Braves circus came to town when I was a kid. The Braves were just struggling for life without Eddie Matthews and still longing for the glory days of “Spahn and Sain and pray for rain.”

We’d suffer through Chief Noc-A-Homa and the Brett Butler trade before we became “America’s Team” on Terrible Ted Turner’s little TV station.

The Braves brought us radio announcer Milo Hamilton calling strikes “right down Peachtree” and later this:

“Henry Aaron, in the second inning walked and scored ... He’s sittin’ on 714 ... Here’s the pitch by Downin ... swinging ... there’s a drive into left-center field ... that ball is gonna beeee ... OUTTA HERE! IT’S GONE! IT’S 715! There’s a new home run champion of all time ... and it’s HENRY AARON!”

Sometimes out in the country at my Granddaddy’s farm, Uncle John and I had to slip out to his car to pick up the Braves games on the radio.

We sat beneath the stars listening to Ernie Johnson Sr. call a fly ball a “can of corn” and say a blazing fastball “sounded high.”

Ernie often said baseball is a game of inches, and we learned that he was right as the Atlanta version of the Braves franchise has won 21 division titles and now two World Series trophies in six appearances.

Uncle John was a perfect Braves game companion.

Baseball had been a diversion, and a passion for the Doraville, Georgia, boy who spent a lot time at the south end of a northbound mule and by age 4 could pick 40 pounds of cotton a day.

A strikeout with the bases loaded was apparently nothing to fret about when you’ve survived World War II battles in Normandy, Northern France, Germany, Belgium and the Battle of the Bulge.

WSB RADIO

In the victory celebration late Tuesday night, the Braves chairman looked skyward and said the trophy was a tip of the cap to Braves greats Hank Aaron and Phil Niekro, who didn’t live to see it.

But that’s not really right.

It’s for my Uncle John and Granddaddy Burke, and maybe yours, too.

Granddaddy left the gnat belt of Zebina, Georgia, to be gassed in France in World War I.

He worked six days a week in Atlanta grocery stores when they’d wring a chicken’s neck and dress it for you. In his so-called retirement, he started a farm back home with two Guernsey cows named Babe and Beauty.

Braves games at the end of a sweltering day were like a visit from a neighbor.

When Grandmother died all of a sudden, I took Granddaddy my prized possession. It was an AM radio that brought me the sinful tunes of Herman’s Hermits, but I hoped would bring Braves games over WSB (Welcome South, Brother) into a home now so lonely.

As these things happen, Granddaddy lived only a few months after he lost his flame in life.

He had suffered greatly from rolling his own Prince Albert cigarettes. Stomach issues had him drinking Maalox like it was Coke.

And it tickled him to no end when a doctor told him it would help if he ate a bowl of vanilla ice cream before bed every night.

David Lauderdale may be reached at LauderdaleColumn@gmail.com.