The Nats 7-2 loss in Cincinnati on Monday night might have been averted — of only the Nats had hit, pitched and fielded like a major league team. The defeat stretched the Nats losing streak to three games and means that the Nats have now lost six of their last eight. Reaching the .500 mark, which might have been hoped for in April and even in May, now seems a distant and fantastical dream, as the team struggles to find its legs. The losing spiral sparked Washington Post sportswriter Adam Kilgore to describe the Nats season of hope as “one long, losing slog.” That seems about right. So too the team itself seems infected by frustration: “We do have a great lineup. We just can’t get everyone hot at the same time,” Adam Dunn said after he loss. “It seems like we haven’t had two guys hot at the same time. If Guzzie is hot, then me and Zim aren’t hot. And then if Zim is hot, we are not. It’s bad timing, really. I don’t know how else to put it.” Luis Atilano is set to face Cincinnati rookie sensation Mike Leake tonight at The Great American Ballpark.

It’s Not A Motorcycle Baby, It’s A Chopper: On this day in 1958, Tiger’s ace Jim Bunning threw a no-hitter against the Boston Red Sox, clinching a victory in a 3-0 contest. Bunning seemed to have Boston’s number — he once struck out Ted Williams three times in one game (also in 1958), spurring “The Splendid Splinter” to rip off his jersey (buttons popping) and throw it to the clubhouse floor: “I’ll get you Bunning,” he said and began searching for a schedule to determine when he’d face him again. Baseball legend has it that Williams hated Bunning so much that he would use him as a foil during batting practice, leaning into the ball and swinging as he yelled “here comes Jim Bunning. Jim F — ing Bunning and that little shit slider of his.” Williams little trick didn’t seem to work: Bunning struck out Williams more than any other player.

The key to Bunning’s success was a sidearm slider, a pitch he could control from nearly any angle. It fooled Williams, as it did nearly everyone else. Bunning led the league in strikeouts in 1959 and 1960 (with 201 each year), while gaining a reputation as one of the most durable pitchers around (he was regularly in the top five in the A.L in innings pitched). He never seemed to get injured. The oddest thing about Bunning’s career came after his greatest success: in 1963, the Tigers trades Bunning to the Philadelphia Phillies for veteran outfielder Don Demeter and Jack Hamilton, a fireballing reliever with a lot of promise. It was a forgettable trade, one of the worst in Detroit history. Demeter was just okay, while Hamilton was slowed by arm injuries. While never living up to his promise, Hamilton became a kind of legend: in 1967 he threw a pitch to Boston’s Tony Conigliaro that shattered the upper left side of Conigliaro’s face and ended his career. It also ended Hamilton’s. The fireballer lost his speed after the incident, as well as his willingness to pitch inside. He left baseball and now runs a restaurant in Missouri.

Bunning’s fate was quite different. He arrived in Philadelphia in 1964 as the great new hope — the pitcher who would put the perennial losers at the top of the National League. He damn near did. The Phillies had a great line-up in ’64, led by power hitters Dick Allen and Johnny Callison and a slick defense centered on catcher Clay Dalrymple, second sacker Tony Taylor and slap hitting expert Bobby Wine (another one of those obnoxious little “pepper pots”). Bunning was complemented by starter Chris Short (a pitcher of almost unbelievable promise), Art Mahaffey and Ray Culp. The Tigers might have gotten a hint of the mistake they’d made when Bunning pitched a perfect game against the New York Mets on June 21, and the big righty went on to notch a remarkable 19-8 record.

But if Bunning was a success, his team wasn’t. 1964 was the year of “The Foldin’ Phillies” — as the ponies lost ten in a row and a seven game lead with 17 games to play. Phillies manager Gene Mauch panicked in the midst of this debacle — pitching Bunning in three games in seven days: Bunning lost all of them. Philadelphia dog-paddled its way into second place, while St. Louis passed them at a full sprint. It was the worst fold in major league history, until the Mets eclipsed it in 2007. The Phillies ’64 cataclysm seemed to unhinge the team in the years that followed, haunting Dick Allen’s successors who struggled, and struggled and struggled. But “Big Jim” Bunning continued to thrive, accounting for 70 wins over the next four years. Never mind: the Phils sputtered along, never quite putting it together again until 1980 — when they won a World Series. Their first.

After his stint in Philly, Bunning went on to Pittsburgh and Los Angeles before ending up in the Hall of Fame (it was a vote of the veterans committee that finally confirmed his entry)  and the U.S. Senate, where he now serves as a controversial and conservative voice from Kentucky. He retains the reputation he gained from his years on the mound, as a head hunting foul-mouthed lug whose stock-in-trade was a quickie under the chin — he led the N.L. in hit batters all four of his years in Philadelphia and was widely loathed for his beanball habits. Bunning’s critics say he hasn’t changed: he remains a ramrod straight, if somewhat embarrassing figure. When asked to describe Bunning’s legislative prowess, the late Senator Robert Byrd thought for a minute before issuing his praise: “a great baseball man.” But the people of Kentucky seem to love him, voting him back to his Senate seat every six years. Then too, even if Bunning is as controversial now as he was in Detroit and Philly, there is little doubt that he once threw one of the best, if not the best, slider in the game. At least that’s what Ted Williams thought.

My wife and I attended our first game together at the new Nats Park — a great but cold time. Here we are, getting ready to head to the game:

It was a day of runs. In Chicago, the Cubs led by half-a-dozen before the defense imploded. The game went into extra innings before the sluggies won, almost by accident. Before it was over the Buccos plated eight, but it wasn’t enough. At least Ted didn’t throw his glove. The scoring outbreak reached league-wide proportions. In Arizona, the Assholes scored 9, while the White Sox (surprising out of the gate), scored 7. The Tigers continued their head-scratching swoon, a monumental collapse that will undoubtedly land Leyland in intensive care. They are now 0-7 and sinking like a stone. What did I say about Dontrelle? Huh? Huh? Huh?

But enough of the complaints. Despite the five game losing streak, it is good to see Mastings Lilledge hitting the ball, and I have to believe the “Learners” will straighten out the parking situation. Somehow. Now, then, on to the real focus of this entry — one of my favorite Nats’ coaches — Pat Corrales.

Pat wandered over near the first base line before the game

with Paul Lo Duca, coaching him on his throws to second. Corrales was a no-hit, great-gun catcher back when Johnny Bench defined the position. Corrales’ knees are gone, which was apparent during the pre-game intros when he came onto the field for opening day. In any event, Corrales is near-and-dear to my heart: I caught a foul ball he hit back in 1965 in Milwaukee County Stadium when he played for Philly. It was a cold day then too, and Corrales was subbing for Clay Dalrymple. My memory must be going, because I remembered him playing for Houston, but he never did — it was the Phillies and Cincinnati and Padres, and then a semi-distinguished managing career. I yelled at him from the first base line.

“Hey Pat.”

“Yeah.

“Hey Pat, I caught a ball you hit in Milwaukee County Stadium back in ’65 …”

He turned to me and smiled: “Must be worth about 25 cents.”

“No, no way.”

“You still got it?”

I shook my head: “I lost it. I was just a kid. I think I used it for a game.”

He nodded and turned back to Lo Duca and then turned back to me.

“Guess who I saw the other day?” he asked.

“Who?

Dick Allen.”“No kidding, how’s he doing?”

“He’s great.”

“He was a great, great hitter,” I said.

“He sure was.”

“Everytime he came up to the plate against the Cubs he hit it out,” I said.

“Yeah, he could hit.”

Dick Allen had to be one of the best pure hitters in the history of the game. Back in the mid-1970s, when he was at the end of his career, I would drive up to Philly to see him play. This was in ’74 and ’75 and he would still hit these towering home runs. I remember in one game (must have been in ’74), in the bottom of the ninth, Dave LaRoche (a Cubs reliever) set him up with one that ended up in the top row of the old Vet. Buckner, the Cubs first baseman, just couldn’t believe it: I am certain now, from the look that Buckner (God I loved Buckner — who had an overdue good day recently) gave to LaRoche, that Billy was convinced that LaRoche grooved one. Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen.

A similar thing, well — not similar, but you know — happened to me in Milwaukee in the mid 1960s, when I took a bus (I was all of 15 or so) to Milwaukee County Stadium for the sole purpose of seeing Eddie Mathews play. I just loved to watch him play, and this was in the days of daytime double-headers. So Mathews comes up in the first inning and gets a called strike on the first ball he sees and turned to the ump and tells him (and I could hear it): “are you out of your f —ing mind?” And bang, he’s out of the game. And I thought: “what the hell am I doing here? I came all this way on that damned bus and Eddie wanted the day off.”

So, anyway, back to Pat Corrales, who has to be one of the most noble characters in the game. I can just hear him in the dugout. Let’s say, one out and man on third and the pitcher up and the bottom of the eighth. And Manny turns to Corrales and says: “Squeeze him home?” And Corrales shakes his head, thinking, and says: “Well, I remember once back in ….”

I’d love to hear that.