The North Pole- The latest controversy over Baseball’s Hall of Fame voting took a bizarre turn last night, as Jim Rice, former American League MVP, intentionally petrified five to ten sportswriters in an apparent attempt to scare up some votes… the good old fashioned way.
/
LIKE SANTA CLAUS OR SOMETHING
Rice, reputed to be the most feared hitter of his era by many of the same men he sought to terrify, hopped across multiple states during his deranged campaign.
“ The bizarre thing is… what’s really mystifying us, is that this man went from Boston, to New York, to Seattle, to all over, in the span of one night,” chuckled baffled investigator Vincent Hannah, adding that jurisdiction for the case hadn’t yet been determined.
“ This guy is good. Like Santa Claus, or something. ”
/
“THAT MAN WAS SCARY”
Rice’s motive is clear: Staggered by statistical daggers, a healthy percentage of baseball writing’s old guard, nervously spinning their bow ties, have been left reaching for ridiculous measures in an attempt to insure Jim’s entrance within the hallowed halls of Cooperstown. The most publicized of these philosophies is undoubtedly the mysterious claim that Rice reaped mental terror on pitchers, through the sheer prospect of his looming specter. This is enough, according to some, to cast Rice a Hall of Fame vote.
“ That man was scary”, remarked a source that refused to be identified, for fear of retribution from Jim Rice.
/
RICE. DINOSAURS. COINCIDENCE?
Despite this admirable crusade, Rice hasn’t yet joined the immortals. Frustrated by this lack of progress, he took matters into his hands last night, in a final measure to solidify his reputation as the scariest man of his era. What constituted his era hasn’t exactly been answered, but one could assume it began at the start of his career and ended at its abrupt conclusion.
“ Jim Rice time,” Peter Gammons would explain later.
/
DUNWOODY: THE MAN AND HIS DREAM
Rob Neyer was woken at three in the morning by a crash reverberating from his living room. Upon investigation, the sweater clad journalistic dynamo discovered Rice destroying a most prized possession: Neyer’s sealed collection of 1985 Royals action figures, including Onix Concepcion with karate chop action.
“ He was just standing there, with a crazed look in his eyes, screaming double plays this double plays that, walks this walk that, early decline this and limited peak that, and all the while I’m thinking dude… I’m not a violent man, but if you touch my George Brett, it’s going to be on. But than I remembered I have him stored in a safe.”
Neyer was left amazed when, according to his sketchy account, Rice evaporated into a puff of smoke, leaving behind no trace of evidence, except for a shiny replica of his 1978 MVP Award.
“ It’s really shiny,” added Neyer. “He was wearing the 70’s Red Sox uniform, you know, the one with the killer Red Hats? How weird is that?”
At this point I thanked Neyer for his time, but not before lecturing him on being way too hard on Todd Dunwoody back in the day.
“ He was just trying to earn a living man,” I argued, as Neyer nodded in solemn agreement.
/
IT’S LOBSTER TIME
Next on Rice’s hit list was Hall of Fame writer Peter Gammons, who, after a spirited jam session in the wee hours, was ready to call it a night. Unfortunately for Gammons, he was shocked to find Rice going through his refrigerator.
Here’s how the situation went down, according to Gammon’s sealed testimony.
“ GAMMONS immediately asked the suspect what he was doing in his kitchen, and how the hell he’d gotten in there. RICE said he needed to take a break from “business”, and wondered if he could borrow some of Gammons’ food. GAMMONS agreed. The two sat down and discussed a time when they were “kings”. RICE thought he should scare GAMMONS, “just to be safe” so he offered a half-hearted “boo” as the two enjoyed LOBSTER. GAMMONS recoiled in terror, but only to make RICE feel better. He claimed RICE didn’t notice this insincerity. GAMMONS mentioned that the two wore bibs reading: “It’s Lobster time”. Indeed, it was. This is a confidential report. ”
/
GEEKS HANG OUT IN BASEMENTS AND ARE RELUCTANT TO APPROACH ATTRACTIVE MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE SEX
Among other writers petrified included Bill James, Dayn Perry, and, well, just about every practicing sabrmetrician claiming citizenship on the frenzied American frontier. Many bemoaned that they’d “never feel safe in [our] basements again.”
/
HEAT NOT WINNING THE OSCAR IS LIKE TIM RAINES NOT GETTING ELECTED TO THE HALL OF FAME
As for Rice, he’s a man on the run. Detective Hannah isn’t worried, however.
“ Everyone knows Rice has no speed. After all, he hit into all those double plays… he’s here… I can sense it…”
Hannah than launched into an impassioned tirade about huge asses, whereupon I knew this story was dynamite, pure dynamite.
“ When I think of asses, a woman’s ass, something just comes out of me,” he said calmly, returning to the task at hand with anguished, yet dignified, reluctance.
................................................................
Matt Waters is an unemployed writer. He is amused annually by the Hall of Fame hysteria. He thinks you should compare the numbers of Dennis Martinez and Jack Morris, before comparing the latter to Bert Blyleven. This is why he thinks the Hall of Fame is a joke. This article is dedicated to the stat geeks, the board members at Baseball Think Factory, the analysts at Hardball Times, the number crunchers at Replacement Level Yankee blog. Don’t sweat it guys. It’s just a stupid club. The museum, however, is very nice.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Random thought: Godfather Part 3
The negative backlash heaped upon Godfather 3 could be traced to its deviance from the other two classics in the series, implementing a rigid moral message that punished the protagonist.
While Michael’s decision to murder Fredo was portrayed properly as gut wrenching, he is never really shown paying for his sins, aside from a haunting final shot merely suggesting at a harsh judgment to come. We, as the movie going public, often romanticize violence, celebrating fiction free from the constraints of common conscience. Coppola and Puzo crafted sinister Michael so perfectly his due fall became an insulting proposition, for some, anyway.
How could cold, calculating Michael end up totally alone? How could the Godfather be just another puppet, after all?
In GF 3, we see a human Michael, filled with remorse, besieged by regret, and ultimately ruined by his past. It was a dark story, the final chapter in a life led astray. Ultimately, the principal ideal manipulated by Michael to justify his actions is shattered, as he loses his daughter, who’d he walk through hell to protect.
The performance by Al Pacino on the opera house steps is perfect. His horrible scream is one of desperation. He subtly parts his hands behind his head, as if to say “no more”, a man defeated by destiny, cursed by the business he chose.
This movie is a masterpiece. It’s kind of sad that the most human “Godfather” is the most loathed.
While Michael’s decision to murder Fredo was portrayed properly as gut wrenching, he is never really shown paying for his sins, aside from a haunting final shot merely suggesting at a harsh judgment to come. We, as the movie going public, often romanticize violence, celebrating fiction free from the constraints of common conscience. Coppola and Puzo crafted sinister Michael so perfectly his due fall became an insulting proposition, for some, anyway.
How could cold, calculating Michael end up totally alone? How could the Godfather be just another puppet, after all?
In GF 3, we see a human Michael, filled with remorse, besieged by regret, and ultimately ruined by his past. It was a dark story, the final chapter in a life led astray. Ultimately, the principal ideal manipulated by Michael to justify his actions is shattered, as he loses his daughter, who’d he walk through hell to protect.
The performance by Al Pacino on the opera house steps is perfect. His horrible scream is one of desperation. He subtly parts his hands behind his head, as if to say “no more”, a man defeated by destiny, cursed by the business he chose.
This movie is a masterpiece. It’s kind of sad that the most human “Godfather” is the most loathed.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Five telltale signs that your NFL team sucks this year
As a Jet fan, I’ve been through enough down seasons to recognize certain enduring characteristics of losing, echoing through the smelly, lonely halls of defeat. I present my data. Feel free to compare and contrast your experiences:
The Novacaine loss
Here’s the numbing defeat signaling the official spiral of your football season. Until it arrives, you’ve made excuses, kept the faith, and even chastised those jumping ship. Afterward, you’ve become pretty much resigned to the dredges, suddenly grateful that American football is, for the most part, played but once a week, and it’s socially acceptable to get wasted on Sunday afternoons. Every calamity happening hereafter will be greeted with an apathetic shrug, and in depth analysis of the top prospects available in the draft.
My personal contribution:
This has to be the week-five stink bomb against our city rival, the Giants. I use the term “city” lightly, of course, as both teams hold stake in that swamp bound abortion out in Jersey. Eli Manning practically handed the game to us on a Pu Pu platter amid an atrocious first half performance that garnered him a zero Q.B rating. I confirm being at the game, looking sharp in my Chad Pennington jersey, getting verbally abused for the duration of the second half. Giant fans harbor a latent, venomous bitterness against pre-injury Pennington, the closest they came to watching franchise Q.B. on a weekly basis since about 1993.
Anyway, Pennington, suffocated all year by defenses pinching on his customary quick striking throws, sealed the Jets’ fate multiple times in the waning moments. Walking out of the stadium, I was blindsided by the realization that the Jets, featuring a terrible offensive and defensive line, a questionable secondary outside superstar Kerry Rhodes, and a fading Pennington, were definitely going to suck for the second time in three years. Ouch, babe.
The Pathetic Quarterback controversy that leaves everyone feeling a bit dumber for having picked a side
Ah, yes. Whether you’re slumming it with Akili Smith and Scott Mitchell, picking between top notch talents such as Tim Couch and Kelly Holcomb, or even debating the many merits of Charlie Batch and Ty Detmer, no horrendous football season is complete without the requisite, and mind numbingly stupid, quarterback controversy. These exist solely for the media, either in the print or electronic realm, to rip a chunk of material from a steaming, uninspiring lump of crap. They grab quotes from uninterested players and coaches. They interview the beleaguered passers, who, more often than not, “leave it up to coach”.
In my case, witness Chad Pennington and Kellen Clemens. Poor Chad. On a team with a stable running game, above average offensive line, and playmaking receivers able to pile up yardage in space after the catch [the Jets have one out of three], he could still be effective. Instead, he’s been cast as the scapegoat for a horrendously built team, and forced to play behind Kellen Clemens. Kellen Clemens… anointed as a savior by Jet fans after one passable preseason performance. Kellen Clemens… who’d be a phenomenal prospect if he could only read the blitz and have the slightest bit of accuracy on intermediate throws. Kellen Clemens…
Next time someone opines for a quarterback with the pocket presence of Drew Bledsoe combined with the remarkably average scrambling ability of Kyle Boller, you point toward one man, baby.
J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS!
So, basically, we, as moronic Jet fans, have argued, for weeks, months even, about two players who may not even have a consequential future with the team. This is what makes us Jet fans. Our stupidity isn’t near endearing. It’s kind of sad, yet dangerous. When Chad Pennington limped off the field week one to a chorus of cheers, it summed up Jet fans perfectly: we’re that slovenly drunk at the bar who hasn’t been home in two days, ready to snap at the first person to laugh make fun while simultaneously leaving ourselves open for ridicule, because, while making threatening gestures, our pants are indeed falling down. Pathetic, yet dangerous, Wile E. Coyote, if you will.
The neglected kicker who costs you a game
Mike Nugent, come on down! Nobody gives a damn about the kicker for a bad team. He becomes almost an existential, paradoxical force. Man is left to ponder significant questions, once again, far beyond his intellectual range. Why does football incite these thoughts?
Who created the creator?
What number is greater than infinity?
Is it morally reprehensible to eat pizza for breakfast?
What is the point of having a kicker on a team that doesn’t score?
The kicker on an atrocious team will inevitably cost said team a game. Put yourself in his shoes: You haven’t attempted a meaningful field goal since week two, right before halftime. Your games are blending together, a never-ending series of thirty-yard tries that nobody truly cares about. Than, out of nowhere, you’re rousted from this suddenly delightful sleep, asked to actually contribute to a win. The thought is almost paralyzing. So, the snap is down, the adrenaline is flying… and… what do you expect? You’re a kicker. You’re team sucks. Who the hell are THEY to put all this pressure on YOU? You aren’t a robot. You’re due to miss. YOU’VE MADE SIXTEEN IN A ROW! DOESN’T ANYBODY CARE? IT ISN’T FAIR-
And the kick sails wide right.
So, as Mike Nugent jogged off the field last Sunday, chinstrap dangling, sporting a pained and perplexed expression, he might have wondered what separated his fourth quarter miss against New England from the fifteen in a row he hit before that. Me?
I was left considering the question of why it still stung, even when it didn’t even matter. I concluded that I’m probably an idiot.
Your guy gets injured
We’ve all seen this show before. Our hometown team stinks, but there’s still that character guy, no matter the position, who gives us glimmer of hope, bringing forth happier memories from the past, while providing a glimmer for the future. This guy might not be nationally recognized, and we’ve always found him under-rated, damn the stats. He does the little things, plays hard, never, ever showboats. We wear his jersey, proud. And than he gets injured… and now there’s really nothing left. Our guy attempts to play of course, despite being banged up. We curse the color commentator unfamiliar with his plight, ignorantly wondering whether our guy has lost a step.
“He’s hurt you idiot! [Devours buffalo wing, spits out contents] He’s hurt!!!!” [Hucks Buffalo wing at television, leaving stain for remainder of season]
For me, the decimation of Laveranues Coles has made the Jets physically revolting. Combined with the unjust benching of Pennington, they make me want to vomit on a weekly basis. Yup… it sure is tough when you’re guy gets hurt. But it gets worse…
You know the guy replacing your guy? He will devour your soul
Hey! Guess who! It’s your slot receiver! You’ve often wondered what this guy could do if given a shot to start. He’s piqued your interest before, in the preseason, shown flashes of high quality play. You wonder why he’s never been able to stick. Sure, his hands are questionable, and his route running leaves something to be desired, but the man makes plays downfield. That can’t be taught. That’s an instinct. No, check that… it’s a gift. And now, your slot man is going to get a rightful opportunity to share his gift with the world. Never mind the fact he’s failed before when given a bigger role. This time, it’s different.
No, it isn’t.
Justin McCareins will always be Justin McCareins. Whether asked to step up in a heated rivalry game against arch nemesis, or wide open, in the end zone, on two different occasions within the same sixteen game schedule. The ball will probably clank off his fingertips, so much a brick.
McCareins will be McCareins, and it will annoy you. It isn’t his fault.
He isn’t your guy. This isn’t your season.
Your team just sucks.
The Novacaine loss
Here’s the numbing defeat signaling the official spiral of your football season. Until it arrives, you’ve made excuses, kept the faith, and even chastised those jumping ship. Afterward, you’ve become pretty much resigned to the dredges, suddenly grateful that American football is, for the most part, played but once a week, and it’s socially acceptable to get wasted on Sunday afternoons. Every calamity happening hereafter will be greeted with an apathetic shrug, and in depth analysis of the top prospects available in the draft.
My personal contribution:
This has to be the week-five stink bomb against our city rival, the Giants. I use the term “city” lightly, of course, as both teams hold stake in that swamp bound abortion out in Jersey. Eli Manning practically handed the game to us on a Pu Pu platter amid an atrocious first half performance that garnered him a zero Q.B rating. I confirm being at the game, looking sharp in my Chad Pennington jersey, getting verbally abused for the duration of the second half. Giant fans harbor a latent, venomous bitterness against pre-injury Pennington, the closest they came to watching franchise Q.B. on a weekly basis since about 1993.
Anyway, Pennington, suffocated all year by defenses pinching on his customary quick striking throws, sealed the Jets’ fate multiple times in the waning moments. Walking out of the stadium, I was blindsided by the realization that the Jets, featuring a terrible offensive and defensive line, a questionable secondary outside superstar Kerry Rhodes, and a fading Pennington, were definitely going to suck for the second time in three years. Ouch, babe.
The Pathetic Quarterback controversy that leaves everyone feeling a bit dumber for having picked a side
Ah, yes. Whether you’re slumming it with Akili Smith and Scott Mitchell, picking between top notch talents such as Tim Couch and Kelly Holcomb, or even debating the many merits of Charlie Batch and Ty Detmer, no horrendous football season is complete without the requisite, and mind numbingly stupid, quarterback controversy. These exist solely for the media, either in the print or electronic realm, to rip a chunk of material from a steaming, uninspiring lump of crap. They grab quotes from uninterested players and coaches. They interview the beleaguered passers, who, more often than not, “leave it up to coach”.
In my case, witness Chad Pennington and Kellen Clemens. Poor Chad. On a team with a stable running game, above average offensive line, and playmaking receivers able to pile up yardage in space after the catch [the Jets have one out of three], he could still be effective. Instead, he’s been cast as the scapegoat for a horrendously built team, and forced to play behind Kellen Clemens. Kellen Clemens… anointed as a savior by Jet fans after one passable preseason performance. Kellen Clemens… who’d be a phenomenal prospect if he could only read the blitz and have the slightest bit of accuracy on intermediate throws. Kellen Clemens…
Next time someone opines for a quarterback with the pocket presence of Drew Bledsoe combined with the remarkably average scrambling ability of Kyle Boller, you point toward one man, baby.
J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS!
So, basically, we, as moronic Jet fans, have argued, for weeks, months even, about two players who may not even have a consequential future with the team. This is what makes us Jet fans. Our stupidity isn’t near endearing. It’s kind of sad, yet dangerous. When Chad Pennington limped off the field week one to a chorus of cheers, it summed up Jet fans perfectly: we’re that slovenly drunk at the bar who hasn’t been home in two days, ready to snap at the first person to laugh make fun while simultaneously leaving ourselves open for ridicule, because, while making threatening gestures, our pants are indeed falling down. Pathetic, yet dangerous, Wile E. Coyote, if you will.
The neglected kicker who costs you a game
Mike Nugent, come on down! Nobody gives a damn about the kicker for a bad team. He becomes almost an existential, paradoxical force. Man is left to ponder significant questions, once again, far beyond his intellectual range. Why does football incite these thoughts?
Who created the creator?
What number is greater than infinity?
Is it morally reprehensible to eat pizza for breakfast?
What is the point of having a kicker on a team that doesn’t score?
The kicker on an atrocious team will inevitably cost said team a game. Put yourself in his shoes: You haven’t attempted a meaningful field goal since week two, right before halftime. Your games are blending together, a never-ending series of thirty-yard tries that nobody truly cares about. Than, out of nowhere, you’re rousted from this suddenly delightful sleep, asked to actually contribute to a win. The thought is almost paralyzing. So, the snap is down, the adrenaline is flying… and… what do you expect? You’re a kicker. You’re team sucks. Who the hell are THEY to put all this pressure on YOU? You aren’t a robot. You’re due to miss. YOU’VE MADE SIXTEEN IN A ROW! DOESN’T ANYBODY CARE? IT ISN’T FAIR-
And the kick sails wide right.
So, as Mike Nugent jogged off the field last Sunday, chinstrap dangling, sporting a pained and perplexed expression, he might have wondered what separated his fourth quarter miss against New England from the fifteen in a row he hit before that. Me?
I was left considering the question of why it still stung, even when it didn’t even matter. I concluded that I’m probably an idiot.
Your guy gets injured
We’ve all seen this show before. Our hometown team stinks, but there’s still that character guy, no matter the position, who gives us glimmer of hope, bringing forth happier memories from the past, while providing a glimmer for the future. This guy might not be nationally recognized, and we’ve always found him under-rated, damn the stats. He does the little things, plays hard, never, ever showboats. We wear his jersey, proud. And than he gets injured… and now there’s really nothing left. Our guy attempts to play of course, despite being banged up. We curse the color commentator unfamiliar with his plight, ignorantly wondering whether our guy has lost a step.
“He’s hurt you idiot! [Devours buffalo wing, spits out contents] He’s hurt!!!!” [Hucks Buffalo wing at television, leaving stain for remainder of season]
For me, the decimation of Laveranues Coles has made the Jets physically revolting. Combined with the unjust benching of Pennington, they make me want to vomit on a weekly basis. Yup… it sure is tough when you’re guy gets hurt. But it gets worse…
You know the guy replacing your guy? He will devour your soul
Hey! Guess who! It’s your slot receiver! You’ve often wondered what this guy could do if given a shot to start. He’s piqued your interest before, in the preseason, shown flashes of high quality play. You wonder why he’s never been able to stick. Sure, his hands are questionable, and his route running leaves something to be desired, but the man makes plays downfield. That can’t be taught. That’s an instinct. No, check that… it’s a gift. And now, your slot man is going to get a rightful opportunity to share his gift with the world. Never mind the fact he’s failed before when given a bigger role. This time, it’s different.
No, it isn’t.
Justin McCareins will always be Justin McCareins. Whether asked to step up in a heated rivalry game against arch nemesis, or wide open, in the end zone, on two different occasions within the same sixteen game schedule. The ball will probably clank off his fingertips, so much a brick.
McCareins will be McCareins, and it will annoy you. It isn’t his fault.
He isn’t your guy. This isn’t your season.
Your team just sucks.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Flashes in Night
September 22, 2007
There was Carl Pavano, the supposed anchor turned albatross, battling on Opening Day of the 2007 season, searching in vain for a strikeout pitch. He appears out of place in Yankee pinstripes, assuming a secondary skin, awkwardly wrenching arm overhead, seeking the pristine mechanics and precise command that bought him to the doorstep of stardom. Yes, seems too long ago, when Pavano, young, healthy, and fearless, owned the consensus as the top pitcher within 05's hot stove menu. Matt Clement was deemed erratic, Pedro Martinez dubbed weathered. He was the one.
Here, he grinded through four ugly innings, before departing to cheers from optimistic fans. This was supposed to be the first step toward a revival, Pavano rising from the ashes, overcoming the cursed injuries that had derailed his promising prime. He was a fixture on the top step of the Yankee dugout in the days following his first start, coolly clad in a black hooded sweatshirt, talking shop with Andy Pettitte, Mike Mussina, legitimately reaching for camaraderie.
He'd pitch one more game in 2007. It was an appropriate beginning.
Take nothing for granted.
Not even Pavano's single win.
Exit scene.
....................................................
I thought they were finished, late May, after two pathetic losses against Toronto, the team contently passive, absorbing beatings that began feeling inevitable. The Yankees were in full descent, the pitching staff ravaged by injuries, and damaged by Front Office ineptitude, the thoroughly overmatched Kei Igawa routinely blitzed. Indeed, Igawa, eyes shrouded behind shades during Afternoon games, had performed horribly enough to indict the whole organization, executive box to coaching staff.
The defeats became a steady drumbeat. My expectations narrowed. I considered new summer hobbies, but, invariably, always returned for more, cursing the whole way as Bobby Abreu bailed out against lefties, Robinson Cano swung at the first pitch, and Hideki Matsui tapped an endless array of harmless groundballs toward second base.
I consider myself an optimist by nature, but couldn't have been more apathetic at this particular time. Couple weeks earlier, I'd written a bitterly cynical column after a loss at Seattle, cryptically declaring my worry. The past is never at rest, and, after a couple years coping with painful playoff disappointment, I was quick losing patience.
Toronto was the nadir. 21-29. So, it was fitting that the final game on my Saturday ticket package paired the Yanks and Jays, with such a sizable space between then and now. The baseball season is cosmic, organic, it breathes on a karmic level, flowing and connected. This day represented a gaping exhale.
.....................................
The Jays have a bright future, an impressive collection of young pitching scattered in their bullpen and rotation. While the cataclysmic injury to B.J. Ryan, along with setbacks suffered by Lyle Overbay, Troy Glaus, Russ Johnson and Vernon Wells, may have short-circuited any possibility of a playoff run, the organization may benefit long term from the test of it's depth. The loss of Ryan forced the elevation of Jeremy Accardo, and prompted the emergence of Casey Janssen. The Blue Jays bullpen mirrors Seattle's relief corps, before September anyway, when the Mariners could trot out an array of young guns with scintillating strikeout to walk ratios and miniscule earned run averages. But, while the Mariner arms leaked late, the Jay hurlers preserved, featuring such a plethora of talent that Brandon League, kid flamethrower without control, has become an afterthought. If Ryan heals quickly enough, the Jays' pen could be unstoppable in '08. Who wants to face Brian Wolfe, Casey Jannsen, Jeremy Accardo, and Ryan as the innings dwindle, especially with Scott Downs and Brian Tallet in reserve, revitalized by their shift to fulltime relief?
...................................
My brother Greg and I are late arriving to the Stadium, par for the course really. We weren't exactly in a frenzied rush however, especially with heavy rain showering the city. On the way there, I notice a gigantic billboard for Fox's new show, K-Ville, starring the renowned Anthony Anderson and legendary Cole Hauser. In the right spot, of course, these guys effectively exploit their specific talents, Hauser's stone cold stoicism, Anderson's goofy comic shtick, but frankly, I couldn't think of worse roles for either to portray than nose to the grindstone New Orleans cops. Can't see the two having any chemistry, but you never know. After all, I once lumped "House" in with "Skin".
I'm intrigued by this massive piece of advertising, however, hanging over the Cross Bronx. It exposes the transient nature of life. Few month's time, and K-Ville will be gone, painted over, replaced by a new show, new car, something new until it isn't. Meanwhile, my brother and I will continue to drive by, on our way to Yankee games. And that consistency is comforting, part of the reason why we watch sports, afford such attentiveness to statistics, keep track. The human condition includes an inert fascination with consistency, long lasting reliability. Players receive ample plaudits for it. Explains the calendar, New Year's, all the holidays. Reality is so unpredictable. Our lives can be irreparably changed at any time, upheaval at a moment's notice. So we hunt for the steadiness, thirst for it, anticipate Opening Day around the corner, or a Saturday matinee.
Because we never know when it's going to rain.
..........................................
During the delay, Greg and I make the rounds at the familiar establishments, Stan's and the like. A new Yankee era has emerged in recent seasons, grandstands jam packed, attendance tipping the scales at four million. This has altered routines. Now, it's a virtual impossibility to escape the Big Ballpark without encountering a bodily traffic jam flooding the corridors. Try appreciating the extra ten thousand friends on a hot Saturday in May after a disappointing Devil Ray wipeout, arm to sweaty arm in a overcrowded walkway with some slovenly guy muttering that the '85 team got screwed because "they didn't have the wildcard", distinct whiff of barley and hops on his breath.
A great percentage of the chorus jeering A-Rod last season may have rode in on the same bandwagon. Now we all chant MVP, but not everyone feels like a phony for it.
The attendance splurge is in full effect at the watering holes, which are uniformly standing room only. Pinstriped morale is jacked, with good reason. Our guys had rallied from a disastrous start, overcoming both the opposition and themselves. These Yankees look their worst when they overreach, forcing instead of flowing. In that sense, this has truly become Alex Rodriguez's team. I've arrived at a realization, regarding athletic endeavor, an epiphany. In the vein of every artistic pursuit, feats on the field are tapped from the subconscious, the ability to divert focus inward, for the delivery of an expression. Could range from a brush stroke to a sac bunt. Analysis has no place at game time. Proper preparation is a must, but, when the lights are bright, instinct belongs behind the wheel, a difficult task in sports, due to the competition. Old Shakes never had to endure a writing duel. The battle in athletics is to internalize, forcing pressure to become a mere figment of the imagination. I realize now, it's the way I wish I would have played.
.....................................
We escape into the stadium, fleeing from the bar deluge. The game is still delayed by the time we arrive, and the wait continued. At my prodding, we try grabbing seats a few rows up, under cover from the precipitation, but these are filled. We return to the bowels. I sit against filthy wall, eating my breakfast, a soggy Stadium hot dog. Tarp's been on for nearly an hour, without an end in sight.
My back is locking up. I rue my decision not getting wasted. Didn't want to booze so early. It may have made the situation tenable. Instead, I sit cold sober, resembling a bum. I ponder whether to ask a passerby for pocket change, can never have enough. I'm reminded of the homeless guy outside Gate 6 after games, proudly brandishing a sign with the inscription:
Why lie? I need a beer.
One has to appreciate the everlasting ingenuity of honesty. And this thought springs forth another: It wasn't always good at the stadium. Drug dealers used to buy tickets to games, a secure location for sales. Same for the addicts, the empty upper deck a perfect place to shoot up, anonymous. I've been told these tales. They don't seem real. Makes overpopulation seem small.
Finally, the tarp is peeled from the field. The game can begin.
.....................................
Phil Hughes is on the mound for the Yankees, the untouchable one. His velocity sapped by a myriad of leg injuries, Hughes has been left coping with a suspect arsenal, a previously blistering fastball slowed. These difficulties could strengthen his pitching acumen. But for now, the kid struggles in finding the form that had Baseball America anointing him pitching prospect supreme this past winter. But there are flashes. When he perfectly locates a four-seam fastball under a right-hander's thumbs for a strike. Or when his breaking ball snaps instead of floating. When his change-up dives instead of hanging.
It's all in that aforementioned consistency.
He'll find it.
He retires the Jays in the first frame, in order.
.............................................
Shaun Marcum returns serve, setting the Yankees down quietly. Marcum relies on finesse, no doubt helped by the stellar defense of John McDonald at short, absent today. He mixes and matches, owning a solid grasp of pitching stratagem. He's one of the standouts in the Jays' strong front five, a list including the gifted Dustin McGowan, Jon Lieber clone Jesse Litsch, enigmatic A.J. Burnett, and, of course, Doc Halladay.
...........................................
Can always count on oddity outside the Stadium. Have to view each and every day through a fresh set of eyes, the old yard reminds me, recalibrates my filter. The place is a true inspiration, and it's passing, in just a couple years time, is saddening. It's the people. Will they remain? Like the dudes sporting powder blue retro Jay jerseys, old school names like Olerud and Borders stitched across their backs. Or the intoxicated guy cloaked in his country's flag, running around calling himself "Captain Canada". Maybe it was Michael Moore. They save their best for the Bronx.
........................................
We've all seen police procedurals, either on television or at the movies. We recognize the formula, patting ourselves on the back for paying attention. Look, here comes the part where the obvious, number one suspect is revealed innocent. Uh oh, now the alcoholic cop is going to take the case too personally. Wait, wait, we have a new villain emerging... and bam, case closed, good triumphs over evil, roll credits.
Well, with the Yankees, especially this incarnation of the team, I'm able to correlate just the same. After all, they are a long running series, and some episodes are bound to get recycled. So here's the part when they look beaten, the offense stagnant. The starter is rolling along, they've squandered some opportunities, but wait, they have a couple runners on in the sixth, Marcum's long gone, left with an injury, that Blue Jay bullpen suddenly isn't looking quite as deep... and bam, four runs are on the board, the place is going crazy, I high-five some guy after not saying two words to him all game, Enter Sandman, let's have those credits.
Alas, it isn't that simple. Not today. Because, unbeknownst to my brother and I, who have dinner plans with the family to celebrate his birthday, we are about to go for a wacky, infuriating, exhilarating ride, which not only typified the season, but mortified us. Having not eaten since the dog during the delay, I was praying for the game ending with relative ease, eager to down some fajitas at Tequila Sunrise.
But here came Jose Veras to protect the lead, top of the seventh.
................................................
Joba is the man, a second round steal, fell to the Yankees, taken in the same draft as wunderkind Ian Kennedy. He contemplates a hellacious fastball with a devilish slider, sporting the confidence to throw his breaking stuff in any count or situation. He handles the media with ease, displaying a natural charisma that fans feed on, sowing the seeds for a symbiotic relationship. It's those players who become legends, larger than life caricatures.
But he isn't available, not today, insulated by a set of rules to protect his priceless right-arm. When the steadily shrinking market for free agent pitching is considered, the value of a stud on the farm increases seventy-fold. There will be fewer diamond-branded band-aids, Mike Mussina available for the highest bidder. Franchises far and wide are making a concerted effort to lock down their aces, well before they hit the market. Where would the Yankees be without the next ones? Bidding for the services of Kyle Lohse?
So instead of Joba, we are treated with Jose Veras. Veras' violent mechanics echo Armando Benitez, appearing painful, unwieldy. Arm and head jerking, Jose hurls his person into every pitch, both audience and batter pardoned a cringe. His stuff, however, is electric, a final spot on the postseason roster within grip.
He begins by allowing a fluke double to Ray Olmedo. The guy sitting a seat up mutters "Aw, shit", venturing an early diagnosis on the imminent meltdown. Greg tells me not to worry, he'd seen Jose breeze in an earlier appearance, harnessing his filthy stuff. Reed Johnson, campaign long scuttled by back miseries, follows with a walk. I rebut Greg.
" Oh man, it's Jose Veras. Jose Veras."
Snap judgments in the heat of the moment. They contradict my analysis. Which is the true B.S.? Therein lies the question...
After striking out the slumping Matt Stairs, who seems a grizzled veteran since 1998 for some reason [must be the facial hair], Veras hurls a wild pitch that Jorge Posada, never known as an adroit blocker, probably should have salvaged.
Meanwhile, the wave has broken out, oozing through the entire stadium. I curse the gimmick to nobody in particular. Greg and I remain unmoved as it passes through our section, proud curmudgeons, in solidarity with the Bleacher Creatures. I'm left in awe of those captivated by the ability to raise their arms upward. Small wonders. There's that extra one million, weren't around way back when...
Alex Rios strikes out. The wave rolls on. A run scores on a Posada passed ball. The wave refuses to die. John Ford-Griffin, a former Yankee prospect, a casualty of the regrettable Jeff Weaver acquisition, walks, after Veras inexplicably attempted to fool him with a 3-2 curve ball. It was his first AB of the season. The wave is finally dead. If I were drunk, I'd chastise the entire section, the annoying, self-righteous guy nobody wants vindicated. Alas, I'm not, and am left speechless after Hill singles, tilting the contest back toward Toronto. Somewhere, the guy cloaked in the colors of Canada popped open a Molson and checked a disappointed Yankee fan into the boards.
Veras exits the game, to a chorus of indignation. After all, he interrupted the wave, the jerk. This is New York, baby. We're hardcore.
In comes Edwar Ramirez, proud owner of a plus change-up. Ramirez lacks consistent command and control of his fastball, unable to mask his mistakes. He pays, forced to be perfect at the Major League level, after terrorizing the Minors with his phantom change.
Ramirez has struggled of late. Greg chimes in:
" You've been high on this guy, but I just don't see it. He's awful."
Point taken. I plan on returning serve after Ramirez records the final out. He uncorks a wild pitch. Hasn't been Posada's finest defensive exhibition, but the Yankee gas can committee isn't helping matters. Lind singles in Hill. One ugly inning can infect all nine. I never issue a counterpoint in Ramirez's favor. I hope he forgives me, someday. Curtis Thigpen, back-up catcher extraordinaire, who waged a battle of attrition with Phil Hughes back in the fourth, fouling off approximately one hundred pitches before lofting a double to short left, flies out to center to bring a merciful close to the proceedings. ...............................................The masses are obligated to arise for the ceremonial singing of "God Bless America". This is especially fun, after the follies of Veras and Ramirez. I'm still paranoid about the Tigers making a miracle push to pressure the Yankees for the wild card, but that's probably just aftershock from `04. Never take a thing for granted. Not in this life. "God Bless America" reaches crescendo.
We can sit.
........................................
The Blue Jays lead 8-6. I'm aghast at the incompetence displayed by the backend of the Yanks' bullpen, but not the least bit phased. For, Brandon League is on the mound for the visitors, in all his frenzied glory. One could sum up League by simply surveying his mannerisms, eying his body language. He grimaces, scowls, slumps shoulders, pouts, out of sync, behavior matching woeful command.
Giambi, bat lagging, flies out to left after working the count in his favor. Then, League somehow manages to walk the free wheeling Cadillac Cano on four pitches. Doug Mientkiewicz, on fire since improbably reclaiming the first base job, fists a lucky, dying quail of a double down the left field line, a twist of fate unfortunate enough to totally unhinge League, squinting even more intensely toward home-plate before allowing a two RBI single to the glacially cold Melky Cabrera. Proceeding a Derek Jeter groundout, John Gibbons, whose hilarious saunter to the mound harkens an outlaw's gait from Spaghetti Westerns, decides to hook League on a high note, calling on Brian Wolfe, who summarily walks Bobby Abreu, bringing Alex Rodriguez to the plate, ready to absolutely wreck a tie game.
...................................................
I'm a believer in the power of positive vibes. Last year, Alex Rodriguez's struggles in pressure situations became a self-fulfilling prophecy, overblown by the media until they weren't. Alex admittedly piled on the bulk for the '06 season, bat speed suffering in an unforeseen consequence. This in mind, couldn't Alex's ineffectiveness late in games, against hard throwing relief pitchers, be attributed entirely to the added weight, and wouldn't the results of this season, a trimmed down Alex annihilating the ninth inning, essentially delete any argument persecuting him as a player unable to deliver in the clutch?
Either way, his greatness is undeniable.
Now, those who doubted expect him to deliver. Encouraging, instead of badgering. Positive vibes, in full effect, as he socks a single off Wolfe, putting his team back on top.
.........................................
The game had been totally nonsensical, delayed by rain, careening off course, yet I was assured. Sure, Farnsworth was jogging in from the pen, but he could toss a clean inning, deliver the game to Mo, and I could finally chow on some quality Nachos.
I was determined to maintain a level of placidity. So, when Greg murmured, "Oh shit, its Farnsworth," I immediately sought the positive. And here it was: Kyle throws the baseball hard. The soft underbelly of the decimated Blue Jay lineup shouldn't be able to make solid contact against mid-nineties gas. There was my logic. It would be Farnsworth's day.
Olmedo beat an infield hit, after Farnsworth, aptly fielding his position, winged an errant throw through the legs of new first sacker Wilson Betemit. Reed Johnson bled a hard earned walk, staring at four straight pitches. Serenity now. The slumbering Stairs hit a rocket into the glove of Betemit. One out. Surely Farnsworth would benefit from this good fortune, Carpe Diem, Kyle. Rios singles. A run. Greg Zaun singles. Another run. We boo Farnsworth as he takes his leave. Loudly. Enter Chris Britton, prisoner of a wide waistline, which obscures his legitimate talent. He retires the only batter he faces, before Torre, in a bizarre maneuver, summons banished import Kei Igawa. The fans, obviously confused, can only summon a smattering of jeers. He allows another run, why not, but the inning, familiar theme, mercifully ends when Zaun, the speed merchant, is gunned out at home.
All told, the deranged game was reaching near surreal levels. 11-9 Jays, and now it really, really, had to be over.
.........................................
Melky Cabrera at the plate, two outs in the eighth, team trailing by two, two in scoring position. The sun is setting. The game had stretched past reasonable context, spiraling into the unknown, anything possible. It would be a brutal loss, for the fans especially, who'd seen their entire day outside the stadium slip away, with every breaking ball in the dirt, every foul ball, every garbled prod from the overworked P.A. system. The moment was Melky's for the taking, opposing a tiring Wolfe, pitch count soaring, partially due to a protracted, Abreu styled plate appearance by the recklessly impatient Cano, drawing his second consecutive free pass. Up was down, left was right, and the exhausted Cabrera, simply burnt after two months of everyday playing time, squeezed a single under the glove of second baseman Aaron Hill, scoring both runners. Melky, naturally, was thrown out at first after taking a suicidal turn around the bag.
11-11.
...................................
They won. It was Melky, in the 10th, singling in the deciding run, lacing a frozen rope into right, freeing about 35,000 prisoners of loyalty. They beat Josh Towers, the instigator of a bench clearing brawl weeks earlier in Toronto, revenge for the well documented "ha" affair, which had, incidentally, occurred the game after rock bottom. Everything could be connected, but it's impossible to see how all the pieces fit.
It wasn't the win I'll ultimately remember, or even Cabrera, returning to peak form, free from fatigue, riding precious adrenaline for a few hours. Not Alex, who continued proving himself King of New York, or Cano, his breath-taking relay peg from centerfield cutting down Toronto's winning run at the plate in the tenth. No, I'll never forget something tingling down my spine.
The completely ridiculous seventh and eighth innings, unending, had extended the game beyond daylight. When Mariano Rivera entered in the ninth, the sky had darkened dim enough for flashbulbs to pop from every corner of the Stadium.
Where had the sun disappeared?
This feeling captured me for a split instant, totally helpless, yet peaceful all the same. I was passing through the living embodiment of a metaphor, a parable.
The Blue Jays encounter injuries. They find talent within. High hopes for '08.
The Yankees struggle, written off. They recover. Playoffs next week, round one.
It rains. Jose Veras tries to trick John Ford Griffin. A marathon ensues.
Every day is the same. Every day is different. Every day is the same in difference.
Assume nothing.
Expect anything.
Need fresh eyes to see the flashes in night.
There was Carl Pavano, the supposed anchor turned albatross, battling on Opening Day of the 2007 season, searching in vain for a strikeout pitch. He appears out of place in Yankee pinstripes, assuming a secondary skin, awkwardly wrenching arm overhead, seeking the pristine mechanics and precise command that bought him to the doorstep of stardom. Yes, seems too long ago, when Pavano, young, healthy, and fearless, owned the consensus as the top pitcher within 05's hot stove menu. Matt Clement was deemed erratic, Pedro Martinez dubbed weathered. He was the one.
Here, he grinded through four ugly innings, before departing to cheers from optimistic fans. This was supposed to be the first step toward a revival, Pavano rising from the ashes, overcoming the cursed injuries that had derailed his promising prime. He was a fixture on the top step of the Yankee dugout in the days following his first start, coolly clad in a black hooded sweatshirt, talking shop with Andy Pettitte, Mike Mussina, legitimately reaching for camaraderie.
He'd pitch one more game in 2007. It was an appropriate beginning.
Take nothing for granted.
Not even Pavano's single win.
Exit scene.
....................................................
I thought they were finished, late May, after two pathetic losses against Toronto, the team contently passive, absorbing beatings that began feeling inevitable. The Yankees were in full descent, the pitching staff ravaged by injuries, and damaged by Front Office ineptitude, the thoroughly overmatched Kei Igawa routinely blitzed. Indeed, Igawa, eyes shrouded behind shades during Afternoon games, had performed horribly enough to indict the whole organization, executive box to coaching staff.
The defeats became a steady drumbeat. My expectations narrowed. I considered new summer hobbies, but, invariably, always returned for more, cursing the whole way as Bobby Abreu bailed out against lefties, Robinson Cano swung at the first pitch, and Hideki Matsui tapped an endless array of harmless groundballs toward second base.
I consider myself an optimist by nature, but couldn't have been more apathetic at this particular time. Couple weeks earlier, I'd written a bitterly cynical column after a loss at Seattle, cryptically declaring my worry. The past is never at rest, and, after a couple years coping with painful playoff disappointment, I was quick losing patience.
Toronto was the nadir. 21-29. So, it was fitting that the final game on my Saturday ticket package paired the Yanks and Jays, with such a sizable space between then and now. The baseball season is cosmic, organic, it breathes on a karmic level, flowing and connected. This day represented a gaping exhale.
.....................................
The Jays have a bright future, an impressive collection of young pitching scattered in their bullpen and rotation. While the cataclysmic injury to B.J. Ryan, along with setbacks suffered by Lyle Overbay, Troy Glaus, Russ Johnson and Vernon Wells, may have short-circuited any possibility of a playoff run, the organization may benefit long term from the test of it's depth. The loss of Ryan forced the elevation of Jeremy Accardo, and prompted the emergence of Casey Janssen. The Blue Jays bullpen mirrors Seattle's relief corps, before September anyway, when the Mariners could trot out an array of young guns with scintillating strikeout to walk ratios and miniscule earned run averages. But, while the Mariner arms leaked late, the Jay hurlers preserved, featuring such a plethora of talent that Brandon League, kid flamethrower without control, has become an afterthought. If Ryan heals quickly enough, the Jays' pen could be unstoppable in '08. Who wants to face Brian Wolfe, Casey Jannsen, Jeremy Accardo, and Ryan as the innings dwindle, especially with Scott Downs and Brian Tallet in reserve, revitalized by their shift to fulltime relief?
...................................
My brother Greg and I are late arriving to the Stadium, par for the course really. We weren't exactly in a frenzied rush however, especially with heavy rain showering the city. On the way there, I notice a gigantic billboard for Fox's new show, K-Ville, starring the renowned Anthony Anderson and legendary Cole Hauser. In the right spot, of course, these guys effectively exploit their specific talents, Hauser's stone cold stoicism, Anderson's goofy comic shtick, but frankly, I couldn't think of worse roles for either to portray than nose to the grindstone New Orleans cops. Can't see the two having any chemistry, but you never know. After all, I once lumped "House" in with "Skin".
I'm intrigued by this massive piece of advertising, however, hanging over the Cross Bronx. It exposes the transient nature of life. Few month's time, and K-Ville will be gone, painted over, replaced by a new show, new car, something new until it isn't. Meanwhile, my brother and I will continue to drive by, on our way to Yankee games. And that consistency is comforting, part of the reason why we watch sports, afford such attentiveness to statistics, keep track. The human condition includes an inert fascination with consistency, long lasting reliability. Players receive ample plaudits for it. Explains the calendar, New Year's, all the holidays. Reality is so unpredictable. Our lives can be irreparably changed at any time, upheaval at a moment's notice. So we hunt for the steadiness, thirst for it, anticipate Opening Day around the corner, or a Saturday matinee.
Because we never know when it's going to rain.
..........................................
During the delay, Greg and I make the rounds at the familiar establishments, Stan's and the like. A new Yankee era has emerged in recent seasons, grandstands jam packed, attendance tipping the scales at four million. This has altered routines. Now, it's a virtual impossibility to escape the Big Ballpark without encountering a bodily traffic jam flooding the corridors. Try appreciating the extra ten thousand friends on a hot Saturday in May after a disappointing Devil Ray wipeout, arm to sweaty arm in a overcrowded walkway with some slovenly guy muttering that the '85 team got screwed because "they didn't have the wildcard", distinct whiff of barley and hops on his breath.
A great percentage of the chorus jeering A-Rod last season may have rode in on the same bandwagon. Now we all chant MVP, but not everyone feels like a phony for it.
The attendance splurge is in full effect at the watering holes, which are uniformly standing room only. Pinstriped morale is jacked, with good reason. Our guys had rallied from a disastrous start, overcoming both the opposition and themselves. These Yankees look their worst when they overreach, forcing instead of flowing. In that sense, this has truly become Alex Rodriguez's team. I've arrived at a realization, regarding athletic endeavor, an epiphany. In the vein of every artistic pursuit, feats on the field are tapped from the subconscious, the ability to divert focus inward, for the delivery of an expression. Could range from a brush stroke to a sac bunt. Analysis has no place at game time. Proper preparation is a must, but, when the lights are bright, instinct belongs behind the wheel, a difficult task in sports, due to the competition. Old Shakes never had to endure a writing duel. The battle in athletics is to internalize, forcing pressure to become a mere figment of the imagination. I realize now, it's the way I wish I would have played.
.....................................
We escape into the stadium, fleeing from the bar deluge. The game is still delayed by the time we arrive, and the wait continued. At my prodding, we try grabbing seats a few rows up, under cover from the precipitation, but these are filled. We return to the bowels. I sit against filthy wall, eating my breakfast, a soggy Stadium hot dog. Tarp's been on for nearly an hour, without an end in sight.
My back is locking up. I rue my decision not getting wasted. Didn't want to booze so early. It may have made the situation tenable. Instead, I sit cold sober, resembling a bum. I ponder whether to ask a passerby for pocket change, can never have enough. I'm reminded of the homeless guy outside Gate 6 after games, proudly brandishing a sign with the inscription:
Why lie? I need a beer.
One has to appreciate the everlasting ingenuity of honesty. And this thought springs forth another: It wasn't always good at the stadium. Drug dealers used to buy tickets to games, a secure location for sales. Same for the addicts, the empty upper deck a perfect place to shoot up, anonymous. I've been told these tales. They don't seem real. Makes overpopulation seem small.
Finally, the tarp is peeled from the field. The game can begin.
.....................................
Phil Hughes is on the mound for the Yankees, the untouchable one. His velocity sapped by a myriad of leg injuries, Hughes has been left coping with a suspect arsenal, a previously blistering fastball slowed. These difficulties could strengthen his pitching acumen. But for now, the kid struggles in finding the form that had Baseball America anointing him pitching prospect supreme this past winter. But there are flashes. When he perfectly locates a four-seam fastball under a right-hander's thumbs for a strike. Or when his breaking ball snaps instead of floating. When his change-up dives instead of hanging.
It's all in that aforementioned consistency.
He'll find it.
He retires the Jays in the first frame, in order.
.............................................
Shaun Marcum returns serve, setting the Yankees down quietly. Marcum relies on finesse, no doubt helped by the stellar defense of John McDonald at short, absent today. He mixes and matches, owning a solid grasp of pitching stratagem. He's one of the standouts in the Jays' strong front five, a list including the gifted Dustin McGowan, Jon Lieber clone Jesse Litsch, enigmatic A.J. Burnett, and, of course, Doc Halladay.
...........................................
Can always count on oddity outside the Stadium. Have to view each and every day through a fresh set of eyes, the old yard reminds me, recalibrates my filter. The place is a true inspiration, and it's passing, in just a couple years time, is saddening. It's the people. Will they remain? Like the dudes sporting powder blue retro Jay jerseys, old school names like Olerud and Borders stitched across their backs. Or the intoxicated guy cloaked in his country's flag, running around calling himself "Captain Canada". Maybe it was Michael Moore. They save their best for the Bronx.
........................................
We've all seen police procedurals, either on television or at the movies. We recognize the formula, patting ourselves on the back for paying attention. Look, here comes the part where the obvious, number one suspect is revealed innocent. Uh oh, now the alcoholic cop is going to take the case too personally. Wait, wait, we have a new villain emerging... and bam, case closed, good triumphs over evil, roll credits.
Well, with the Yankees, especially this incarnation of the team, I'm able to correlate just the same. After all, they are a long running series, and some episodes are bound to get recycled. So here's the part when they look beaten, the offense stagnant. The starter is rolling along, they've squandered some opportunities, but wait, they have a couple runners on in the sixth, Marcum's long gone, left with an injury, that Blue Jay bullpen suddenly isn't looking quite as deep... and bam, four runs are on the board, the place is going crazy, I high-five some guy after not saying two words to him all game, Enter Sandman, let's have those credits.
Alas, it isn't that simple. Not today. Because, unbeknownst to my brother and I, who have dinner plans with the family to celebrate his birthday, we are about to go for a wacky, infuriating, exhilarating ride, which not only typified the season, but mortified us. Having not eaten since the dog during the delay, I was praying for the game ending with relative ease, eager to down some fajitas at Tequila Sunrise.
But here came Jose Veras to protect the lead, top of the seventh.
................................................
Joba is the man, a second round steal, fell to the Yankees, taken in the same draft as wunderkind Ian Kennedy. He contemplates a hellacious fastball with a devilish slider, sporting the confidence to throw his breaking stuff in any count or situation. He handles the media with ease, displaying a natural charisma that fans feed on, sowing the seeds for a symbiotic relationship. It's those players who become legends, larger than life caricatures.
But he isn't available, not today, insulated by a set of rules to protect his priceless right-arm. When the steadily shrinking market for free agent pitching is considered, the value of a stud on the farm increases seventy-fold. There will be fewer diamond-branded band-aids, Mike Mussina available for the highest bidder. Franchises far and wide are making a concerted effort to lock down their aces, well before they hit the market. Where would the Yankees be without the next ones? Bidding for the services of Kyle Lohse?
So instead of Joba, we are treated with Jose Veras. Veras' violent mechanics echo Armando Benitez, appearing painful, unwieldy. Arm and head jerking, Jose hurls his person into every pitch, both audience and batter pardoned a cringe. His stuff, however, is electric, a final spot on the postseason roster within grip.
He begins by allowing a fluke double to Ray Olmedo. The guy sitting a seat up mutters "Aw, shit", venturing an early diagnosis on the imminent meltdown. Greg tells me not to worry, he'd seen Jose breeze in an earlier appearance, harnessing his filthy stuff. Reed Johnson, campaign long scuttled by back miseries, follows with a walk. I rebut Greg.
" Oh man, it's Jose Veras. Jose Veras."
Snap judgments in the heat of the moment. They contradict my analysis. Which is the true B.S.? Therein lies the question...
After striking out the slumping Matt Stairs, who seems a grizzled veteran since 1998 for some reason [must be the facial hair], Veras hurls a wild pitch that Jorge Posada, never known as an adroit blocker, probably should have salvaged.
Meanwhile, the wave has broken out, oozing through the entire stadium. I curse the gimmick to nobody in particular. Greg and I remain unmoved as it passes through our section, proud curmudgeons, in solidarity with the Bleacher Creatures. I'm left in awe of those captivated by the ability to raise their arms upward. Small wonders. There's that extra one million, weren't around way back when...
Alex Rios strikes out. The wave rolls on. A run scores on a Posada passed ball. The wave refuses to die. John Ford-Griffin, a former Yankee prospect, a casualty of the regrettable Jeff Weaver acquisition, walks, after Veras inexplicably attempted to fool him with a 3-2 curve ball. It was his first AB of the season. The wave is finally dead. If I were drunk, I'd chastise the entire section, the annoying, self-righteous guy nobody wants vindicated. Alas, I'm not, and am left speechless after Hill singles, tilting the contest back toward Toronto. Somewhere, the guy cloaked in the colors of Canada popped open a Molson and checked a disappointed Yankee fan into the boards.
Veras exits the game, to a chorus of indignation. After all, he interrupted the wave, the jerk. This is New York, baby. We're hardcore.
In comes Edwar Ramirez, proud owner of a plus change-up. Ramirez lacks consistent command and control of his fastball, unable to mask his mistakes. He pays, forced to be perfect at the Major League level, after terrorizing the Minors with his phantom change.
Ramirez has struggled of late. Greg chimes in:
" You've been high on this guy, but I just don't see it. He's awful."
Point taken. I plan on returning serve after Ramirez records the final out. He uncorks a wild pitch. Hasn't been Posada's finest defensive exhibition, but the Yankee gas can committee isn't helping matters. Lind singles in Hill. One ugly inning can infect all nine. I never issue a counterpoint in Ramirez's favor. I hope he forgives me, someday. Curtis Thigpen, back-up catcher extraordinaire, who waged a battle of attrition with Phil Hughes back in the fourth, fouling off approximately one hundred pitches before lofting a double to short left, flies out to center to bring a merciful close to the proceedings. ...............................................The masses are obligated to arise for the ceremonial singing of "God Bless America". This is especially fun, after the follies of Veras and Ramirez. I'm still paranoid about the Tigers making a miracle push to pressure the Yankees for the wild card, but that's probably just aftershock from `04. Never take a thing for granted. Not in this life. "God Bless America" reaches crescendo.
We can sit.
........................................
The Blue Jays lead 8-6. I'm aghast at the incompetence displayed by the backend of the Yanks' bullpen, but not the least bit phased. For, Brandon League is on the mound for the visitors, in all his frenzied glory. One could sum up League by simply surveying his mannerisms, eying his body language. He grimaces, scowls, slumps shoulders, pouts, out of sync, behavior matching woeful command.
Giambi, bat lagging, flies out to left after working the count in his favor. Then, League somehow manages to walk the free wheeling Cadillac Cano on four pitches. Doug Mientkiewicz, on fire since improbably reclaiming the first base job, fists a lucky, dying quail of a double down the left field line, a twist of fate unfortunate enough to totally unhinge League, squinting even more intensely toward home-plate before allowing a two RBI single to the glacially cold Melky Cabrera. Proceeding a Derek Jeter groundout, John Gibbons, whose hilarious saunter to the mound harkens an outlaw's gait from Spaghetti Westerns, decides to hook League on a high note, calling on Brian Wolfe, who summarily walks Bobby Abreu, bringing Alex Rodriguez to the plate, ready to absolutely wreck a tie game.
...................................................
I'm a believer in the power of positive vibes. Last year, Alex Rodriguez's struggles in pressure situations became a self-fulfilling prophecy, overblown by the media until they weren't. Alex admittedly piled on the bulk for the '06 season, bat speed suffering in an unforeseen consequence. This in mind, couldn't Alex's ineffectiveness late in games, against hard throwing relief pitchers, be attributed entirely to the added weight, and wouldn't the results of this season, a trimmed down Alex annihilating the ninth inning, essentially delete any argument persecuting him as a player unable to deliver in the clutch?
Either way, his greatness is undeniable.
Now, those who doubted expect him to deliver. Encouraging, instead of badgering. Positive vibes, in full effect, as he socks a single off Wolfe, putting his team back on top.
.........................................
The game had been totally nonsensical, delayed by rain, careening off course, yet I was assured. Sure, Farnsworth was jogging in from the pen, but he could toss a clean inning, deliver the game to Mo, and I could finally chow on some quality Nachos.
I was determined to maintain a level of placidity. So, when Greg murmured, "Oh shit, its Farnsworth," I immediately sought the positive. And here it was: Kyle throws the baseball hard. The soft underbelly of the decimated Blue Jay lineup shouldn't be able to make solid contact against mid-nineties gas. There was my logic. It would be Farnsworth's day.
Olmedo beat an infield hit, after Farnsworth, aptly fielding his position, winged an errant throw through the legs of new first sacker Wilson Betemit. Reed Johnson bled a hard earned walk, staring at four straight pitches. Serenity now. The slumbering Stairs hit a rocket into the glove of Betemit. One out. Surely Farnsworth would benefit from this good fortune, Carpe Diem, Kyle. Rios singles. A run. Greg Zaun singles. Another run. We boo Farnsworth as he takes his leave. Loudly. Enter Chris Britton, prisoner of a wide waistline, which obscures his legitimate talent. He retires the only batter he faces, before Torre, in a bizarre maneuver, summons banished import Kei Igawa. The fans, obviously confused, can only summon a smattering of jeers. He allows another run, why not, but the inning, familiar theme, mercifully ends when Zaun, the speed merchant, is gunned out at home.
All told, the deranged game was reaching near surreal levels. 11-9 Jays, and now it really, really, had to be over.
.........................................
Melky Cabrera at the plate, two outs in the eighth, team trailing by two, two in scoring position. The sun is setting. The game had stretched past reasonable context, spiraling into the unknown, anything possible. It would be a brutal loss, for the fans especially, who'd seen their entire day outside the stadium slip away, with every breaking ball in the dirt, every foul ball, every garbled prod from the overworked P.A. system. The moment was Melky's for the taking, opposing a tiring Wolfe, pitch count soaring, partially due to a protracted, Abreu styled plate appearance by the recklessly impatient Cano, drawing his second consecutive free pass. Up was down, left was right, and the exhausted Cabrera, simply burnt after two months of everyday playing time, squeezed a single under the glove of second baseman Aaron Hill, scoring both runners. Melky, naturally, was thrown out at first after taking a suicidal turn around the bag.
11-11.
...................................
They won. It was Melky, in the 10th, singling in the deciding run, lacing a frozen rope into right, freeing about 35,000 prisoners of loyalty. They beat Josh Towers, the instigator of a bench clearing brawl weeks earlier in Toronto, revenge for the well documented "ha" affair, which had, incidentally, occurred the game after rock bottom. Everything could be connected, but it's impossible to see how all the pieces fit.
It wasn't the win I'll ultimately remember, or even Cabrera, returning to peak form, free from fatigue, riding precious adrenaline for a few hours. Not Alex, who continued proving himself King of New York, or Cano, his breath-taking relay peg from centerfield cutting down Toronto's winning run at the plate in the tenth. No, I'll never forget something tingling down my spine.
The completely ridiculous seventh and eighth innings, unending, had extended the game beyond daylight. When Mariano Rivera entered in the ninth, the sky had darkened dim enough for flashbulbs to pop from every corner of the Stadium.
Where had the sun disappeared?
This feeling captured me for a split instant, totally helpless, yet peaceful all the same. I was passing through the living embodiment of a metaphor, a parable.
The Blue Jays encounter injuries. They find talent within. High hopes for '08.
The Yankees struggle, written off. They recover. Playoffs next week, round one.
It rains. Jose Veras tries to trick John Ford Griffin. A marathon ensues.
Every day is the same. Every day is different. Every day is the same in difference.
Assume nothing.
Expect anything.
Need fresh eyes to see the flashes in night.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Fastball
A Short Story
The sun sprayed vibrant beams off Monty’s shades and he smiled, tapping the bat lightly against his cleats. He briefly surveyed his surroundings, knowing any minor lapse in concentration was well worth the beautiful view. The crowd at Yankee Stadium was monumental, three decks deep, a summer splashed collage of sweat and vigor, humming with anticipation.
He thought, sighing with peaceful resignation, that there was no place in civilization he’d rather be. He was a happily hopeless addict, forever in search of a satiating 2-0 fastball, and society appeased him, with the power and glory, with the money and fame, with the booze and broads. All of it was his, all of it was now, and all of it could be gone in an instant.
Stepping back into the batter’s box, his safe place, Monty offered a cursory glance toward his eternal bane, the pitcher. Max Rutherford, a tall and lanky lefthander, shot back a stare of disdain. Monty felt a delicate strand of hatred pulsating between them, for reasons unbeknownst within his shallow consciousness. He quickly scanned his baseball memory bank, an encyclopedic rolodex of people, places, and parties, and found nothing of relevant relation to Max. Max Rutherford… just another name Monty would never remember… Came up in ‘98 with Boston, a big time prospect, and flamed out, ruined his arm. Fought back with the Pirates and won 15 games, signed a decent contract with the Mets. Pitched his way out of New York and bounced around, with contenders and pretenders, more bad than good. Finally landed in Baseball purgatory, trapped in that ugly Devil Ray uniform. Presently in control of this game, spinning a real gem.
Monty locked into his stylish batting stance, twirling the bat above his head, and waited.
Max clawed at the rosin bag, attempting to regain the grip that had long evaporated from his fingertips. Dropping the chalky artifice onto the mound, he reflected on all that hadn’t been.
Adjusting his cap, he climbed back on top of the mound, king of the hill, ruler of nothing. He noticed Monty McKnight, the opposing hitter, searching around the stadium, his attention amiss from the game. It infuriated Max. Monty, contorting the event to fit his self-righteous presence, finally readied himself with that oh-so arrogant batting stance. It was a pall in the eyes of Max. Old man McKnight had made a career of overrating his transient value to the game, and would presumably be gone sooner than he thought. Max could remember it like yesterday, back when Monty was a superstar, back when he was untouchable. Was it all so long ago? Max had been ordered by his pitching coach to unleash fastballs on Monty, his bat speed deteriorated by time. He was batting eighth in the lineup, a cruel joke, retirement the punch line. Max thought his pitching coach was a real prick, and gloried in proving him wrong, so he flung a breaking ball on the first pitch, which McKnight promptly drilled foul into the upper deck. It was probably his best contact in months. Ahead in the count 0-1, Max agreed with his catcher, Bishop, that a fastball was in order. Max shook his head, up and down, left and right, in mock conversation, before freezing his glove in the set position.
Monty gripped his wooden instrument, tightly, knowing a fastball was coming. He had been beat on fastballs all season, fouling them back, popping them up, often flat out missing, and was sick of it. The damn newspapers were calling him over the hill, past his prime, printed daggers deeming his future as a big leaguer completely and utterly futile.
They couldn’t take this from him. Not the media, not his manager, not that kid breathing down his neck in AAA… nobody could take his love.
It was just a mechanical flaw, a little hitch he picked up on that pointless tour of Japan back in December. It was all so simple.
Dropping his hands…
He was dropping his hands.
That was it. That was all.
He had spent his time in the cages, he had put in the extra work, and now
Monty was ready, ready for his reward, ready for all that had been taken away to be given back, all that was his.
He’s the centerfielder for the New York Yankees. Of course it’ll come back.
And today was the day. Against Max Rutherford and his puny 86 MPH fastball, against Max Rutherford and his cement mixing Curveball.
It mattered little that Max was a lefthander. Monty had always hit his brethren in the past. He owned them.
Shoulder in.
Hands high.
Bottom four.
No score.
It all comes back today.
Here comes the fastball.
Even after a fresh ball was tossed in his glove, blemish free, Max remained in a state of shock. Monty had been gifted a mistake, a two seam piece of junk tailing back over the plate, and was late to his own party.
He hit a harmless foul, a line drive into the third base stands that disappeared down the corridors of Gate C, two Afternoon drunks in pursuit.
Max had made consecutive deliveries equal only in awfulness. He squinted into his dugout, where his manager rocked back and forth uncomfortably. The coaching staff had little trust in him, often ending his outings at the first sign of trouble. Max had been labeled gutless, a man unable to cope with pressure, after his tortuous tenure as a Met.
The booing, the defeat, the entire failed experience with the Mets, it washed over him, a momentary wave of tumult.
As he stared in for his next sign, anticipating a waste curve in the dirt or a fastball high and outside, Max drowned back into that time and place.
And he could no longer breathe.
Max had destroyed his rotator cuff with Boston, and the depression, the drinking, the misery that buoyed his rehabilitation, decimated his marriage.
He always thought of Nicole, back when waking in the morning only solidified his solidarity. He used to be able to spot her, her beautiful face, outshining the masses at Fenway, and he would point, not because he saw her, but because she saw him back.
What a hotshot. He still wanted her love, after all his mistakes, but she no longer wanted him. There was a time in Pittsburgh, after his tenth win in a row, when he pulled over to the side of a road and wept, unable to find a payphone, unable to call her, unable to share his happiness.
So instead, his joy backfired, burnt inside of him, a bitter pill.
He drank and he drank and he drank, until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Any tangible feeling, any anger, any happiness, it all reverted to Nicole, to his mistakes in Boston, and he wanted to turn numb, become a breathing void.
He could never explain Pittsburgh, how he found it again, but without Nicole, it didn’t feel like achievement at all. Only the failure felt real.
He signed with the Mets, increased his bankroll.
He started over again with a new girl named Savannah, and she saved his life, opened his emotion again.
The pain rose off him, exorcised.
The future was a clean slate.
And than his dad fell ill, didn’t make sense anymore, talking gibberish.
Savannah carried him through, a radiant beacon. His pitching fell apart, but Max didn’t care anymore. The drive, the desire, it was all gone. Every night, when the Mets were home, he visited room 157 at New York Presbyterian. There he would sit, searching for vitality in his dad’s eyes.
Highlights would flash from the T.V. in 157, showing New York Met Max Rutherford, getting beaten, battered, and booed.
His dad would always watch, never wanted to change the channel. Later, Max realized they were both probably searching for the same thing.
“Who’s this bum David? Getting hit all over the place? Who is he?” John Rutherford would ask his son this question, over and over again.
“That’s me Dad. It’s me. It’s Max. Your son… Not David… Max.”
He found the drive again, after the funeral, after discovering closure.
His love secure, the game could be everything again.
But the stuff was gone. Somewhere in the suffering, velocity had become a memory.
Through it all, through four teams post New York, not a drink since Savannah.
They said Max Rutherford wasn’t tough enough to pitch in New York.
They never knew.
As the 0-2 fastball fluttered high and outside, Monty remained in a vain malaise.
He was officially worried.
Worried that he was done, worried that his time was up.
And who was Monty McKnight without Baseball anyway? He’d been through three divorces trying to figure it out.
They all follow the flame of fame, but once they stay the night, once reality dampens perception, they leave, every last one of them. And Monty was terrified of being alone. Completely petrified that there wouldn’t be a sensible mind left to offend with his arrogance, nary a soul to awe with his talent or impress with his affluence. Nobody would be in sight, without his one true love.
Baseball…
How did he miss that pitch? That was his pitch.
His.
He nervously stepped out of the box, Max taking too long preparing his next delivery, his method to end this misery.
Monty tapped his spikes, adjusted his shades, once again observed Max.
If the past were irrelevant, Monty could seek but fail to find a discernable difference between them.
They were both simply daring fate, testing time.
Here is a man with a .239 batting average. Here is a man with a 5.30 ERA. Monty would live and die by the next pitch. It was his expectation that Max would do the same.
Thinking happier thoughts, Max decided to disagree with the kid Bishop and throw a curve. Bishop put up a decent argument, long enough for Monty to step out, but finally relented, waggling two fingers. Why not? Max had been locating the curve on a somewhat consistent basis, his fastball stunk, and the reverse of anything that brainless pitching coach said was invariably true. It was Max’s game.
So he wound up, a curveball grip hidden securely behind his glove.
Monty readied for another fastball, preparing for one final embarrassment before he called the GM and expressed what everybody else believed.
He would tell him it was done, over with. He would ask for a Front Office job. He would get it. He would be empty.
Final judgment spun from the fingertips of Max, and immediately Monty was surprised. The seams rotated. The ball was elevated. Max bit his tongue on the follow through. Curveball. The son of a bitch threw a curveball. Monty kept his hands back, until the last possible moment, before violently snapping his wrists. His bat obliterated the helplessly hanging sphere, now ticketed toward the Right Field Upper Deck. Monty dropped the bat, effortlessly, it now weighed nothing. He momentarily admired the shot.
He had done it many times before. But this was salvation.
He rounded the bases, hiding his glee behind forced stoicism. He slapped an unnecessary high five with his third base coach. He practically slammed his foot on home plate, defiant. The crowd exploded, a delirious cauldron of sound and fury, signifying everything. Monty basked. He needed the moment. He needed Baseball. It was only a matter of time.
He knew.
A matter of time.
That’s why he took the curtain call.
Max figured correctly, when it was all over, that McKnight’s home run was the game’s turning point. He was unable to survive the inning.
His manager would trot out toward the mound and would ask for the ball. Max would hand it over. His exit would be barely acknowledged by the fans, their eyes busied by a Dancing Hot Dog on Diamond Vision.
As Max left his final big league game, sighing with peaceful resignation, he would search Yankee Stadium, smiling upon the discovery of all that he was looking for.
And Savannah would see him, and smile back.
The sun sprayed vibrant beams off Monty’s shades and he smiled, tapping the bat lightly against his cleats. He briefly surveyed his surroundings, knowing any minor lapse in concentration was well worth the beautiful view. The crowd at Yankee Stadium was monumental, three decks deep, a summer splashed collage of sweat and vigor, humming with anticipation.
He thought, sighing with peaceful resignation, that there was no place in civilization he’d rather be. He was a happily hopeless addict, forever in search of a satiating 2-0 fastball, and society appeased him, with the power and glory, with the money and fame, with the booze and broads. All of it was his, all of it was now, and all of it could be gone in an instant.
Stepping back into the batter’s box, his safe place, Monty offered a cursory glance toward his eternal bane, the pitcher. Max Rutherford, a tall and lanky lefthander, shot back a stare of disdain. Monty felt a delicate strand of hatred pulsating between them, for reasons unbeknownst within his shallow consciousness. He quickly scanned his baseball memory bank, an encyclopedic rolodex of people, places, and parties, and found nothing of relevant relation to Max. Max Rutherford… just another name Monty would never remember… Came up in ‘98 with Boston, a big time prospect, and flamed out, ruined his arm. Fought back with the Pirates and won 15 games, signed a decent contract with the Mets. Pitched his way out of New York and bounced around, with contenders and pretenders, more bad than good. Finally landed in Baseball purgatory, trapped in that ugly Devil Ray uniform. Presently in control of this game, spinning a real gem.
Monty locked into his stylish batting stance, twirling the bat above his head, and waited.
Max clawed at the rosin bag, attempting to regain the grip that had long evaporated from his fingertips. Dropping the chalky artifice onto the mound, he reflected on all that hadn’t been.
Adjusting his cap, he climbed back on top of the mound, king of the hill, ruler of nothing. He noticed Monty McKnight, the opposing hitter, searching around the stadium, his attention amiss from the game. It infuriated Max. Monty, contorting the event to fit his self-righteous presence, finally readied himself with that oh-so arrogant batting stance. It was a pall in the eyes of Max. Old man McKnight had made a career of overrating his transient value to the game, and would presumably be gone sooner than he thought. Max could remember it like yesterday, back when Monty was a superstar, back when he was untouchable. Was it all so long ago? Max had been ordered by his pitching coach to unleash fastballs on Monty, his bat speed deteriorated by time. He was batting eighth in the lineup, a cruel joke, retirement the punch line. Max thought his pitching coach was a real prick, and gloried in proving him wrong, so he flung a breaking ball on the first pitch, which McKnight promptly drilled foul into the upper deck. It was probably his best contact in months. Ahead in the count 0-1, Max agreed with his catcher, Bishop, that a fastball was in order. Max shook his head, up and down, left and right, in mock conversation, before freezing his glove in the set position.
Monty gripped his wooden instrument, tightly, knowing a fastball was coming. He had been beat on fastballs all season, fouling them back, popping them up, often flat out missing, and was sick of it. The damn newspapers were calling him over the hill, past his prime, printed daggers deeming his future as a big leaguer completely and utterly futile.
They couldn’t take this from him. Not the media, not his manager, not that kid breathing down his neck in AAA… nobody could take his love.
It was just a mechanical flaw, a little hitch he picked up on that pointless tour of Japan back in December. It was all so simple.
Dropping his hands…
He was dropping his hands.
That was it. That was all.
He had spent his time in the cages, he had put in the extra work, and now
Monty was ready, ready for his reward, ready for all that had been taken away to be given back, all that was his.
He’s the centerfielder for the New York Yankees. Of course it’ll come back.
And today was the day. Against Max Rutherford and his puny 86 MPH fastball, against Max Rutherford and his cement mixing Curveball.
It mattered little that Max was a lefthander. Monty had always hit his brethren in the past. He owned them.
Shoulder in.
Hands high.
Bottom four.
No score.
It all comes back today.
Here comes the fastball.
Even after a fresh ball was tossed in his glove, blemish free, Max remained in a state of shock. Monty had been gifted a mistake, a two seam piece of junk tailing back over the plate, and was late to his own party.
He hit a harmless foul, a line drive into the third base stands that disappeared down the corridors of Gate C, two Afternoon drunks in pursuit.
Max had made consecutive deliveries equal only in awfulness. He squinted into his dugout, where his manager rocked back and forth uncomfortably. The coaching staff had little trust in him, often ending his outings at the first sign of trouble. Max had been labeled gutless, a man unable to cope with pressure, after his tortuous tenure as a Met.
The booing, the defeat, the entire failed experience with the Mets, it washed over him, a momentary wave of tumult.
As he stared in for his next sign, anticipating a waste curve in the dirt or a fastball high and outside, Max drowned back into that time and place.
And he could no longer breathe.
Max had destroyed his rotator cuff with Boston, and the depression, the drinking, the misery that buoyed his rehabilitation, decimated his marriage.
He always thought of Nicole, back when waking in the morning only solidified his solidarity. He used to be able to spot her, her beautiful face, outshining the masses at Fenway, and he would point, not because he saw her, but because she saw him back.
What a hotshot. He still wanted her love, after all his mistakes, but she no longer wanted him. There was a time in Pittsburgh, after his tenth win in a row, when he pulled over to the side of a road and wept, unable to find a payphone, unable to call her, unable to share his happiness.
So instead, his joy backfired, burnt inside of him, a bitter pill.
He drank and he drank and he drank, until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Any tangible feeling, any anger, any happiness, it all reverted to Nicole, to his mistakes in Boston, and he wanted to turn numb, become a breathing void.
He could never explain Pittsburgh, how he found it again, but without Nicole, it didn’t feel like achievement at all. Only the failure felt real.
He signed with the Mets, increased his bankroll.
He started over again with a new girl named Savannah, and she saved his life, opened his emotion again.
The pain rose off him, exorcised.
The future was a clean slate.
And than his dad fell ill, didn’t make sense anymore, talking gibberish.
Savannah carried him through, a radiant beacon. His pitching fell apart, but Max didn’t care anymore. The drive, the desire, it was all gone. Every night, when the Mets were home, he visited room 157 at New York Presbyterian. There he would sit, searching for vitality in his dad’s eyes.
Highlights would flash from the T.V. in 157, showing New York Met Max Rutherford, getting beaten, battered, and booed.
His dad would always watch, never wanted to change the channel. Later, Max realized they were both probably searching for the same thing.
“Who’s this bum David? Getting hit all over the place? Who is he?” John Rutherford would ask his son this question, over and over again.
“That’s me Dad. It’s me. It’s Max. Your son… Not David… Max.”
He found the drive again, after the funeral, after discovering closure.
His love secure, the game could be everything again.
But the stuff was gone. Somewhere in the suffering, velocity had become a memory.
Through it all, through four teams post New York, not a drink since Savannah.
They said Max Rutherford wasn’t tough enough to pitch in New York.
They never knew.
As the 0-2 fastball fluttered high and outside, Monty remained in a vain malaise.
He was officially worried.
Worried that he was done, worried that his time was up.
And who was Monty McKnight without Baseball anyway? He’d been through three divorces trying to figure it out.
They all follow the flame of fame, but once they stay the night, once reality dampens perception, they leave, every last one of them. And Monty was terrified of being alone. Completely petrified that there wouldn’t be a sensible mind left to offend with his arrogance, nary a soul to awe with his talent or impress with his affluence. Nobody would be in sight, without his one true love.
Baseball…
How did he miss that pitch? That was his pitch.
His.
He nervously stepped out of the box, Max taking too long preparing his next delivery, his method to end this misery.
Monty tapped his spikes, adjusted his shades, once again observed Max.
If the past were irrelevant, Monty could seek but fail to find a discernable difference between them.
They were both simply daring fate, testing time.
Here is a man with a .239 batting average. Here is a man with a 5.30 ERA. Monty would live and die by the next pitch. It was his expectation that Max would do the same.
Thinking happier thoughts, Max decided to disagree with the kid Bishop and throw a curve. Bishop put up a decent argument, long enough for Monty to step out, but finally relented, waggling two fingers. Why not? Max had been locating the curve on a somewhat consistent basis, his fastball stunk, and the reverse of anything that brainless pitching coach said was invariably true. It was Max’s game.
So he wound up, a curveball grip hidden securely behind his glove.
Monty readied for another fastball, preparing for one final embarrassment before he called the GM and expressed what everybody else believed.
He would tell him it was done, over with. He would ask for a Front Office job. He would get it. He would be empty.
Final judgment spun from the fingertips of Max, and immediately Monty was surprised. The seams rotated. The ball was elevated. Max bit his tongue on the follow through. Curveball. The son of a bitch threw a curveball. Monty kept his hands back, until the last possible moment, before violently snapping his wrists. His bat obliterated the helplessly hanging sphere, now ticketed toward the Right Field Upper Deck. Monty dropped the bat, effortlessly, it now weighed nothing. He momentarily admired the shot.
He had done it many times before. But this was salvation.
He rounded the bases, hiding his glee behind forced stoicism. He slapped an unnecessary high five with his third base coach. He practically slammed his foot on home plate, defiant. The crowd exploded, a delirious cauldron of sound and fury, signifying everything. Monty basked. He needed the moment. He needed Baseball. It was only a matter of time.
He knew.
A matter of time.
That’s why he took the curtain call.
Max figured correctly, when it was all over, that McKnight’s home run was the game’s turning point. He was unable to survive the inning.
His manager would trot out toward the mound and would ask for the ball. Max would hand it over. His exit would be barely acknowledged by the fans, their eyes busied by a Dancing Hot Dog on Diamond Vision.
As Max left his final big league game, sighing with peaceful resignation, he would search Yankee Stadium, smiling upon the discovery of all that he was looking for.
And Savannah would see him, and smile back.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
All in the Game
I say this. You just can’t leave the Hall of Fame to people. It isn’t reasonable. How are you going to ask people, I mean, people for Christ sakes, to judge the merits of their peers? Are you kidding me?
People fail at judgment. There’s this great word floating around Webster’s defined as hypocrisy, a label that at least 97 percent of the population falls under. To be a hypocrite is a great and noble thing, because you fit in. I’d be a liar if I didn’t cop to my own hypocrisy at times. How are we supposed to judge a person’s career properly if we fail in even judging ourselves?
/
You know something? I empathize with the writer who submitted an empty ballot in last year’s election. Sure, it’s a scummy move that cheapened the supposedly sacred voting process in the name of publicity, but he really had the right idea. Why should sportswriters be allowed to decide something so utterly important? There are fantastic sports scribes out there, without a doubt. But, for every open minded, hard working, earnest caretaker of the game, there are the shameless, the self-promoting and hypocritical, the irrational and inflexible. Just like people, just like life.
Honestly, how is Goose Gossage not a Hall of Famer? I mean, is there a valid, concrete reason for the decisions of these voters?
Or do we just get spineless rhetoric, empty, yet emphatic sentiment, questioning the “dominance” of a particular player? Joe Sportswriter opines that Jack Morris wasn’t the “dominating” pitcher of the era. When a sportswriter ponders the “dominance” of a player, all they are admitting is that this player, for whatever reason, didn’t appeal to their tastes, didn’t forcefully forge a conclave in their memory, solely a manner of opinion. Perception isn’t reality, yet the two are constantly mistaken.
/
Bert Blyleven isn’t in the Hall because some random guy 20 years ago decided he was good, just not great. Who was the guy?
No one knows.
But one thing is for sure. Whatever guy it was that started such a completely unfounded, untrue idea, must have been pretty influential, because his blueprint is still being followed to this day.
See, there are no plausible, sensible reasons.
This can apply to the positively wacky Hall of Fame voting, where Dante Bichette can grab a couple of votes purely for giggles, or any other affair in this wide world we live in.
There will always be a segment of the population that follows the crowd. Never mind if the herd is wading slowly into a bottomless lagoon labeled ignorance, if there exists enough, than they will be followed, no questions asked.
/
Should steroid guys be elected into the Hall of Fame?
What about relievers, becoming more and more valuable by the season, and whose merits need to be acknowledged?
These are complicated queries that our future voters just will not be able to analyze with an even hand.
Mass stupidity will surely ensue.
To wit:
A slugger will get elected to the Hall of Fame, on the basis of a spotless record entwined with strong statistics.
15 years later, one random night on an empty country road, his car will be pulled over by the local police department, after weaving erratically all over the road.
The cops will investigate his car, only after he pukes all over them of course, and discover steroid vials in his trunk, right next to his Hall of Fame plaque and an empty bag of Doritos.
Only one thing can be certain: the fallout will be mind numbingly stupid.
Talk radio callers will vent, the invention of the Internet continuing to allude them. They will demand the slugger’s name and accomplishments repealed from the Hall of Fame. They will wallow in the tragedy of lost greatness. They will bemoan their kids, who have nobody to look up to anymore, not like they did, when President Rodriguez broke the home run record clean and was a role model to the youth all across America.
Confusion will reign.
When the dust settles, and the slugger is removed from Cooperstown, quoted in a Sports Illustrated column that he doesn’t really give a damn about the fans and “I’ll still be eating a steak dinner tonight”, nobody will learn anything.
There will still be glass heroes, paper villains, and empty morals to uphold.
My question is: why bother with all the nonsense?
Turn that beautiful building in Cooperstown into a museum.
Put an end to the hypocrisy entrenched in the voting process, and the paradoxes it produces, where Ty Cobb is a Hall of Fame person and player, and Mark McGwire is not.
Acknowledge Baseball’s entire history, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
We need to stop pretending. We need to embrace reality, and learn from our mistakes, instead of masking them with simplicity.
Life is complicated. People do wrong, sometimes. These errors shouldn’t be in vain.
The Hall should proudly exhibit Baseball’s best drunks, juicers, and amphetamine users.
/
Have a plaque of Raffy Palmeiro, pointing his finger in defiance.
Have a plaque of Barry Bonds, with an enlarged dome.
Tell a story, not a fairy tale.
/
The Hall of Fame is a great idea.
Allowing the “experts” to vote players into it is a great idea.
Safeguarding the game’s legacy from the ugliness imparted by steroids is a great idea.
But in life, there are ideas, and there is reality… and both are kind of messed up sometimes.
Live and learn.
People fail at judgment. There’s this great word floating around Webster’s defined as hypocrisy, a label that at least 97 percent of the population falls under. To be a hypocrite is a great and noble thing, because you fit in. I’d be a liar if I didn’t cop to my own hypocrisy at times. How are we supposed to judge a person’s career properly if we fail in even judging ourselves?
/
You know something? I empathize with the writer who submitted an empty ballot in last year’s election. Sure, it’s a scummy move that cheapened the supposedly sacred voting process in the name of publicity, but he really had the right idea. Why should sportswriters be allowed to decide something so utterly important? There are fantastic sports scribes out there, without a doubt. But, for every open minded, hard working, earnest caretaker of the game, there are the shameless, the self-promoting and hypocritical, the irrational and inflexible. Just like people, just like life.
Honestly, how is Goose Gossage not a Hall of Famer? I mean, is there a valid, concrete reason for the decisions of these voters?
Or do we just get spineless rhetoric, empty, yet emphatic sentiment, questioning the “dominance” of a particular player? Joe Sportswriter opines that Jack Morris wasn’t the “dominating” pitcher of the era. When a sportswriter ponders the “dominance” of a player, all they are admitting is that this player, for whatever reason, didn’t appeal to their tastes, didn’t forcefully forge a conclave in their memory, solely a manner of opinion. Perception isn’t reality, yet the two are constantly mistaken.
/
Bert Blyleven isn’t in the Hall because some random guy 20 years ago decided he was good, just not great. Who was the guy?
No one knows.
But one thing is for sure. Whatever guy it was that started such a completely unfounded, untrue idea, must have been pretty influential, because his blueprint is still being followed to this day.
See, there are no plausible, sensible reasons.
This can apply to the positively wacky Hall of Fame voting, where Dante Bichette can grab a couple of votes purely for giggles, or any other affair in this wide world we live in.
There will always be a segment of the population that follows the crowd. Never mind if the herd is wading slowly into a bottomless lagoon labeled ignorance, if there exists enough, than they will be followed, no questions asked.
/
Should steroid guys be elected into the Hall of Fame?
What about relievers, becoming more and more valuable by the season, and whose merits need to be acknowledged?
These are complicated queries that our future voters just will not be able to analyze with an even hand.
Mass stupidity will surely ensue.
To wit:
A slugger will get elected to the Hall of Fame, on the basis of a spotless record entwined with strong statistics.
15 years later, one random night on an empty country road, his car will be pulled over by the local police department, after weaving erratically all over the road.
The cops will investigate his car, only after he pukes all over them of course, and discover steroid vials in his trunk, right next to his Hall of Fame plaque and an empty bag of Doritos.
Only one thing can be certain: the fallout will be mind numbingly stupid.
Talk radio callers will vent, the invention of the Internet continuing to allude them. They will demand the slugger’s name and accomplishments repealed from the Hall of Fame. They will wallow in the tragedy of lost greatness. They will bemoan their kids, who have nobody to look up to anymore, not like they did, when President Rodriguez broke the home run record clean and was a role model to the youth all across America.
Confusion will reign.
When the dust settles, and the slugger is removed from Cooperstown, quoted in a Sports Illustrated column that he doesn’t really give a damn about the fans and “I’ll still be eating a steak dinner tonight”, nobody will learn anything.
There will still be glass heroes, paper villains, and empty morals to uphold.
My question is: why bother with all the nonsense?
Turn that beautiful building in Cooperstown into a museum.
Put an end to the hypocrisy entrenched in the voting process, and the paradoxes it produces, where Ty Cobb is a Hall of Fame person and player, and Mark McGwire is not.
Acknowledge Baseball’s entire history, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
We need to stop pretending. We need to embrace reality, and learn from our mistakes, instead of masking them with simplicity.
Life is complicated. People do wrong, sometimes. These errors shouldn’t be in vain.
The Hall should proudly exhibit Baseball’s best drunks, juicers, and amphetamine users.
/
Have a plaque of Raffy Palmeiro, pointing his finger in defiance.
Have a plaque of Barry Bonds, with an enlarged dome.
Tell a story, not a fairy tale.
/
The Hall of Fame is a great idea.
Allowing the “experts” to vote players into it is a great idea.
Safeguarding the game’s legacy from the ugliness imparted by steroids is a great idea.
But in life, there are ideas, and there is reality… and both are kind of messed up sometimes.
Live and learn.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Fear and Loathing at Yankee Stadium
May 21 st, 2007
The Stadium is teetering, Mo's bridge burning down, Torre's magic touch dissolving. The boss blusters, Abreu is flustered... too many problems need solving. And while chaos ensued, and the denizens booed, there wasn't a game left to save. We are left with the ghost of memory, and whoever else decides to stay.
And I wonder:
What's the point of worrying again?
................
My brother and I sit upper deck, for the first of three games against the loathsome, despised, damn good Red Sox. They stand, in first place by 10 ½ games, without readily recognizable contributions from imports J.D. Drew and Julio Lugo, or Mr. Mercurial himself, Manny Ramirez. You had to give them credit, the jerks.
Josh Beckett rediscovered the precise location that had abandoned his curveball. Previously maligned General Manager Theo Epstein outplayed professional nemesis Brian Cashman in his acquisition of Daisuke Matsuzaka, wagering that an insane posting fee would be balanced by a bargain basement contractual agreement, staring down avenging agent Scott Boras in the process. Hideki Okajima, an unheralded Japanese reliever, has been lights out his first trip around the American League, which isn't entirely surprising, considering his beyond funky delivery.
Over a year ago, impossible as it is for me to believe, I composed my favorite column, entitled "Until the End of Time." The article interprets my experience at an early season Yankee-Red Sox contest, and all its accompanied trappings: the nauseating hype proliferated by deranged media entities such as ESPN, hostilities between different factions of fan, coordinated attacks involving flying beer, the basic experience was all there.
That is a documented day in my life, May 10th, 2006.
Flash forward.
May 21st, 2007.
What changed?
.............
I've been here before. Ever faithful familiarity is always calling us back, Bob Shepard beckoning, along with stale beer and a dull sense of tradition. I count on the wearied expression overcoming underpaid vendors by the middle innings, the overzealous security guards, intoxicated with power, shoving offending members of the audience, drunk on something else entirely, down tunnels and out of sight; the roll call from bleacher creatures, the light din following first pitch, time to settle in for a long night.............
Circumstance dictates situation. Alarm is peak priority, our team skidding, a disturbing malaise feeding mediocrity.
After salvaging a small slice of the Subway, we were praying for a positive carry over. The Ace took the hill, Chien-Ming Wang, opposing knuckleball specialist Tim Wakefield.
..........
Whack seats. We're jammed, within the middle of packed section, miles from home plate, elevated in the atmosphere.
My bro and I share a disgusting cough, gained during an ill-fated late night barbecue doubling as a birthday celebration for one of his friends. I got drunk on a powerful combination: homemade margaritas and straight shots of cheap tequila.
The fallout was severe. The treacherous cough struck us both 24 hours later, and hadn't departed by game time. There we were, locked in for a nine-inning Yankee-Red Sox throw down, intermittently expunging harrowing gasps and wadded saliva. Our exploits would have received ample attention if not for two reasons:
1. This was Yankee Stadium, and dry heaving hardly counts as an occurrence worthy of disdainful recognition, except, perhaps, for appalled tourists or frightened Long Islanders.
2. Nefarious lynch pins had already been revealed, a disheartening twist of events that enraged my entire section. Looking back, they probably didn't need the prompt, though, at the time, it was shocking to see two Red Sox fans, seated three or four rows away at best, preening and taunting with unmistakable glee in this, just the first inning. Usually the lynch pins, code for an individual or tag team duo who readily incite ill tempered hometown fans, wait at least an hour to work their magic, at the height of inebriation. But here were Lloyd and Harry, Dumb and Dumber without a doubt, doing a worthy imitation of early 90's Wrestling heels. All that was missing was their manager, Mr. Fuji.
So, as Greg and I exchanged cough drops, at a baseball game for Christ's
Sake, Wang started encouragingly enough, escaping the first without allowing a run.
............
The sun set, blazing a sky picturesque, hovering over the anxious souls of 50,000 plus.
The lynch pins are at the top of their game as Alex Rodriguez ambled to the plate, runner on second.
" Oh, A-Rod!" one of them crowed, sounding genuinely feminine. Heckling is a strange enterprise. In the testosterone fueled world of sports, here is an endeavor where it's considered noble to sound extremely gay, so long the activity is undertaken to insult an opposing team's players or fans. At a Subway Series game I happened to attend years ago, two fat, drunken Yankee devotees acted out dialogue between
Mike Piazza and Edgardo Alfonzo that didn't exactly earn points for subtly. You figure it out.
The second cog in the tag team, dubbed Sully and Sully by some wit one seat up, followed his friends' ill fated lead, turning his back on the field to verbally spar with anyone willing.
The opening inning blitz left us truly stumped. Sure, a few people issued late return fire, class one f-you rockets, but the moment had passed. The
Sullies had one over on us... or did they?
A-Rod demolished a hopelessly hanging Wakefield floater, and the Yanks suddenly took control, 2-0.
...................
The counter assault was vicious. Our new friends from Boston were roundly lampooned, well after Alex had finished cruising the base paths.
Aye, revenge is a dish best served with cold cuts.
And yet... something was off.
I realized. The crowd was caught in a chant:
" Red Sox suck! Red Sox suck!"
It was venomous, tribal and theatrical at the same time. The change amazed me. It used to be that we were a constant in Boston's consciousness, lurking, haunting. We were the dream destroyers, the bad guys worthy of Tony Montana's vision, taking what was wanted, at the cost of anyone foolish enough to pose opposition.
They fought and fell, a parade of Indians and Mariners, Braves and Mets, until the ultimate triumph in 2003, against the nemesis, our superiority a supposed eternal lock.
We used to have an unshakeable confidence, the power of Yankee
Stadium nearly a reckoning force in the 2001 World Series.
Things change. Vibrant leaves crumble into dust, as do empires.
2004 shouldn't have robbed Yankee fans of class, if they ever had any, or arrogance, if they happened to even misplace it. The team's weaknesses festered at the worst possible time, nary a break was found, and a better team rightfully won.
So why this twisted bitterness? This endless ocean of success hasn't endowed faith, hardly. It has emboldened the spoiled, legitimized the desperate, and burdened the rational.
Go ahead true fans… boo Mariano Rivera in April, Derek Jeter in May,
Jason Giambi in October, and Alex Rodriguez all the damn time.
I surveyed my surroundings, the two Sullies, still talking smack, their voices nullified by a wall of sound and fury, and realized, Yankee fans and
Red Sox fans never hated each other for their difference, it was for the similarity, when they saw themselves in each other.
When they had to boo.
..........
Wang wasn't up to his usual tricks, unmercifully pouring a ceaseless barrage of scintillating sinkers against frustrated hitters unable to solidly connect. He was mixing in sliders and change-ups, an artist dabbling in foreign palettes.
His performance turned Picasso, Wang running a maddeningly high pitch count, maintaining a semblance of effectiveness. He'd been gifted a four run lead, after Jason Giambi's bomb into the right field upper deck. I could see the sphere, careening peacefully on course, descending into a mess of sweaty palms.
The Sully aimed abuse was unrelenting.
Some kid, of similar age to mine, wouldn't quit.
" Hey buddy", he incessantly chirped, " Hey buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Sully buddy, look at me, look at me... look over here man!"
Sully # 1, face ashen, appearing defeated, finally stared up.
The kid cleared his throat. I readied for a well thought out, impassioned put down, worthy enough to put the Sully situation to rest, for good.
"F*ck Boston!"
And our section cheered, even joined in.
On it went, as I sunk into my seat, trying to focus on the game.
.........
Somewhere around the seventh, as the Yankees seized the evening, those seeking perverse entertainment had ample avenues opened for amusement.
There was the insanely drunk chick, alone in her intoxication, but determined, nonetheless, to present a stand-alone show worthy of ticket admission.
As Wang danced around the Boston nine, she paraded on the concourses, shaking her assets in a vain attention grab.
It worked, of course, and the band played on.
.............
Meanwhile, fight night had unexpectedly broken out. The under-card boasted a battle between Sox fan and Yankee fan, smack in the middle of a crowded aisle. The Sox fan, a southpaw, sneaked in an excellent jab, which may have earned him a win on the scorecards, but led to his free fall from Row J to C. The Yankee fan, clearly stunned, sought retribution against, well, anyone really, and clocked the nearest partisan in range. A legitimate pier six broke out, yet fight fans had their attention immediately diverted to another impassioned scrum on the concourse. The upper deck’s official mascot, our inebriated private dancer, personally dubbed as "my ex-girlfriend", was bleeding from the mouth, caught by an errant haymaker. For one fleeting second, disgust filtered throughout the crowd, an emotional revolt against the debauchery and decadence. The moment quickly passed however, a fleeting curiosity, before fingers were pointed.
...............
After an unavoidable sojourn to the bathroom, where, we'd heard from a prior patron "Shit hit the fan around the fifth inning" [not literally, thankfully] we jacked a couple of unoccupied seats at the end of our row. When pressed on the whereabouts of the previous owners, a dude behind us claimed, "I don't know where those people went. It was the third inning... and they just disappeared." Ah, the mysteries of life.
But was this fate?
For, in the eighth, contest winding to a serene finish, Sully #1 appeared in our midst, expression bewildered, the unmistakable stench of barley and hops on his breath.
His accent was thick.
"Hey, do you guys remember where I was sitting?"
Greg eyed me. You take this one.
"No, man. Sorry."
Sully # 1 wearily exhaled, and than smiled.
"I've seen you two guys all night, just sitting back and watching the show."
"You did it to yourself," I replied, flatly.
Sully # 1's attention wondered.
"We're standing on three decks ... know that? It's really incredible. I've had a blast, I really have."
"Are you crazy?" I angrily responded, almost insulted. "You've had drunks talking smack to you all night, your team's getting lit..."
"It's part of the experience," Sully said, searching for the right words.
He found them.
"We're the bad guys."
He started away, but I called him back.
"What's your name, man?"
"Derek," he said. "Like Jeter, right?"
I'm not sure if Derek ever found his seat.
................
As we departed the stadium, the Yankees victorious, I searched for signs of hope. I'm equal parts optimistic and pessimistic about this team, but could never part from at least being interested. I figure if Hughes is back by the All Star break, or immediately after it, and Clemens can be counted on for six quality innings a night, they have a chance to make an improbable run at the division, lest they scramble for the wild card.
I can't quit, because for all the stupidity and negativity entailed with being a fan, there will always exist a sense of wonderment, an ode to the unknown within me.
It's in all us.
After all, we're standing on three decks.
The Stadium is teetering, Mo's bridge burning down, Torre's magic touch dissolving. The boss blusters, Abreu is flustered... too many problems need solving. And while chaos ensued, and the denizens booed, there wasn't a game left to save. We are left with the ghost of memory, and whoever else decides to stay.
And I wonder:
What's the point of worrying again?
................
My brother and I sit upper deck, for the first of three games against the loathsome, despised, damn good Red Sox. They stand, in first place by 10 ½ games, without readily recognizable contributions from imports J.D. Drew and Julio Lugo, or Mr. Mercurial himself, Manny Ramirez. You had to give them credit, the jerks.
Josh Beckett rediscovered the precise location that had abandoned his curveball. Previously maligned General Manager Theo Epstein outplayed professional nemesis Brian Cashman in his acquisition of Daisuke Matsuzaka, wagering that an insane posting fee would be balanced by a bargain basement contractual agreement, staring down avenging agent Scott Boras in the process. Hideki Okajima, an unheralded Japanese reliever, has been lights out his first trip around the American League, which isn't entirely surprising, considering his beyond funky delivery.
Over a year ago, impossible as it is for me to believe, I composed my favorite column, entitled "Until the End of Time." The article interprets my experience at an early season Yankee-Red Sox contest, and all its accompanied trappings: the nauseating hype proliferated by deranged media entities such as ESPN, hostilities between different factions of fan, coordinated attacks involving flying beer, the basic experience was all there.
That is a documented day in my life, May 10th, 2006.
Flash forward.
May 21st, 2007.
What changed?
.............
I've been here before. Ever faithful familiarity is always calling us back, Bob Shepard beckoning, along with stale beer and a dull sense of tradition. I count on the wearied expression overcoming underpaid vendors by the middle innings, the overzealous security guards, intoxicated with power, shoving offending members of the audience, drunk on something else entirely, down tunnels and out of sight; the roll call from bleacher creatures, the light din following first pitch, time to settle in for a long night.............
Circumstance dictates situation. Alarm is peak priority, our team skidding, a disturbing malaise feeding mediocrity.
After salvaging a small slice of the Subway, we were praying for a positive carry over. The Ace took the hill, Chien-Ming Wang, opposing knuckleball specialist Tim Wakefield.
..........
Whack seats. We're jammed, within the middle of packed section, miles from home plate, elevated in the atmosphere.
My bro and I share a disgusting cough, gained during an ill-fated late night barbecue doubling as a birthday celebration for one of his friends. I got drunk on a powerful combination: homemade margaritas and straight shots of cheap tequila.
The fallout was severe. The treacherous cough struck us both 24 hours later, and hadn't departed by game time. There we were, locked in for a nine-inning Yankee-Red Sox throw down, intermittently expunging harrowing gasps and wadded saliva. Our exploits would have received ample attention if not for two reasons:
1. This was Yankee Stadium, and dry heaving hardly counts as an occurrence worthy of disdainful recognition, except, perhaps, for appalled tourists or frightened Long Islanders.
2. Nefarious lynch pins had already been revealed, a disheartening twist of events that enraged my entire section. Looking back, they probably didn't need the prompt, though, at the time, it was shocking to see two Red Sox fans, seated three or four rows away at best, preening and taunting with unmistakable glee in this, just the first inning. Usually the lynch pins, code for an individual or tag team duo who readily incite ill tempered hometown fans, wait at least an hour to work their magic, at the height of inebriation. But here were Lloyd and Harry, Dumb and Dumber without a doubt, doing a worthy imitation of early 90's Wrestling heels. All that was missing was their manager, Mr. Fuji.
So, as Greg and I exchanged cough drops, at a baseball game for Christ's
Sake, Wang started encouragingly enough, escaping the first without allowing a run.
............
The sun set, blazing a sky picturesque, hovering over the anxious souls of 50,000 plus.
The lynch pins are at the top of their game as Alex Rodriguez ambled to the plate, runner on second.
" Oh, A-Rod!" one of them crowed, sounding genuinely feminine. Heckling is a strange enterprise. In the testosterone fueled world of sports, here is an endeavor where it's considered noble to sound extremely gay, so long the activity is undertaken to insult an opposing team's players or fans. At a Subway Series game I happened to attend years ago, two fat, drunken Yankee devotees acted out dialogue between
Mike Piazza and Edgardo Alfonzo that didn't exactly earn points for subtly. You figure it out.
The second cog in the tag team, dubbed Sully and Sully by some wit one seat up, followed his friends' ill fated lead, turning his back on the field to verbally spar with anyone willing.
The opening inning blitz left us truly stumped. Sure, a few people issued late return fire, class one f-you rockets, but the moment had passed. The
Sullies had one over on us... or did they?
A-Rod demolished a hopelessly hanging Wakefield floater, and the Yanks suddenly took control, 2-0.
...................
The counter assault was vicious. Our new friends from Boston were roundly lampooned, well after Alex had finished cruising the base paths.
Aye, revenge is a dish best served with cold cuts.
And yet... something was off.
I realized. The crowd was caught in a chant:
" Red Sox suck! Red Sox suck!"
It was venomous, tribal and theatrical at the same time. The change amazed me. It used to be that we were a constant in Boston's consciousness, lurking, haunting. We were the dream destroyers, the bad guys worthy of Tony Montana's vision, taking what was wanted, at the cost of anyone foolish enough to pose opposition.
They fought and fell, a parade of Indians and Mariners, Braves and Mets, until the ultimate triumph in 2003, against the nemesis, our superiority a supposed eternal lock.
We used to have an unshakeable confidence, the power of Yankee
Stadium nearly a reckoning force in the 2001 World Series.
Things change. Vibrant leaves crumble into dust, as do empires.
2004 shouldn't have robbed Yankee fans of class, if they ever had any, or arrogance, if they happened to even misplace it. The team's weaknesses festered at the worst possible time, nary a break was found, and a better team rightfully won.
So why this twisted bitterness? This endless ocean of success hasn't endowed faith, hardly. It has emboldened the spoiled, legitimized the desperate, and burdened the rational.
Go ahead true fans… boo Mariano Rivera in April, Derek Jeter in May,
Jason Giambi in October, and Alex Rodriguez all the damn time.
I surveyed my surroundings, the two Sullies, still talking smack, their voices nullified by a wall of sound and fury, and realized, Yankee fans and
Red Sox fans never hated each other for their difference, it was for the similarity, when they saw themselves in each other.
When they had to boo.
..........
Wang wasn't up to his usual tricks, unmercifully pouring a ceaseless barrage of scintillating sinkers against frustrated hitters unable to solidly connect. He was mixing in sliders and change-ups, an artist dabbling in foreign palettes.
His performance turned Picasso, Wang running a maddeningly high pitch count, maintaining a semblance of effectiveness. He'd been gifted a four run lead, after Jason Giambi's bomb into the right field upper deck. I could see the sphere, careening peacefully on course, descending into a mess of sweaty palms.
The Sully aimed abuse was unrelenting.
Some kid, of similar age to mine, wouldn't quit.
" Hey buddy", he incessantly chirped, " Hey buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Sully buddy, look at me, look at me... look over here man!"
Sully # 1, face ashen, appearing defeated, finally stared up.
The kid cleared his throat. I readied for a well thought out, impassioned put down, worthy enough to put the Sully situation to rest, for good.
"F*ck Boston!"
And our section cheered, even joined in.
On it went, as I sunk into my seat, trying to focus on the game.
.........
Somewhere around the seventh, as the Yankees seized the evening, those seeking perverse entertainment had ample avenues opened for amusement.
There was the insanely drunk chick, alone in her intoxication, but determined, nonetheless, to present a stand-alone show worthy of ticket admission.
As Wang danced around the Boston nine, she paraded on the concourses, shaking her assets in a vain attention grab.
It worked, of course, and the band played on.
.............
Meanwhile, fight night had unexpectedly broken out. The under-card boasted a battle between Sox fan and Yankee fan, smack in the middle of a crowded aisle. The Sox fan, a southpaw, sneaked in an excellent jab, which may have earned him a win on the scorecards, but led to his free fall from Row J to C. The Yankee fan, clearly stunned, sought retribution against, well, anyone really, and clocked the nearest partisan in range. A legitimate pier six broke out, yet fight fans had their attention immediately diverted to another impassioned scrum on the concourse. The upper deck’s official mascot, our inebriated private dancer, personally dubbed as "my ex-girlfriend", was bleeding from the mouth, caught by an errant haymaker. For one fleeting second, disgust filtered throughout the crowd, an emotional revolt against the debauchery and decadence. The moment quickly passed however, a fleeting curiosity, before fingers were pointed.
...............
After an unavoidable sojourn to the bathroom, where, we'd heard from a prior patron "Shit hit the fan around the fifth inning" [not literally, thankfully] we jacked a couple of unoccupied seats at the end of our row. When pressed on the whereabouts of the previous owners, a dude behind us claimed, "I don't know where those people went. It was the third inning... and they just disappeared." Ah, the mysteries of life.
But was this fate?
For, in the eighth, contest winding to a serene finish, Sully #1 appeared in our midst, expression bewildered, the unmistakable stench of barley and hops on his breath.
His accent was thick.
"Hey, do you guys remember where I was sitting?"
Greg eyed me. You take this one.
"No, man. Sorry."
Sully # 1 wearily exhaled, and than smiled.
"I've seen you two guys all night, just sitting back and watching the show."
"You did it to yourself," I replied, flatly.
Sully # 1's attention wondered.
"We're standing on three decks ... know that? It's really incredible. I've had a blast, I really have."
"Are you crazy?" I angrily responded, almost insulted. "You've had drunks talking smack to you all night, your team's getting lit..."
"It's part of the experience," Sully said, searching for the right words.
He found them.
"We're the bad guys."
He started away, but I called him back.
"What's your name, man?"
"Derek," he said. "Like Jeter, right?"
I'm not sure if Derek ever found his seat.
................
As we departed the stadium, the Yankees victorious, I searched for signs of hope. I'm equal parts optimistic and pessimistic about this team, but could never part from at least being interested. I figure if Hughes is back by the All Star break, or immediately after it, and Clemens can be counted on for six quality innings a night, they have a chance to make an improbable run at the division, lest they scramble for the wild card.
I can't quit, because for all the stupidity and negativity entailed with being a fan, there will always exist a sense of wonderment, an ode to the unknown within me.
It's in all us.
After all, we're standing on three decks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
