During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless evening in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been sitting alone, in my den—crushing an innumerable amount of radios and fending off countless emails from Red Sox fans—and suffering through a historical and dreary collapse of epic proportions such that the sports world has never witnessed; when at length I found myself, as the fog and darkness of night wore on, within view of the melancholy fall of the House of Yankee.
At first glimpse of Ortiz’s home run off Kevin Beelzebub, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for it is such that I had never experienced, it was a horrific scene which the mind usually receives only in the worst of somnolent states, when nightmares, monsters, and ex-wives pervade the unconscious spirit with the sternest images of the desolate or terrible.
I looked upon the scene before me. Scarcely had Derek Jeter made a perfect relay to cut down Johnny Damon at the plate—and move the crowd to indescribable decimal levels—when Ortiz’s home run cleared the right field fence and ended the season post haste, snuffing out forever our dreams of continuing the curse.
When Johnny Damon spanked his grand slam to right off the hideously overmatched, overpaid, and underachieving Vasquez, I experienced an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the experience of a lone Yankee fan in full pinstripe regalia sitting at the Cask n’ Flagon, with hundreds of revelers mocking and deriding him without mercy, his tattered rags askew.
Yankee nation: We have now thrust ourselves into the bitter lapse of everyday life. We are common. Our trust funds are bankrupt. Our summer homes are auctioned off. The bill collectors are calling during our dinner hour.
What we witnessed last night was the dropping off of the veil of Yankee domination over the Red Sox.
Gone is the mystique of the curse of the Bambino, the dominant theme that defined the entire culture of New England. (Sorry, Shaughnessy, the curse put your kids through college, but it‘s time to write about something else.)
Gone.
Gone are the ghosts of Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle—not to mentions Scott Brosius, Tino Martinez, and Paul O’Neill. They didn’t save us this season. They didn’t show up.
Gone.
Gone is the notion of taking a pitch, working the count, driving up the pitch count, laying down a bunt, or producing a productive out—or even recording an on base percentage above .320
Gone.
For Red Sox nation, gone is the legacy of Denny Galehouse, Bill Buckner, Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone and Grady Little.
Gone.
Gone is Brian Cashman’s cell phone, his wife pounding it into oblivion after the 10th irate call from George Steinbrenner, demanding to know why Cashman didn’t sign Ortiz two winters ago as ordered.
Gone is the idea of using the farm system to produce players like Mo, Bernie, Posada or Jeter.
Gone.
Gone is the Pride of the Yankees, it’s relegated to the dusty bins of ancient history, while the current band of imposters pack their bags for the winter, seemingly oblivious to the legacy they have destroyed.
With the memory of Saturday night’s 19-8 victory wiped away, we are left with the images of futile pop-ups, soft grounders, and the worst pitching staff money can buy.
We are left with the memory of A-Rod and Sheffield constantly blowing it in big spots. We are left with the knowledge that Kevin Brown has been a season-long disgrace to the city of New York and to the Yankee uniform, and we are left with the uneasy vision of Joe Torre sitting comatose in the dugout, while his counterpart out-witted him at every turn.
What is left is a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could ever resolve.
What is left is a team of over-priced and under-performing fat cats. A team of poorly constructed all-or-nothing home run hitters who swing from the heels and think from the hip.
What is left is a frozen image of Derek Jeter in the dugout, his eyes fixated upon the dancing revelers soiling the ancient turf of Yankee Stadium.
Javy Vasquez, Kevin Brown and, yes, you Tom Gordon—meet Calvin Schiraldi, Bob Stanley and Mike Torrez.
The greatest sports franchise of all time just perpetrated the worse choke in post-season history. Period.
And now, the curse is lifted. Red Sox nation has escaped the terrible fury of the dragon, and the breaking up of mystique that surrounded the Yankees.
The carcass of the dragon fell at the feet of Red Sox nation with a mighty and terrible reverberating sound.
From these final death agonies, I flee aghast.
Phil Allard is a freelance writer and a member of the NYYFANS community. You can reach him at hardrain@optonline.net
Phil is a staff writer for NYYFans.com, and he writes a weekly column for the website of WCBS News Radio 88, the home of the Yankees. You can reach him at PhilAllard27(at)hotmail.com.
