The popular criticism of my fellow Yankee Fans is our sense of entitlement. It goes beyond arrogance. We simply expect things to go our way, whether it means getting a sought after player, an umpire’s judgment on a close play going our way, or simply winning so sickeningly often.
I embrace this. I am arrogant. I deserve the success my team has enjoyed over history since 1920. I pay $8.00 round trip to cross the Whitestone Bridge. $2,000 rents me a closet and for nearly a quarter of that I get a postage stamp plot on which to park my car. I can get from Queens to Secaucus on public transportation faster than you can drive there. My nose has smelled odors that they have not invented words to describe. A mildly piqued feeling arises when a certain George M. Steinbrenner III uses my daily battle in pursuit of happiness as a metaphor for what a feisty team he thinks he has assembled. This is forgivable, of course, in my summer routine of getting to be a 10 year old again with no mortgage, no commute, no bills, and no worries for 3 hours a day. I am a New York Yankee fan. I love the Evil Empire label. It is an inherent reminder of dominance, class, and pride.
This pseudo-birthright that enrages opposing fans isn’t simply because I have a rough commute or certain regional accent. I have kept the flame. Number 23 doesn’t invoke thoughts of slam-dunks on my home, but images of Donny Baseball. I don’t just have Lou Gehrig’s goodbye speech memorized; I try to live my life by it. August 2 is still a day of mourning in my family. My brothers and I argue over what managerial moves we would have made in October of 1960. Metaphors in our family come in pinstripes or road grey. My grandfather watched the Yankees in the Polo Grounds. My uncle caddied for Babe Ruth (Mr. Ruth could drive a ball almost 300 yards, an enormous number given the technology of the equipment in the 30's). My mother saw DiMaggio patrol center field. My older brothers speak in hushed regret about the late 60's, with the possible exception of my birth People in Anaheim, Phoenix, or Miami cannot possibly relate to this devotion. They may understand better in the Fens or the North Side, but it goes beyond that. For every Romulus there is a Remus. Townies never had to mourn Thurman. Chicagoans never wondered what might have been if Columbia Lou had been blessed with a full life span. There is a cosmic balance to the success my family’s patronage and commitment have supported since 1920.
I have heard for almost 30 years what better people Boston fans think they are simply because their team has not won in their lifetime. Nothing could be further from the truth. I hate Boston. I lived in Watertown, Massachusetts in 1994 and my body rejected it. I hate Boston fans. I hate how they celebrate a win in May like they won the 7th game of the World Series. I hate how their fans handle a taste of success with all the aplomb of a nerd who got a cheerleader to acknowledge him in the hallway between classes. I hate their inferiority complex. I hate how, in their jealousy, they made it personal with us. I’m fine with their suffering. They do it well. I’m fine with this curse they nurse like a neurotic victim; it is the perfect excuse for whose forebears believed teenage girls were witches.
Now, the spectre of First Deadly Sin of Pinstripes has pierced our border. This team is on the precipice of having our Ancient Rival celebrating an American League Pennant victory on our hallowed ground, under our noses, in our house, and possibly relegating one of the most despicable acts of cowardice ever witnessed on a field of play to simply adversity that was overcame. No opening day boo next April will be erased by a big hit an hour later. This could be permanent. This could erase 82 years of Yin and Yang. It never should have come to this, and if it did, the Hurt will go on forever.
Someone in my shoes is entitled to assign culpability to the guilty parties for having this scenario even coming up. Here is how I see it:
- George Steinbrenner, guilty of the sin of gluttony and platitude. We don’t need Vince Lombardi lines regurgitated to us in press releases, Mr. Steinbrenner. We needed a stud middle reliever and you give us Ruben Sierra to spite Joe Torre.
- Brian Cashman, guilty of squandering his inheritance. Brian Cashman has taken a team that was fundamentally sound in all aspects of The Game and transformed it into a poor fielding squad with station-to-station offense.
Joe Torre, guilty of forgetting where he came from. In 1996, Torre did more with less by playing small ball when needed, and re-introducing pre-DH baseball to The Bronx. Now runners in scoring position with less than 2 outs die on the vine with sickening frequency. - Jason Giambi, guilty of absenteeism. We all know that Giambi chose number 25 because the numbers added to 7, Mickey Mantle’s number. We also know Jason’s left knee will require off-season surgery. Jason, The Mick had 2 bad knees and he beat the barbarians back from the gates for 16 years. You have had opportunity after opportunity this October to earn that paycheck and husband that Legacy you claim to care so much for. What do we have to show for it? Deodorant commercials.
- Aaron Boone, guilty of forgetting his legacy. Boone is a 3rd generation big leaguer. His grandfather was an All-Star. His father was an All –Star. His brother is an All-Star. He is pressing so hard that his plate appearances evoke images of a 40-year-old secretary playing softball for the first time in her life at the company picnic.
I could go on. This is a lineup that allowed Tim Wakefield, a man who has not even been able to hold onto a permanent slot in the Boston rotation, look Koufaxian. This group let a matchup of Andy Pettitte vs. John Burkett slip away. These men sent a stronger message to a civilian groundskeeper in an isolated bullpen incident than they sent to a classless punk who grabbed a 72 year old man by the head and flung him to the ground in a bench-clearing brawl.
As of now, the crime is letting the Vandal in the door. Tonight at 11:30pm, charges can be dropped, chalked up to trench warfare and issues to be dealt with in the off-season and we can say we avoided Armageddon. However, until Posada squeezes that 27th out from Mariano Rivera, we have a sword dangling over our collective head. I don’t care for drama. I subscribe to the Jacob Ruppert school of thought that calls a good day of baseball when the Yankees score 10 runs in the 1st inning and then slowly pull away. I don’t want the unthinkable to happen on this squad’s watch. I don’t want to root for the Florida Marlins to keep reality in check. The fabric of the universe is in the balance. The stage is set: Roger vs. Pedro and our guys celebrate pennant number 39 in our house, or a far darker scene. I hope they earn their paycheck tonight.
