There Is No Joy in Mudville Today...
Mighty Jorge has struck out. And with that swing goes the dreams of yet another season of hope pissed away in a postseason filled with empty hearts, broken promises, and dashed expectations. I suppose I have a lot of questions about why these New York Yankees -- the young, upstart, underdog Yankees that rallied back from a 21-29 start to come within a hairsbreadth of a 10th consecutive AL East title -- fell to the same undecorous fate of Yankees squads of recent years.
Why did the team that produced the most runs in the regular season fail to produce almost any runs in the three games in which they lost? Why were the Indians able to absolutely manhandle every Yankees pitcher that took the mound while the Indians staff seemed almost completely untouchable? What happened to the fire and the energy after falling behind 2-0 and needing to win three in a row to stay in contention, and why did that spark only last for one game? Why did this team need to be the team upon which the fate of so many core Yankees rested? Why did the most hard-fought game of the year, the game that clearly decided this series, come down not to timely pitching or defense, but an errant wild pitch amongst a swarm of malevolent gnats?
Why did fate shit on these Yankees this time?
Maybe I'm indulging my flare for the overdramatic a bit, and that's fair. I love baseball. It's a part of my soul and my very composition. And above all, I love my Yankees. Pinstripes have run through my blood for as long as I can remember, first consciously shown at the tender age of 4 in a story I'm only too happy to tell anyone who questions my allegiance. I have taken quite a shine to many sports over time, especially hockey and, most recently, the collegiate rendition of American football. But nothing, nothing, will ever take the place in my heart that baseball has held, with an iron grip, since the days of my childhood.
Hell, I still remember playing in Little League, never being a particularly good fielder or hitter, but having one moment in the spotlight: a warm summer day, my team down the whole game, a runner on third that represented the tying run and a runner on second representing the game winner against the best team in the league. I remember the pitcher tossing the ball and my bat somehow, miraculously, making divine contact, sending it screaming past the diving second baseman. It flew into the outfield, well within the reach of the astute right fielder, but far from being able to make a play at the plate happened. The ball was tossed back to the second baseman, who gloved it and tagged me as I rounded first base triumphantly and ran, arms in the air, without a care around the bases. The tag meant nothing. The winning run had scored from my bat, and as his glove touched my shirt, I swooped into a long turn, ran back towards the first base dugout, and leaped into the arms of my smiling, laughing coach, surrounded by a bunch of proud teammates.
That day, I took home the first of two game balls I earned in my entire Little League career. Long after my offensive success, I had adapted into the role of a pitcher -- along my bumpy baseball path, I eventually played every position, finding myself most at home, appropriately, at catcher, and also at third base -- and was given the ball in a fairly pivotal game. I had little skill and spotty command, but that day I was on. Almost every pitch I threw found the catcher's glove and the strike zone. At the end of the 6 inning match, I'd struck out 14 batters, almost 5 full frames worth of hitters, and walked only 2. That ball, with all its statistical integrity etched in faded Sharpie on the dirty leather, still sits in my room, prominently displayed on my bookcase. It was my one moment of truly dominant athletic triumph: for one glorious afternoon, the stage was mine and I'd performed virtuosically.
So yeah, I take this baseball thing a little personally.
And here's what I especially find disconcerting, among other things, about this Yankees season. Not so much that the bats went silent -- I've seen hot bats go silent in the postseason over the past few years, so it really wasn't something you couldn't expect -- but that everything else went silent too. The dominant pitching of Cy Young-worthy Chien-Ming Wang was nonexistent, left for dead amongst the regular season's final throes. Andy Pettitte, the stalwart veteran, pitched masterfully in Game 2, but could find no run support, and the typically stellar Joba Chamberlain lost his command at the worst time, sending the game into extra frames that were destined not to end in the Yankees' favor -- after all, how could they possibly emerge victorious amidst what looked like the plague of fucking locusts? And when the hitting really needed to be timely -- bases loaded situations, scenarios with men in scoring position -- they failed miserably, almost always leading to a rapid end of the rally.
Only in Game 3 did things take a turn, prompted, one has to assume, by George Steinbrenner's asinine threat of Joe Torre's job as manager.
But alas, 'twas not to be.
The only good thing is that no one can blame Alex Rodriguez for all this. Sure, he wasn't the savior, the easy MVP that trounced pitchers throughout the Majors during the regular season. But then again, neither was anyone on the team, except, perhaps, for Johnny Damon. A-Rod, like everyone, sucked. And you can't blame him in the end: he hit relatively decently for the series, hit a dramatic Game 4 home run, and made some excellent defensive plays. Over the course of 162 games, one guy really can carry everybody for stretches at a time. But in the postseason, when every game counts, every player needs to be on his game. And they just weren't.
I can't explain why everything fizzled so outlandishly. I can't figure out why Joe Torre will likely never manage for the Pinstripes again, when he's done a masterful job leading them to the postseason in every single year of his tenure. He's working in probably the only town where that's not good enough, and that's a shame. He will be sorely missed, as will every free agent whose allegiance to Joe is sworn and who will most likely work elsewhere next year without that man in the clubhouse every day.
And so that memory -- a memory of failure, of shattered dreams, of unfulfilled promise, of the vile sputterings of a borderline-senile Machiavellian owner -- are what mark the end of this season. Next year's Yankees, sadly, won't be the same, and that leaves me entering this offseason with a far more poignant tinge of regret than in seasons past. Somehow, for days now, we've all known that the hammer was destined to fall. And now that it has, there's a great deal of uncertainty and disappointment that will pervade the souls of the Yankee faithful until the first vestiges of spring training rouse us from our hibernation. Then, we'll see what we can expect from the new Yankees, and we'll see if we can predict the same kind of stunning collapse that destiny leveled upon this team again this year. A year that was so full of hope. That's now full of emptiness. And with little consolation looming on the offseason horizon.
I'm a fan. Can you blame me for taking this shit seriously?
Why did the team that produced the most runs in the regular season fail to produce almost any runs in the three games in which they lost? Why were the Indians able to absolutely manhandle every Yankees pitcher that took the mound while the Indians staff seemed almost completely untouchable? What happened to the fire and the energy after falling behind 2-0 and needing to win three in a row to stay in contention, and why did that spark only last for one game? Why did this team need to be the team upon which the fate of so many core Yankees rested? Why did the most hard-fought game of the year, the game that clearly decided this series, come down not to timely pitching or defense, but an errant wild pitch amongst a swarm of malevolent gnats?
Why did fate shit on these Yankees this time?
Maybe I'm indulging my flare for the overdramatic a bit, and that's fair. I love baseball. It's a part of my soul and my very composition. And above all, I love my Yankees. Pinstripes have run through my blood for as long as I can remember, first consciously shown at the tender age of 4 in a story I'm only too happy to tell anyone who questions my allegiance. I have taken quite a shine to many sports over time, especially hockey and, most recently, the collegiate rendition of American football. But nothing, nothing, will ever take the place in my heart that baseball has held, with an iron grip, since the days of my childhood.
Hell, I still remember playing in Little League, never being a particularly good fielder or hitter, but having one moment in the spotlight: a warm summer day, my team down the whole game, a runner on third that represented the tying run and a runner on second representing the game winner against the best team in the league. I remember the pitcher tossing the ball and my bat somehow, miraculously, making divine contact, sending it screaming past the diving second baseman. It flew into the outfield, well within the reach of the astute right fielder, but far from being able to make a play at the plate happened. The ball was tossed back to the second baseman, who gloved it and tagged me as I rounded first base triumphantly and ran, arms in the air, without a care around the bases. The tag meant nothing. The winning run had scored from my bat, and as his glove touched my shirt, I swooped into a long turn, ran back towards the first base dugout, and leaped into the arms of my smiling, laughing coach, surrounded by a bunch of proud teammates.
That day, I took home the first of two game balls I earned in my entire Little League career. Long after my offensive success, I had adapted into the role of a pitcher -- along my bumpy baseball path, I eventually played every position, finding myself most at home, appropriately, at catcher, and also at third base -- and was given the ball in a fairly pivotal game. I had little skill and spotty command, but that day I was on. Almost every pitch I threw found the catcher's glove and the strike zone. At the end of the 6 inning match, I'd struck out 14 batters, almost 5 full frames worth of hitters, and walked only 2. That ball, with all its statistical integrity etched in faded Sharpie on the dirty leather, still sits in my room, prominently displayed on my bookcase. It was my one moment of truly dominant athletic triumph: for one glorious afternoon, the stage was mine and I'd performed virtuosically.
So yeah, I take this baseball thing a little personally.
And here's what I especially find disconcerting, among other things, about this Yankees season. Not so much that the bats went silent -- I've seen hot bats go silent in the postseason over the past few years, so it really wasn't something you couldn't expect -- but that everything else went silent too. The dominant pitching of Cy Young-worthy Chien-Ming Wang was nonexistent, left for dead amongst the regular season's final throes. Andy Pettitte, the stalwart veteran, pitched masterfully in Game 2, but could find no run support, and the typically stellar Joba Chamberlain lost his command at the worst time, sending the game into extra frames that were destined not to end in the Yankees' favor -- after all, how could they possibly emerge victorious amidst what looked like the plague of fucking locusts? And when the hitting really needed to be timely -- bases loaded situations, scenarios with men in scoring position -- they failed miserably, almost always leading to a rapid end of the rally.
Only in Game 3 did things take a turn, prompted, one has to assume, by George Steinbrenner's asinine threat of Joe Torre's job as manager.
Tangentially-Related Rant: George Steinbrenner, you're a fucking dickhead. You had to have known that comment would have riled everyone up, so why would you say it right before the most important game of the year? Sure, they won, and that's all fine and good, but did you really think spewing your useless vilification would actually change anything? Your comments alone made it abundantly obvious how out of touch you are with your own team: "We can hit." No shit. But when we don't hit, what else do we have to show for it? Nothing. Why? Because you won't invest in pitching, like columnists and fans have been begging you to do since 2001. Open your pursestrings for some quality pitchers, and maybe you won't have to make these classless empty threats that only insult the fans and the members of the organization they pull so desperately for. Like Joe Torre. Who doesn't in the least deserve to take the fall for your organizational fuckups and useless micromanagement. Bite the hand that feeds you, and see when the next time you make the ALDS comes around, jerkoff.Whether the comments actually distracted the Yankees or not, it certainly drove them somehow, made them dig deep to find the old Yankees, the upstart underdogs of the regular season who rallied back and made it seem like it was a series again. But it was temporal at best: again, the curse of inconsistency reared its ugly head, and they couldn't make it work when it counted. One could've looked beyond the impressive offensive numbers throughout the regular season, seen the habits of high numbers of stranded runners, and predicted this. But we all thought they would have found some way of pulling through.
But alas, 'twas not to be.
The only good thing is that no one can blame Alex Rodriguez for all this. Sure, he wasn't the savior, the easy MVP that trounced pitchers throughout the Majors during the regular season. But then again, neither was anyone on the team, except, perhaps, for Johnny Damon. A-Rod, like everyone, sucked. And you can't blame him in the end: he hit relatively decently for the series, hit a dramatic Game 4 home run, and made some excellent defensive plays. Over the course of 162 games, one guy really can carry everybody for stretches at a time. But in the postseason, when every game counts, every player needs to be on his game. And they just weren't.
I can't explain why everything fizzled so outlandishly. I can't figure out why Joe Torre will likely never manage for the Pinstripes again, when he's done a masterful job leading them to the postseason in every single year of his tenure. He's working in probably the only town where that's not good enough, and that's a shame. He will be sorely missed, as will every free agent whose allegiance to Joe is sworn and who will most likely work elsewhere next year without that man in the clubhouse every day.
And so that memory -- a memory of failure, of shattered dreams, of unfulfilled promise, of the vile sputterings of a borderline-senile Machiavellian owner -- are what mark the end of this season. Next year's Yankees, sadly, won't be the same, and that leaves me entering this offseason with a far more poignant tinge of regret than in seasons past. Somehow, for days now, we've all known that the hammer was destined to fall. And now that it has, there's a great deal of uncertainty and disappointment that will pervade the souls of the Yankee faithful until the first vestiges of spring training rouse us from our hibernation. Then, we'll see what we can expect from the new Yankees, and we'll see if we can predict the same kind of stunning collapse that destiny leveled upon this team again this year. A year that was so full of hope. That's now full of emptiness. And with little consolation looming on the offseason horizon.
I'm a fan. Can you blame me for taking this shit seriously?
posted by Dave at 10/08/2007 11:44:00 PM
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