That's Life
Shock. Horror. Repulsion. Betrayal.
I sat in my seat in The Bronx, Section…wait a second…not done yet.
Disbelief. Disgust. Repugnance. A-Rod.
Okay, that's better.
I sat in my seat in The Bronx, Section 16, Row N, Seat 19, staring at the scoreboard in awe, almost trying to will it someplace else. It was the eighth inning of Game 7 now, and Boston (Boston! Boston?) was in the midst of doing something that I never thought possible. The Red Sox were standing over the Yankees following a knock-out punch.
They say there are only two things certain in life, death and taxes. I always thought there were more. The unabridged listing of certainties:
1) Death.
2) Taxes.
3) Emerald Nuts commercials.
4) The untouched interior design of my grandfather's house.
5) Yankees dominance over the Red Sox.
Hold that thought...
I should have seen the warning signs coming. A spontaneously combusting George Steinbrenner pulling the awkward Karma Card by dusting off Bucky Dent and Yogi Berra for the first pitch of Game 7. (Plans to publicly execute a Boston Duck Tour "Con-duck-tor" with Babe Ruth's childhood musket were apparently scratched). The incessant use of Rivera and especially Gordon -- pitching with the tank on empty before the playoffs ever began (thanks for the bullpen help, Cash). Torre (utterly lost in the series, a WTF subplot for the ages) regularly tapping the ever-terrified looking Sturtze in nearly every important late-inning spot. A part of me died typing that last one.
Joel Sherman of the New York Post put it best in his column Friday when he called this year's Yankees team a group of "souless mercenaries". Sherman is absolutely right -- even if his Post headshot reveals he most likely remains a virgin. Every Yankees fan knew deep down that this group would not breed a champion. Not even at 3-0. It had none of the pedigree of the Torre 90s teams that got by more on guts than gusto. These Yankees were hired guns, assembled to clean up George's mess. A mess he had been predicating since Luis Gonzalez' bloop single dropped from the Arizona sky in November of 2001.
My roommate Mark sat next to me in a sedated state for most of the last two hours of the game, intermittently looking as if he were going to cry or throw himself from the upper deck at any given moment. I tried to rationalize with my friend that this simply wasn't the team. That they had blown this series for a reason. I was trying to convince myself more than anyone else.
In truth, this was a case of two Yankees fans in their early 20s who were meeting their maker. Weaned on championships throughout our high school and college years, it was time to pay our dues to the Baseball Gods. Yankees fans experienced the same thing 30 years earlier when Mickey, Yogi and Whitey got old and the farm came up empty. Now it was our turn. Our time had passed.
"The impossible is possible tonight…" - Billy Corgan
Five sections over from us, a growing contingency of Sox fans were savoring the final outs. As a Northeastern grad and self-proclaimed Boston guy, I watched the group morph from a collective nervous wreck to euphoric swarm during the last three hours. They sang "Sweet Caroline", hugged and high-fived like childhood friends, chatted hysterically on their cellphones. I imagined them soaking in the moment with their fathers, sharing a moment they never thought was possible. A Red Sox Nation, indivisible.
As for Mark and I, the last out prompted a surreal subway and PATH ride back to Hoboken, the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and baseball. "That's Life", Ole Blue Eyes would probably say.
Boston 10, New York 3. The Yankees - and yours truly -- had finally gotten our comeuppance. "That's Life" is right.
I sat in my seat in The Bronx, Section…wait a second…not done yet.
Disbelief. Disgust. Repugnance. A-Rod.
Okay, that's better.
I sat in my seat in The Bronx, Section 16, Row N, Seat 19, staring at the scoreboard in awe, almost trying to will it someplace else. It was the eighth inning of Game 7 now, and Boston (Boston! Boston?) was in the midst of doing something that I never thought possible. The Red Sox were standing over the Yankees following a knock-out punch.
They say there are only two things certain in life, death and taxes. I always thought there were more. The unabridged listing of certainties:
1) Death.
2) Taxes.
3) Emerald Nuts commercials.
4) The untouched interior design of my grandfather's house.
5) Yankees dominance over the Red Sox.
Hold that thought...
I should have seen the warning signs coming. A spontaneously combusting George Steinbrenner pulling the awkward Karma Card by dusting off Bucky Dent and Yogi Berra for the first pitch of Game 7. (Plans to publicly execute a Boston Duck Tour "Con-duck-tor" with Babe Ruth's childhood musket were apparently scratched). The incessant use of Rivera and especially Gordon -- pitching with the tank on empty before the playoffs ever began (thanks for the bullpen help, Cash). Torre (utterly lost in the series, a WTF subplot for the ages) regularly tapping the ever-terrified looking Sturtze in nearly every important late-inning spot. A part of me died typing that last one.
Joel Sherman of the New York Post put it best in his column Friday when he called this year's Yankees team a group of "souless mercenaries". Sherman is absolutely right -- even if his Post headshot reveals he most likely remains a virgin. Every Yankees fan knew deep down that this group would not breed a champion. Not even at 3-0. It had none of the pedigree of the Torre 90s teams that got by more on guts than gusto. These Yankees were hired guns, assembled to clean up George's mess. A mess he had been predicating since Luis Gonzalez' bloop single dropped from the Arizona sky in November of 2001.
My roommate Mark sat next to me in a sedated state for most of the last two hours of the game, intermittently looking as if he were going to cry or throw himself from the upper deck at any given moment. I tried to rationalize with my friend that this simply wasn't the team. That they had blown this series for a reason. I was trying to convince myself more than anyone else.
In truth, this was a case of two Yankees fans in their early 20s who were meeting their maker. Weaned on championships throughout our high school and college years, it was time to pay our dues to the Baseball Gods. Yankees fans experienced the same thing 30 years earlier when Mickey, Yogi and Whitey got old and the farm came up empty. Now it was our turn. Our time had passed.
"The impossible is possible tonight…" - Billy Corgan
Five sections over from us, a growing contingency of Sox fans were savoring the final outs. As a Northeastern grad and self-proclaimed Boston guy, I watched the group morph from a collective nervous wreck to euphoric swarm during the last three hours. They sang "Sweet Caroline", hugged and high-fived like childhood friends, chatted hysterically on their cellphones. I imagined them soaking in the moment with their fathers, sharing a moment they never thought was possible. A Red Sox Nation, indivisible.
As for Mark and I, the last out prompted a surreal subway and PATH ride back to Hoboken, the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and baseball. "That's Life", Ole Blue Eyes would probably say.
Boston 10, New York 3. The Yankees - and yours truly -- had finally gotten our comeuppance. "That's Life" is right.
posted by Dan Hanzus at 1:39 PM
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