I’m sitting here looking at the box scores again. It’s early in this 2004 Major League baseball season, and there’s still plenty of time for it to be anyone’s ballgame, so it’s more force of habit than anything else. The excitement of the early season catching up to me.
It’s literally still anyone’s ballgame. Well, with the exception of Montreal, perhaps…but then, I’d be forced to recognize them as an actual Major League-caliber team, and they’ve long since become the lame duck of the league. Better to pin your hopes on the Birmingham Barons luring Jordan back to the fold than to waste a dollar betting on the Expos going anywhere in the post-season than the back of a moving van headed for Pennsylvania Avenue.
I peer down the column for the American League East, and notice an anomaly. You see, I’m not a regular stat-checker, a once-a-weeker at best.
But there it is, in black and white…or, as in this case, full ESPN.com color:
New York Yankees. 9 wins, 11 losses. .450 win percentage.
A full four games out of first place.
I’m flabbergasted, stupified, hornswaggled. I’m flummoxed and flangled and dumbfounded. I’m almost nearly speechless. I’m certainly out-of-sorts.
The unbeatable, indefatiguable Yankees. The Pinstripes of Despair. The Evil Empire. Brought low by the likes of mere mortals?
The team most guaranteed a spot on the Dynasty Hall of Fame, the squad more amazing than Spider-Man and more incredible than the Shrinking Woman, handed 11 losses as easily as Warren Sapp hands out butt-whoopin’s, and Michael Jackson hands out hush money?
Surely there’s some mistake here. Someone was obviously monkeying around with the database, and swapped out the records of the Yankees and Red Sox.
I checked. It ain’t.
This should be the happiest moment of my life.
So why do I feel so…empty?
For some reason, I always envisioned this moment being more grand, more epic. Along the lines of watching the Death Star explode into millions of tiny shimmering shards, or the death of Osama bin Laden live on Pay-Per-View.
This would be the defining moment for me, and my family of millions, who are all sick and tired of being told that the Yankees are “America’s Team.” The moment when the Mighty Titans of Payroll Abuse would fall upon hard times, and I clamored for it. I savored it in my mind, and imagined how sweet the nectar of Yankee loss would seem when it finally arrived.
Instead, I’m faced with a proposition I’d never considered.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter at all.
I grew up in a Yankee-hating household. Born, bred and raised.
It’s not like I lived in Boston, where Yankee-hating is practically the accepted pastime. No, I was born in St. Louis, as far from a Yankee-hating town as can possibly be. St. Louis isn’t even in the same league, for God’s sake, and I don’t even mean talent-wise.
But believe it when I say, hating New York? Oh, that, my friends, is in our blood.
My father was a New York hater from back in the day. Old school seething rage. There’s really no similar comparison of the scope of his ire, until you start to look towards the Middle East Gaza strip. That’s how deep it went.
Some kids get told by their parents that they’ll be disowned for taking drugs, or engaging in homosexuality, or marrying outside their color line. I can’t even explain to you how preferable any of those options would have been to my father, so long as I didn’t ever wear a Goddamned Yankee hat in his presence.
And so it went. I grew up a Cardinal fan. We had some good years (1982, 1985 and 1996 spring to mind) and some not-so-good (1990-1993, among others). My allegiance has never strayed. And for some reason, even though I’ve savored the fall of the Once-Mighty Mets on several occasions, I’ve had little chance to taste sweet Yankee failure.
Until now.
So why does it taste so…meh?
Is it because I know it can’t last? That the Yankees will be a brisk .600 by the All-Star break, and on pace to take the division? Maybe.
Is it because I know Steinbrenner will do something else equally drastic, like fire everyone he’s ever met, regardless of whether or not they work for him? Perhaps. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t put in an offer to steal Bill Rancic away from The Donald yet.
Is it because some of the Yankee players most directly responsible for the slumping team are actually, in real life, fairly nice guys? Derek Jeter, 0-28? Who woulda thunk? Yeah, I’m sure there’s a factor in that.
But honestly, I know these are all just symptoms. And until I reach the cause of this entropy, I just can’t enjoy it. I’ve heard the first shoe hit the floor, and waiting on the next one is driving me mad.
Maybe I just don’t want to get my hopes up. No one wanted to be the first Roman to declare the fall of the Caesars, and I don’t want to be the first one to trumpet the demise of the Yankees.
But the Yankees are dying, folks. The nail isn’t in the coffin yet, but the undertaker is definitely been given a courtesy call. One day the Empire will fall, and it won’t matter how many $160 million dollar free-agents they woo into their gnarled clutches.
Until then, I’ll sit. And wait. And pray a little, although whether it’s to God, Selig or Pedro Martinez, I’m not quite sure yet.
America’s Team is dead.
Long live America’s pastime.
Is the only emotion I am permitting myself to endulge in.