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Like a good perfume smells better on Penelope Cruz, championships, perhaps, are best celebrated at baseball’s cathedral.
Whether you love them or hate them, you’re a capitalist or a socialist; the Yankees should be respected by every American because they are synonymous with winning and excellence.
By no means are the Yankees a model of perfection, however, but do you think you get to the top in America and stay there by shining everyone’s shoes?
Not only did they fire Joe Torre, but also proceeded to remind him on his way out that there was always a TV gig waiting for him on the franchise owned and operated YES Network. Now that’s the sound of the door hitting you on your way out.
While I love Torre as much as the next guy, last I checked the future hall of fame manager is probably going to make a lot more money with the Dodgers than you or I would in 10 lifetimes.
And don’t put too much stock into the “Evil Empire” propaganda. It was the Red Sox who decided Willie Mays wasn’t worth a tryout because it was raining and didn’t even hire a black man to play ball full-time until after the Boston Bruins—a hockey team—did so.
In brief, here’s a taste from my vantage point on Wednesday evening, amongst a Bronx party like it was 1999…
7:00 pm: I’m walking to Grand Central Station via 42nd street with Bryant Park at my immediate right. In the park’s background was the sweetest sight my eyes laid on all day, the automatic pilot thankfully malfunctions as I marvel at a blue and white-lit Empire State Building.
For those of us living in this town whom are blessed to be green enough to, on occasion, appreciate the paragons, this was the definition of a stop and pinch yourself moment. The only thing missing in this backdrop was the Bat Signal itself.
7:15 pm: Waiting for the Bronx bound #4 train at Grand Central station. In the words of Carly Simon: Anticipation is making me wait. I’m excited for the opportunity to be a part of a cultural phenomenon.
7:35 pm: Circus clowns in a slug bug had nothing on this train car. You know how toothpicks sometimes come in a plastic cylinder shaped tube by the hundreds? You have to grab the tweezers from the medicine cabinet just to get the first toothpick out. That was my ride to Yankee Stadium. Only Raymond Babbitt could have come close to estimating just how many people were actually crammed into the car. I could only guess it was something comparable to a mid-town morning rush hour ride squared to the fifth power.
(And in this week’s installment of the popular “Irony is also a Funny Thing” segment: Leave it to the fattest guy on the sub car, who during one of the stops along the way, in typical New Yorker fashion quibbles, “It’s a nice view out there. Why don’t some of you get off and check it out.”)
8:00 pm: Fathers, sons and daughters are still lobbying for tickets for the sold out event. A recorded Mary J. Blidge could be heard singing the national anthem. The DirecTv blimp is seemingly a stone’s throw above us.
A mile of media vans equipped with large satellite dishes line the streets. This was my second “pinch me” moment within an hour. Ron Burgundy would describe this event as, “kind of a big deal.”
8:30 pm: My party and I finally make our way to the big screen television section at “The Dugout” directly across the street from the ballpark.
It was the Animal House Toga Party all over again. Only Yankee jerseys posed as the event garb, everyone was John Belushi, and a one-man band that goes by the name of “Godzilla” performed heroically in place of Otis Day & The Knights.
Hideki Matsui slugged an early two-run “Shama-lama-ding-dong” over the right field fence off of Pedro Martinez, and the Bronx Bombers never looked back.
Matsui is a free agent at the end of the season. Before Wednesday night, he was perhaps better known around baseball for his exceptionally abundant collection of pornography.
Now that he can go into the off-season with a very friendly bidding tag of “World Series MVP,” that could leave a general manager no choice but to throw enough cash in Godzilla’s way to actually buy Jenna Jameson herself.
8:45 The best fandom chant that modern day sport has to offer is heard when Yankee catcher Jorge (pronounced Hore-Hay) Posada steps to the plate. All together now; HIP, HIP, HORE-HAY!
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