I’ve been a Yankees fan for 35 years now, ever since that Sunday afternoon in June when my mother drove me to the ballpark in the South Bronx for the first time. It was Bat Day, 1977, and I was handed a wooden bat with Thurman Munson’s name and Burger King’s logo engraved on it. It didn’t matter to me that the Yankees lost to the Minnesota Twins that afternoon. As I stared out at the vast expanse of green before me, and as I heard the crack of bat against ball, I was hooked. A Yankee fan for life.
Since that day, I’ve chatted about the Yankees all the time with my mom, brother, grandparents, friends and wife. Even my dad, who grew up rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers and was deprived of the chance to bring his sons to the ballpark that sparked his childhood dreams, has come around to talking Yankees with us. And my daughters, despite their marked preference for Webkins and Glee, have their moments of joining in some pinstriped passion.
When talking baseball with others, it can be uncomfortable to share the fact that I’m a Yankees fan. There are, of course, those 27 championships to gloat over – 16 more than any other team in baseball history. With the Yankees sporting baseball’s highest payroll every year, it’s easy to assume that I’m a front-runner. Here in New York, Mets fans may have more misery, but they can always claim the integrity of sticking with their team no matter what the outcome.
Yet, I came of age in the 1980s, the one decade in the past five in which the Mets can clearly say they were New York’s team. I watched the Yankees go 14 consecutive years without making the playoffs, and saw the Mets claim a World Series title and a division crown during that same stretch. Had there been a Wild Card team during those years, the Mets would have made the playoffs six times in seven years. Meanwhile, the Yankees were stumbling along with a variety of managers, general managers and high-priced veterans. So I know what it’s like to see your favorite team implode in front of you while other local club gets all the press.
The past 17 years have changed that landscape quite a bit, though, as the Yankees have made the playoffs every year but one since 1995. It may seem a bit outdated to use the old cliché that cheering for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel. So to update it a bit for 2012, cheering on the Bronx Bombers is more like cheering for higher quarterly reports from Apple. Ho-hum. Buy me some iPads and Cracker Jack.
But with all honesty and understanding, I ask you this: What can I do? Must I feel guilty for the Yankees’ success? Should I stop rooting for the Yankees simply because they have won too often? Do I push aside my memories and toss that old Thurman Munson bat in the trash because of my adult awareness of economics? Is competitive imbalance enough reason to turn aside the rush of childhood joy that accompanies the sight of an interlocking NY? Aren’t all of our baseball passions much more about feeling 8 years old again than about thirsting for victory?
In recent years, Major League Baseball has taken important steps to level the playing field somewhat in terms of team revenue, thanks in large part to revenue-sharing and luxury taxes. In addition, changes to the way the game is played and scouted have turned baseball into a sport dominated by the best young players teams can find. The Yankees have won just one championship over the past 11 years, and their 2012 club is just like all the others they’ve put together over that time period – very talented, but with clear weak spots. They might win, and they might not.
So I’ll cheer for the Yankees in 2012, just as I always have. But at age 41, I’ve matured to the point where my heart no longer breaks if the Yankees’ season ends with a loss. Because I know that whenever my team loses, there are other fans, with their own passions and memories, who are delighted over their team’s victories. Last year, as the St. Louis Cardinals claimed their 11th championship, millions of Redbirds fans were glorying in their unexpected triumph. That’s pretty awesome to see, no matter what the team. This year, I’ve got my eye on the Royals from Kansas City, who have not made the playoffs since their championship season of 1985, and who are unveiling a team filled with some of baseball’s top young talent. It might not be this year for the Royals, but it may be quite soon. I’m also watching out for the Nationals of Washington, who have even more young talent than Kansas City, and could contend for the playoffs as soon as this season. Washington has only seen one baseball championship, and that was nearly 90 years ago. Perhaps it’s about time for a second.
A new baseball season is set to begin this week. I’m hoping to get to a couple of Yankees games this year, where I can see that big green field and hear those bats and balls connect. The season will unfold, and I’ll follow it like a novel I can’t put down. But no matter what happens in the end, it will have been worth it. It always is.
Showing posts with label Brooklyn Dodgers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brooklyn Dodgers. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Monday, August 23, 2010
Broomsticks & Bobby (One Sixty-Two: Day 123)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day One Hundred Twenty-Three: Edgar Renteria, San Francisco Giants (via Bobby Thomson)
In 1951, my grandparents lived with my mom in an apartment on Victory Boulevard in Tompkinsville, a working-class neighborhood on the North Shore of Staten Island. Their landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Nellis, lived above them and rooted passionately for the Brooklyn Dodgers. My grandparents gave them a hard time in September of ’51, as the New York Giants stormed back from 13½ games back to force a three-game playoff with the Dodgers for the National League pennant.
On October 3rd, when Bobby Thomson hit a three-run home run in the ninth inning of the deciding Game 3, my grandparents couldn’t help themselves. They picked up a broomstick and started banging on the ceiling. They, like almost all of New York, had been following this pennant race closely. Thomson’s home run had them whooping and hollering, while it had their landlords sobbing. Neither landlords nor tenants were alone in their reactions.
Bobby Thomson died a week ago at age 86, and he spent a lot of time over the last 59 years of his life talking about that home run. Not many people know what it’s like to electrify the world with one swing. But Thomson knew.
There have been players who’ve experienced the thrill of ending a postseason series with a game-winning hit. Bill Mazeroski and Joe Carter have clinched World Series titles with home runs, while Aaron Boone has, like Thomson, launched his team into the Fall Classic with one. Luis Gonzalez, Edgar Renteria and Gene Larkin have clinched world championships for their teams with singles. All of these hits are among baseball’s most exciting moments ever.
But when you’re talking about New York City in 1951, it’s a bit different from Minnesota in 1991, Miami in ’97 or Phoenix in 2001. There has never been a more fascinating setting for baseball than Gotham in the 1950s, as countless sports writers and historians have explained through books and articles over the years. And to think that of the three New York baseball teams, one was already in the World Series in October ’51, while the other two were playing a three-game series in order to get there and face the Yankees. That’s a level of excitement never experienced before, and never since.
I met Bobby Thomson once, while covering the unveiling of a postage stamp that commemorated his famous home run. Thomson seemed humble, reserved, and still in love with the game of baseball. He seemed to understand just what his “Shot Heard Round the World” meant to people, but he also surely knew that he would have never gotten the chance to hit such a historic homer were it not for so much amazing baseball played that season by Giants and Dodgers players alike.
To the people of New York, Thomson’s homer brought tears of joy, tears of sadness, screams of all kinds, and pandemonium in the city that never sleeps. It led to broomstick-knocks from the apartment below you, as your tenants shouted with joy while you covered your face to hide from the truth.
Bobby Thomson brought the frenzy of 1950s New York City baseball to its nirvana. He delivered it, savored it, and heard about it for six decades afterward. It was the kind of day that you don’t mind reliving for the rest of your life. Or telling your grandkids about. It was, most assuredly, the kind of day you remember forever.
Day One Hundred Twenty-Three: Edgar Renteria, San Francisco Giants (via Bobby Thomson)
In 1951, my grandparents lived with my mom in an apartment on Victory Boulevard in Tompkinsville, a working-class neighborhood on the North Shore of Staten Island. Their landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Nellis, lived above them and rooted passionately for the Brooklyn Dodgers. My grandparents gave them a hard time in September of ’51, as the New York Giants stormed back from 13½ games back to force a three-game playoff with the Dodgers for the National League pennant.
On October 3rd, when Bobby Thomson hit a three-run home run in the ninth inning of the deciding Game 3, my grandparents couldn’t help themselves. They picked up a broomstick and started banging on the ceiling. They, like almost all of New York, had been following this pennant race closely. Thomson’s home run had them whooping and hollering, while it had their landlords sobbing. Neither landlords nor tenants were alone in their reactions.
Bobby Thomson died a week ago at age 86, and he spent a lot of time over the last 59 years of his life talking about that home run. Not many people know what it’s like to electrify the world with one swing. But Thomson knew.
There have been players who’ve experienced the thrill of ending a postseason series with a game-winning hit. Bill Mazeroski and Joe Carter have clinched World Series titles with home runs, while Aaron Boone has, like Thomson, launched his team into the Fall Classic with one. Luis Gonzalez, Edgar Renteria and Gene Larkin have clinched world championships for their teams with singles. All of these hits are among baseball’s most exciting moments ever.
But when you’re talking about New York City in 1951, it’s a bit different from Minnesota in 1991, Miami in ’97 or Phoenix in 2001. There has never been a more fascinating setting for baseball than Gotham in the 1950s, as countless sports writers and historians have explained through books and articles over the years. And to think that of the three New York baseball teams, one was already in the World Series in October ’51, while the other two were playing a three-game series in order to get there and face the Yankees. That’s a level of excitement never experienced before, and never since.
I met Bobby Thomson once, while covering the unveiling of a postage stamp that commemorated his famous home run. Thomson seemed humble, reserved, and still in love with the game of baseball. He seemed to understand just what his “Shot Heard Round the World” meant to people, but he also surely knew that he would have never gotten the chance to hit such a historic homer were it not for so much amazing baseball played that season by Giants and Dodgers players alike.
To the people of New York, Thomson’s homer brought tears of joy, tears of sadness, screams of all kinds, and pandemonium in the city that never sleeps. It led to broomstick-knocks from the apartment below you, as your tenants shouted with joy while you covered your face to hide from the truth.
Bobby Thomson brought the frenzy of 1950s New York City baseball to its nirvana. He delivered it, savored it, and heard about it for six decades afterward. It was the kind of day that you don’t mind reliving for the rest of your life. Or telling your grandkids about. It was, most assuredly, the kind of day you remember forever.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Hunting Wabbits (One Sixty-Two: Day 102)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day One Hundred-Two: James McDonald, Pittsburgh Pirates
When we brought our dog home five months ago, we named her Daisy. A more fitting name would have been Elmer Fudd.
Throughout this summer – both at our own house and at my parents’ home – there has been an abundance of rabbits in the backyard. Daisy, like most dogs, is fascinated by any animal smaller than her. But as a golden retriever, she is trained to carry dead birds to her owners. Today, during a walk, she lifted up a dead bird with her mouth and turned to me. “No!” I said sharply, and she dropped the bird gently to the ground.
But as for rabbits, well, I honestly think Daisy is either secretly afraid of them or rather sympathetic toward them. I say this because her percentage of “wabbit” kills is in line with that of Mr. Fudd.
When she sees the rabbit, her eyes open wide and her muscles grow taut. She takes a quick first step toward the bunny, appears to have a shot at the animal and then – for reasons she cannot explain to me – Daisy hesitates. Her stutter-step gives the rabbit just enough time to dart through a hole in the fence and into safety. Daisy arrives a second too late, every time, and spends the next 15 minutes staring intently through the fence at the one that got away.
“You’ll get ‘em next time, Daisy,” we say to her. She’s the Brooklyn Dodgers of rabbit-hunters: Always falling short, only to hope that she’ll be a step faster the next time.
Of course, the Dodgers did have 1955. There was a year when the hope was rewarded with a championship. Daisy may have her day, too. For the rabbits’ sake, I certainly hope not. I was never one to root for Elmer Fudd over Bugs Bunny.
The Pittsburgh Pirates have felt like a bunch of Elmer Fudds and Brooklyn Dodgers over the past two decades, with the main difference being that Fudd and the Dodgers actually came close to attaining success. As I wrote in a blog post last fall (http://thepitchbaseballlife.blogspot.com/2009/09/beauty-and-bucs.html), and as Sports Illustrated’s L. Jon Wertheim wrote a few weeks ago, there is a huge disparity between the majestic beauty of the Pirates’ home stadium and the gross ugliness of the baseball that has been played in that park. The Pirates’ struggles predate the 2001 opening of PNC Park by nearly a decade, as they now hold the longest losing streak in the history of major North American team sports. A game in this stadium, with its backdrop of rivers, bridges and skylines, is worth every penny. Unfortunately, this year’s Pirates will become the 18th straight Pittsburgh team to finish with a sub-.500 record.
As usual, the Pirates traded away veterans at this year’s trading deadline. But unlike years past, when Pittsburgh was criticized for accepting mediocre prospects for their veteran players, the Pirates picked up a couple of talented youngsters when they dealt their closer, Octavio Dotel, to the Los Angeles Dodgers. One of those prospects, pitcher James McDonald, will start for the Pirates this week. Pittsburgh also managed to send a few veterans past their prime to the Arizona Diamondbacks in exchange for a very serviceable catcher, Chris Snyder.
Add this to the small group of superb young players on the Pirates’ team – Andrew McCutchen, Pedro Alvarez, Neil Walker – and there is at least something there. The Pirates are not going to start winning division titles next year. But the team claims it is working hard to spend its money wisely, trying to build a contender despite its small-market status. If this is true, then there might just be a year in this next decade when the people of Pittsburgh finally get to follow a pennant race. With the rabbit in sight, the boys in black and gold will try to do what my dog cannot – make a full sprint toward their goal, with no acceptance of failure this time. It’s got to happen someday. Next year can’t last forever.
Day One Hundred-Two: James McDonald, Pittsburgh Pirates
When we brought our dog home five months ago, we named her Daisy. A more fitting name would have been Elmer Fudd.
Throughout this summer – both at our own house and at my parents’ home – there has been an abundance of rabbits in the backyard. Daisy, like most dogs, is fascinated by any animal smaller than her. But as a golden retriever, she is trained to carry dead birds to her owners. Today, during a walk, she lifted up a dead bird with her mouth and turned to me. “No!” I said sharply, and she dropped the bird gently to the ground.
But as for rabbits, well, I honestly think Daisy is either secretly afraid of them or rather sympathetic toward them. I say this because her percentage of “wabbit” kills is in line with that of Mr. Fudd.
When she sees the rabbit, her eyes open wide and her muscles grow taut. She takes a quick first step toward the bunny, appears to have a shot at the animal and then – for reasons she cannot explain to me – Daisy hesitates. Her stutter-step gives the rabbit just enough time to dart through a hole in the fence and into safety. Daisy arrives a second too late, every time, and spends the next 15 minutes staring intently through the fence at the one that got away.
“You’ll get ‘em next time, Daisy,” we say to her. She’s the Brooklyn Dodgers of rabbit-hunters: Always falling short, only to hope that she’ll be a step faster the next time.
Of course, the Dodgers did have 1955. There was a year when the hope was rewarded with a championship. Daisy may have her day, too. For the rabbits’ sake, I certainly hope not. I was never one to root for Elmer Fudd over Bugs Bunny.
The Pittsburgh Pirates have felt like a bunch of Elmer Fudds and Brooklyn Dodgers over the past two decades, with the main difference being that Fudd and the Dodgers actually came close to attaining success. As I wrote in a blog post last fall (http://thepitchbaseballlife.blogspot.com/2009/09/beauty-and-bucs.html), and as Sports Illustrated’s L. Jon Wertheim wrote a few weeks ago, there is a huge disparity between the majestic beauty of the Pirates’ home stadium and the gross ugliness of the baseball that has been played in that park. The Pirates’ struggles predate the 2001 opening of PNC Park by nearly a decade, as they now hold the longest losing streak in the history of major North American team sports. A game in this stadium, with its backdrop of rivers, bridges and skylines, is worth every penny. Unfortunately, this year’s Pirates will become the 18th straight Pittsburgh team to finish with a sub-.500 record.
As usual, the Pirates traded away veterans at this year’s trading deadline. But unlike years past, when Pittsburgh was criticized for accepting mediocre prospects for their veteran players, the Pirates picked up a couple of talented youngsters when they dealt their closer, Octavio Dotel, to the Los Angeles Dodgers. One of those prospects, pitcher James McDonald, will start for the Pirates this week. Pittsburgh also managed to send a few veterans past their prime to the Arizona Diamondbacks in exchange for a very serviceable catcher, Chris Snyder.
Add this to the small group of superb young players on the Pirates’ team – Andrew McCutchen, Pedro Alvarez, Neil Walker – and there is at least something there. The Pirates are not going to start winning division titles next year. But the team claims it is working hard to spend its money wisely, trying to build a contender despite its small-market status. If this is true, then there might just be a year in this next decade when the people of Pittsburgh finally get to follow a pennant race. With the rabbit in sight, the boys in black and gold will try to do what my dog cannot – make a full sprint toward their goal, with no acceptance of failure this time. It’s got to happen someday. Next year can’t last forever.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Fathers and Footes (One Sixty-Two: Day 59)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day Fifty-Nine: Omar Vizquel, Chicago White Sox
They popped up from behind the couch, with a “Happy Father’s Day” and a gift bag in hand. The girls gave me their homemade cards, a really cool fitness watch, and a ball that’s made for catches on the beach (“Bounces on water!” the box reads). As I thanked the girls and their mom for each of these gifts, I noticed one more small package in the gift bag.
The silver wrapping looked about the size of a baseball card – and, wouldn’t you know it, it was a pack of baseball cards. It’s been about 20 years since I’ve held a brand-new pack of cards in my hand, and I know the pack would probably be more valuable if I never opened it. But after 20 years, I still remembered that anticipation of what might be inside. I tore open the wrapper.
It wasn’t a bad pack, either, with Manny Ramirez, Cole Hamels and Jonathan Papelbon cards inside, as well as a rookie card for Giants prospect Madison Bumgarner. The most enjoyable card in the pack for me was White Sox shortstop Omar Vizquel, as the back of his card required Topps to cram 21 years worth of statistics onto one tiny surface. The point size for Vizquel’s statistics was in the low single digits, and I remembered fondly some of the similar cards I’d had as a youngster – players such as Tim McCarver and Jim Kaat, who had played in the big leagues for more than 20 years and whose numbers seemed to require a magnifying glass to read them.
The package stated that there would be 12 cards inside – unless you were lucky enough to be a winner. This year, Topps is running a contest it calls the “Million Card Giveaway,” in which the company is sending lucky winners an original baseball card from years gone by. “We’re giving you back the cards your mom threw out!” the slogan reads.
If you’ve won a card, then your pack features a replica of an old card (not the real one), along with another card featuring a special code on it. When you register on-line, you type in this code and find out which old card Topps is willing to send you.
The relic card I received was a 1955 Duke Snider, which is not a card that my mother threw out – but, most assuredly, a card that my father’s mother threw out. I looked at the young Snider following through on his swing and thought of my dad, who was enjoying a day at the beach today. The Duke was my dad’s childhood sports hero, and 1955 was the year in which Snider and Co. finally claimed that elusive world championship by defeating the rival Yankees. What daydreams my father must have had, holding this card in his 12-year-old hands and thinking of No. 4 hitting another one out of Ebbets Field.
As I said, the Snider card was just a replica. But this second card had a code on it, with an original waiting for me if I just chose to register on-line and type in the code. I knew I was setting myself up for about 500 e-mails from Topps, but with the Snider card staring me in the face I had to do it. What if this card they’ll send me really is a ’55 Snider? That would definitely provide an excuse for the late Father’s Day gift, wouldn’t it?
And so I logged on, registered, and typed in all the letters and numbers. My heart skipped a beat as I clicked submit, and … and … it was a 1980 Barry Foote.
Indeed, I was awarded the card of a weak-hitting catcher who spent most of his career as a backup. Foote looks ever the sportsman on the card, all right, with his thick mustache and his wavy brown hair spilling out from beneath a blue Cubs helmet. Back in 1970, when Foote was a first-round draft pick, he inspired a lot of excitement in the baseball world. And he certainly played the game far better than I ever did. But today, as I “unlocked” his old card from Topps, I was definitely underwhelmed. Especially considering that I have the card in my house, along with the rest of the 1980 collection that I completed the old-fashioned way, one pack at a time. So when Topps offered to send me the card for $3 in shipping, I balked.
Had it been a Duke Snider card, that’s another story. Oh, well – maybe next time, Dad. I hope you enjoyed the rest of your Father’s Day, and you know I love you. Sorry I couldn’t get you that card your mother threw out, but there are far worse things in this world.
And hey – the Topps site does say we can trade the cards we’ve gotten through this giveaway. So if any of you out there have a Barry Foote fetish, let’s do business. I’m awaiting your request.
Day Fifty-Nine: Omar Vizquel, Chicago White Sox
They popped up from behind the couch, with a “Happy Father’s Day” and a gift bag in hand. The girls gave me their homemade cards, a really cool fitness watch, and a ball that’s made for catches on the beach (“Bounces on water!” the box reads). As I thanked the girls and their mom for each of these gifts, I noticed one more small package in the gift bag.
The silver wrapping looked about the size of a baseball card – and, wouldn’t you know it, it was a pack of baseball cards. It’s been about 20 years since I’ve held a brand-new pack of cards in my hand, and I know the pack would probably be more valuable if I never opened it. But after 20 years, I still remembered that anticipation of what might be inside. I tore open the wrapper.
It wasn’t a bad pack, either, with Manny Ramirez, Cole Hamels and Jonathan Papelbon cards inside, as well as a rookie card for Giants prospect Madison Bumgarner. The most enjoyable card in the pack for me was White Sox shortstop Omar Vizquel, as the back of his card required Topps to cram 21 years worth of statistics onto one tiny surface. The point size for Vizquel’s statistics was in the low single digits, and I remembered fondly some of the similar cards I’d had as a youngster – players such as Tim McCarver and Jim Kaat, who had played in the big leagues for more than 20 years and whose numbers seemed to require a magnifying glass to read them.
The package stated that there would be 12 cards inside – unless you were lucky enough to be a winner. This year, Topps is running a contest it calls the “Million Card Giveaway,” in which the company is sending lucky winners an original baseball card from years gone by. “We’re giving you back the cards your mom threw out!” the slogan reads.
If you’ve won a card, then your pack features a replica of an old card (not the real one), along with another card featuring a special code on it. When you register on-line, you type in this code and find out which old card Topps is willing to send you.
The relic card I received was a 1955 Duke Snider, which is not a card that my mother threw out – but, most assuredly, a card that my father’s mother threw out. I looked at the young Snider following through on his swing and thought of my dad, who was enjoying a day at the beach today. The Duke was my dad’s childhood sports hero, and 1955 was the year in which Snider and Co. finally claimed that elusive world championship by defeating the rival Yankees. What daydreams my father must have had, holding this card in his 12-year-old hands and thinking of No. 4 hitting another one out of Ebbets Field.
As I said, the Snider card was just a replica. But this second card had a code on it, with an original waiting for me if I just chose to register on-line and type in the code. I knew I was setting myself up for about 500 e-mails from Topps, but with the Snider card staring me in the face I had to do it. What if this card they’ll send me really is a ’55 Snider? That would definitely provide an excuse for the late Father’s Day gift, wouldn’t it?
And so I logged on, registered, and typed in all the letters and numbers. My heart skipped a beat as I clicked submit, and … and … it was a 1980 Barry Foote.
Indeed, I was awarded the card of a weak-hitting catcher who spent most of his career as a backup. Foote looks ever the sportsman on the card, all right, with his thick mustache and his wavy brown hair spilling out from beneath a blue Cubs helmet. Back in 1970, when Foote was a first-round draft pick, he inspired a lot of excitement in the baseball world. And he certainly played the game far better than I ever did. But today, as I “unlocked” his old card from Topps, I was definitely underwhelmed. Especially considering that I have the card in my house, along with the rest of the 1980 collection that I completed the old-fashioned way, one pack at a time. So when Topps offered to send me the card for $3 in shipping, I balked.
Had it been a Duke Snider card, that’s another story. Oh, well – maybe next time, Dad. I hope you enjoyed the rest of your Father’s Day, and you know I love you. Sorry I couldn’t get you that card your mother threw out, but there are far worse things in this world.
And hey – the Topps site does say we can trade the cards we’ve gotten through this giveaway. So if any of you out there have a Barry Foote fetish, let’s do business. I’m awaiting your request.
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