The Futility Infielder

The Big Book of Bitter Defeats

OUCH! Put Game 7 of the 2001 World Series in the Big Book of Bitter Defeats. The Arizona Diamondbacks rallied from down 2-1 in the bottom of the ninth inning against Mariano Rivera to dethrone the three-time defending World Champions and bring the title to a four-year old purple-wearing expansion team that's $50 million dollars in debt. In the words of the Seattle Pilots manager Joe Schultz in Jim Bouton's Ball Four, "Ah, shitfuck."

As confident as I was when Rivera came in the game in the eighth inning to protect the slim lead, as soon as he got into trouble in the ninth, when Mark Grace singled, I knew it could get ugly. It did, and Mariano's poor throw to second base on Damian Miller's bunt was the backbreaker. Everything else was just a formality.

What can you say? I'd still take Mariano out there with a 1-run lead and all the money on the table every day for the rest of my life, if I had the option. Hats off to the Diamondbacks. They beat our best, and after outplaying the Yanks for most of the World Series, the veteran cast of Curt Schilling, Randy Johnson, Mark Grace, Luis Gonzalez, Matt Williams, Steve Finley, Mike Morgan, Bobby Witt, Greg Swindell, et al--a veritable roll-call of the long-suffering--deserve their World Championship.

But they also beat a deeply flawed team that had been papering over the cracks for too long, a team with a gimpy starting rotation, a short bullpen, and subpar production at every corner power position. A team that went further than even the most ardent Yankees fan could have possibly hoped, and helped to provide a welcome diversion for this tragedy-wracked city. The thrills that Joe Torre's team has provided over the past three-and-a-half weeks, to say nothing of the past six years, are priceless--they'll be remembered as fondly as any I've ever experienced in 25 years as a baseball fan. Like the times I've watched my other nearest and dearest teams--the L.A Dodgers in the 1978 World Series, the Utah Jazz in the 1997 and 1998 NBA Finals, the University of Utah in the 1998 NCAA Basketball Finals--fall just short of the grand prize, all I can think is, "Wow. They gave us one hell of a ride." So, to be honest, it really doesn't matter to me that they came up short this time. There will be no tears on this pillow tonight.

I'm reminded of a lonely, chilly October night in 1997, the night after the Yanks had been eliminated by the Indians in the first round. I was walking down Avenue A in the East Village of Manhattan and I passed a bar called 2A, which had a chalkboard in the window. It read:

"Only 107 days until Pitchers and Catchers. GO YANKEES!"

I hadn't been a Yankee fan for very long at that time; I'd stowed myself away on the bandwagon late in '96, a year after moving to the city. But suddenly I understood. These are the New York Yankees. You can hate them all you want, you can even celebrate having pounded that wooden stake through their heart--this time. But know this: they will be back, and they will be stepping on necks and breaking hearts sooner than the headlines can read "Expansion Team Fire Sale." No Yankees fan takes this team and its successes for granted. No fans better understand the hair's breadth that separates a great pitch and a bad one, the World Championship trophy and the Thanks For Playing handshake that comes with the home board-game edition. And none of us has any doubt that someday soon the Yankees will be the World Champions once again.