The Futility Infielder

The Yanks were cooked. Down 2-0 with two outs in the ninth inning, it looked for all the world that they were headed to defeat, both for the afternoon and for the weekend's interleague series against the San Diego Padres. David Wells had returned to Yankee Stadium wearing the navy-and-sand garb of the Padres but pitching like Fat Man #33 in Pinstripes, the one that we Yankee fans grew to love through his triumphs and transgressions. Drawing an ovation from the forgiving crowd -- the back trouble in the World Series, the reneged oral contract agreement over the winter -- upon his entrance, Wells was moved him to tip his cap before his first pitch, and later admitted to being "a little choked up." He hung seven zeroes on the Yanks for the afternoon, holding them to five meager singles and striking out four while walking none, letting only one baserunner reach third, pounding the strike zone while moving the game along at a brisk pace, a mere 76 pitches. Vintage Boomer.

Padre manager Bruce Bochy had put the game in the hands of his able bullpen, first the sensational Japanese setup man Akinori Otsuka and then closer Trevor Hoffman, who stood one out away from racking up his 15th save. "Where's Scott Brosius when you need him?" asked the suffering Alex Belth, my ballpark comrade for the day (my girlfriend Andra and friend Julie had scurried down to Loge to get out of the sun in the middle innings). As Hideki Matsui stepped into the box, the crowd was strangely silent, making my singing of Blue Oyster Cult's "Godzilla" sound pretty insipid, even to my own ears. Sheepishly, I gathered my belongings. But Hoffman, who'd gone 0-2 on both Jason Giambi and Jorge Posada, fell behind 2-0 on Matsui, and on the third pitch, Godzilla jacked a long home run to rightfield, cutting the score to 2-1. "Oh no, there goes Tokyo, go, go, Godzilla!"

Ruben Sierra had been in the on-deck circle to hit for first baseman Tony Clark, but Yank manager Joe Torre called him back in favor of Kenny Lofton. Alex and I had been busting on the just-activated Lofton all afternoon. Bernie Williams had started in centerfield and batted first, Lofton's desired role when he signed over the winter, and the two of us had savored the fact that Bernie's well-timed recovery was chafing the itinerant Lofton's hide. Lofton's blaming his injuries on not being in the lineup and kvetching about his limited role have made him an easy target and a likely trade candidate.

But on this day Lofton executed his role perfectly. He took two pitches from Hoffman for balls, fouled one off, and then hammered a shot to righfield that was nearly as convincing as Matsui's, tying the score and insuring that Boomer's return would not end quite so triumphantly. Suddenly the efforts of Wells' (literally) opposite number, Javier Vazquez (who now wears #33) -- eight strong innings, six hits, two runs, no walks, eight K's -- were all the more appreciated, not that the Puerto Rican Day celebrants flying their colors needed any extra encouragement.

Just as Lofton had stepped to the plate, Alex and I began conjecturing over who would play first for the Yanks with Giambi already at DH, assuming they tied the score. With the point no longer moot, we continued to wonder. Posada (16 games of major league experience there), with John Flaherty going behind the plate? Bernie Williams (rumored to have been encouraged to buy a first baseman's mitt, or something), with Lofton going to center? Enrique Wilson? Giambi, with the Yanks giving up the DH? Finally I guessed Miguel Cairo, correctly as it turned out; he shifted over from second as Wilson entered the game.

It had been a quick-paced ballgame through nine innings, clocking in at around two and a half hours. Vazquez had been nearly as efficient as Wells, mostly staying ahead of the hitters and making only two mistakes -- one which rookie shortstop Khalil Greene blooped over the leftfield wall for a solo shot in the third, and another which Terrence Long smoked for an RBI double in the seventh. But as the relievers filed out of both bullpens like clowns stuffed in a tiny car, the game slowed to a crawl. Tom Gordon, who'd sailed through the ninth, yielded a fan-interference double to Sean Burroughs and wild-pitched him to third in the tenth before wriggling free. Padre reliever Scott Linebrick walked the bases loaded in the tenth -- the first walks on the day for either side -- before escaping trouble. Paul Quantrill gave up two hits in the eleventh, finding a safety valve when Posada gunned down pinch-runner Kerry Robinson.

It's an old adage that if you call upon enough relievers, sooner or later you'll find the one who will lose you the ballgame, and for the Yanks, it looked as though Brett Prinz was the bad apple at the bottom of the barrel. In between rides on the Columbus shuttle (through no fault of his own), Prinz had thrown 9.1 innings of scoreless ball thus far on the season, yielding only four baserunners, but the Padres got to him in the 12th. Two singles, a four-pitch walk, and then a Mark Loretta sacrifice fly put the Padres up one. One pitch into the next at-bat, Torre called upon Felix Heredia, who with his 9.00 ERA and two baserunners per inning had "bad apple" written all over him. Brian Giles ripped Heredia's first pitch to rightfield, and it squirted past Gary Sheffield (perhaps brooding after his two-on, one-out, first-pitch pop foul to the catcher in the 10th), two runs scoring and Giles taking third, 5-2 Pads and some blue language in Upper Deck Section 14, Row E, Seats 11 & 12.

Rod Beck came on in the bottom of the 12th, providing a kind of symmetry -- one over-the-hill fat, bald, biker-type guy to finish off another fat, bald, biker-type guy's ballgame. Or not. Beck walked Bernie on four pitches, then yielded a double down the rightfield line to Derek Jeter, with Williams holding up at third. The tying run came to the plate in the welcoming form of Alex Rodriguez , but A-Rod could only manage an infield grounder which scored Williams, eating up an out. Sheffield made some amends by blooping a single to center, with Jeter taking third. Giambi roped one to center, scoring Jeter and sending Shef to third, the lead trimmed to 5-4.

Bochy came out to remove Beck, and in came a sight for sore eyes: former Yankee Jay Witasick. I jumped up and down, laughing and pointing like some deranged monkey at Witasick, recalling his futility at the back of the Yankee pen in the 2001 season. He's turned into a reasonably productive reliever -- 2.32 ERA in 31 innings with 33 K's -- but rotten memories of that 2001 World Series (a 54.00 ERA in 1.1 innings, allowing ten hits) still linger, and those remaining of the 52,754 who had attended booed him lustily. Needless to say, I liked our chances.

Witasick got a quick strike on Jorge Posada, but on the second pitch, he ripped a ground-rule double down the rightfield line to tie the game. Giambi, Sheffield, and Posada had been a combined 0-for-14 on the afternoon, but at the drop of a hat, the big bats which had lain dormant swung to life, overcoming the Yankee bullpen's mistakes. This just in: these guys are good.

With runners on second and third, it was academic that Witasick walk Matsui intentionally. Torre countered by sending up Sierra for Wilson, but before Alex and I could settle the "Who's on First, What's on Second" debate again, Sierra, who'd patiently waited for his turn all afternoon, lofted a 1-1 pitch to centerfield. The ball hung in the air for an eternity, and when it settled into Jay Payton's glove, Giambi trotted home with the winning run -- their 26th come-from-behind win of the season -- ending one hell of a great afternoon at the ballpark.