The Futility Infielder

Q: What does $185 million buy?
A: The worst choke in postseason baseball history.

The most expensive team in the history of professional sports has been consigned to the dustbin of history as its laughingstock. As the first baseball team ever to blow a 3-0 lead in a best-of-seven series, losing to their most hated and continually tormented rivals, the 2004 New York Yankees will forever occupy a circle of hell they could have scarcely anticipated only a few days ago, when they were a mere three outs away from their 40th pennant. On Wednesday night the Boston Red Sox completed their miraculous comeback by laying a good old-fashioned Bronx beatdown on the Yanks on their own turf, winning 10-3 to take the ALCS four games to three.

Unlike the previous three nights, when the agony had lingered for the Bronx Bombers, the Yankees' life in this contest was nasty, short and brutish. The ballgame was a disaster from the first inning, with starter Kevin Brown yielding a two-run homer to David Ortiz -- excuse me, David Fucking Ortiz -- one pitch after leadoff hitter Johnny Damon had been gunned down at the plate. Four batters, three hits, two runs, one out, and no wonder Joe Torre refused to name the 39-year-old mercenary his starter immediately after Tuesday night's loss. For all of his self-inflicted psychodrama in September and after being thrashed by the Red Sox in his last two appearances, neither Brown's physical nor emotional states inspired confidence, even with him being the most rested of any Yankee starter. One wonders whether the choice was even Torre's to make, given his lack of enthusiasm on the matter.

Already on a short leash, Brown began the second by falling behind 3-1 before retiring Trot Nixon on a grounder, then proceeded to load the bases via a single and two walks. More disgusted than dismayed, Torre pulled his failed starter, who was booed lustily during his walk of shame. Regardless of the outcome, from that moment Kevin Brown was almost certainly done in pinstripes, his $15 million salary for 2005 a cost George Steinbrenner will relish sinking. Does Siberia have a baseball team?

(And while I don't enjoy being right in this instance, the final verdict is that the Yanks were smoked on that deal with the Dodgers.)

Torre compounded a bad situation -- loaded, one out -- with an even worse decision. The situation begged for a ground ball pitcher capable of getting a double play, or at least somebody not prone to giving up a homer. Leaving aside Mariano Rivera, Tom Gordon and the previous two games' starters, here's who he had at his disposal:

            G/F    DP/9   HR/9

Quantrill   1.41   0.76   0.47

Heredia     1.23   0.47   1.17

Loaiza      0.98   0.64   1.57

Sturtze     0.95   0.93   1.05

Vazquez     0.85   0.41   1.50

Hernandez   0.85   0.32   0.96

In the last critical decision he would make in the 2004 season, Torre tapped Vazquez, the least likely option to produce a ground ball or a double play and the most likely to produce a home run. In doing so, he brought a starter into a mid-inning crisis for which he simply lacked the necessary preparation (those well-traveled relievers wear disdainful sneers because they're used to cleaning up somebody else's mess) and artillery (Javy's strikeout rate, once more than a batter per inning, dropped 38 percent compared to last year). Paul Quantrill or Tanyon Sturtze would have been much better options, or even El Duque as the only true strikeout pitcher of the bunch.

One way or another, Torre chose dead wrong, as Damon destroyed Vazquez's first offering for a grand slam and a six-run lead. Game over? The Yankee lineup certainly played as though it was, donning thousand-yard stares for three-pitch at-bats against Derek Lowe, who was pitching on only two days' rest. Only Miguel Cairo, who was barely clipped on an inside pitch, sprinted to first and then stole second, and Jeter, who gave the Yanks brief hope by driving in Cairo one pitch after the theft, showed any semblance of a pulse. Jeter's single was the lone hit Lowe surrendered in six innings of work; he threw 69 pitches to 21 batters, three over the minimum, 3.1 per hitter. Was that an on-deck circle or a taxi stand?

Damon torched Vazquez for another homer, a two-run upper-deck shot, in the fourth, and the Yanks briefly made a show of life against Pedro Martinez, who came on in relief in the seventh and yielded two quick runs on three hits while the Bronx crowd, in one of sports' least timely taunts ever, resumed its "Who's Your Daddy?" jeer. That said, Francona's insertion of Pedro (wait, did I just say that?) was seen as a strange, dubious move by analysts and bush-league even by some Sox fans. But really, both teams were just playing out the string, waiting for the little red light to go off and the charred bread to pop up. The Yankees, in other words, were toast.

Their defeat was richly deserved, and there is more than enough blame to go around. And while George Stienbrenner has probably convened a firing squad already, there will also be more than enough time to assess that blame at length. For the moment it will suffice to say that $185 million does not buy the following:

• depth
• a guarantee of good health
• an ability to make men on the shady side of 30 perform as though they were in their prime
• an excuse for this team to have stopped producing homegrown talent
• a reiliance on supernatural phenomena
• a World Championship, or even a World Series berth

Likewise, seven division titles, six pennants and four rings do not buy Joe Torre a free pass for his mismanagement over the last four games, particularly with regards to his complacency toward lineup construction and laissez-faire attitude toward Jeter's bunting (I see the Yanks' chances having gone straight downhill after the Captain's Game Five eighth-innig bunt following Cairo's leadoff double -- it was their best chance to score in what turned out to be a stretch of 14 scoreless innings for the Yankee offense, a stretch that decided the series as much as Game Seven did). Those same credentials do not buy Mel Stottlemyre a free pass for failing to iron out the flaws in too many pitchers who endured second-half collapses. And the myth that Torre, Jeter, and Rivera somehow possess innate, superhuman, Championship-winning qualities must now be laid to rest, along with -- it would appear -- the Curse of the Bambino.

I'll expand on these topics in the coming days, weeks, months... whatever. You know where to find me, as I keep the candle burning year-round whether my teams are playing ball or not. I started blogging in 2001, the year the Yanks' quest for four straight titles came to an end. As fun as it is to celebrate winning, from a writing standpoint, losing after being so close yields a lot better material. And as painful as the previous three nights had been, the early returns on last night (and a lot of beer) produced a spirited gallows humor among me, my fianceé Andra, and my pal Nick that made watching this towering inferno -- "Burn the mother down!" considerably more bearable.

For now, congratulations to the Red Sox for taking it to the Yankees in exactly the way that the Yanks have done it to so many others, for coming back to the Bronx weary but so obviously more hungry than the men in pinstripes. My hat is off to them, literally cut to shreds with scissors moments after the last out, as that particular 7 1/4 model had done me no good since the day I bought it. Congrats as well to the classy Sox fans whom I've gotten to know via this blog and their own, as we've found common ground in our love for the game and its myriad angles as well as this heated rivarly without tearing each other apart with every exchange. You guys and gals know who you are -- enjoy it while ya got it.

The indelible image that will stick with me is Curt Schilling, Derek Lowe, and Bronson Arroyo grabbing their mitts and heading down to the Boston bullpen as extra innings began in Game Four. Battered, broken and nearly beaten, they were prepared to do any little thing they could to stave off defeat, even if it were merely symbolic. Not once after Saturday night, did a Yankee show similar resourcefulness -- Alex Rodriguez's illegal sissy slap doesn't count -- or exhibit the kind of gung-ho confidence that would have given his teammates and fans an outwardly-aimed boost of morale. For all of the talk about cold, hard numbers that we kick around, such symbolism does matter, especially in times of crisis within a short series where anything can happen, even if it's only the barest smidgen of a whisper of a boost. In addition to being outscored and outlasted, the team of unlimited payroll and supposedly unlimited intangibles got out-intangibled.

Ain't that a bitch?