The disabled list reads like an obituary. Beachy and Medlen. Matt Harvey. Jarrod Parker, Cory Luebke, Jurickson Profar. It’s the same every year; just the names change. Makes hate an understandable slip on a manager’s tongue as war within jihads turn outward towards a Gatorade cooler.
Moonshine in Tide detergent buckets; hair spray cocktails enjoyed by retired professors pushing shopping karts. Only a sea-gull swoosh of wings provides relief; back to Florida and Eden when the season was still perfect. Fat chance. It was already raining.
The manager surrenders to the horrible scope of liberty. People are free to drive around in hearses, wear necrophilia around their necks. There are or no flowers in a full season’s head of hair; just hamstring pulls, groin strains, shoulder stiffness, what the hell happened to Jameson Taillon! The ulnar collateral elbow ligament damage blues. Pass the Jameson please. Tommy John is scribbled onto stalls.
There’s no Jesus Chrysler driving by with bumper sticker promises, only exhaust encouraging the something out of nothing; the 8 year minor league veteran with a chance now. Ships sail from Japan.
I was gonna give hate a try, but I don’t like seeing Profar freezing his ass off on Fenway’s dugout steps, not even Mark Teixeira twisting some 33-year-old limb on the Blue Jays artificial turf, not even Teixeira the Yankee.
I try to take an invincible deep breath and stand on the rebel side; pointing my finger at everything Yankees. I even make a dirty laundry hit list. I clean out my bazooka and aim towards American business king George Steinbrenner and Zoo Bronx hype; the monopoly flying all over creation to gather talent and even more in George’s wake; the McCann, Tanaka, Ellsbury up the middle 200 million dollar signings. But anyway I cut or origami shape my hate, I surrender to Yankee smart.
Goes well with 27 World Series banners, the schmaltz of tradition; the glass motorcade bullpen good enough for Popes, Hall of Fame plaques the I love New York t-shirts that leak into Yankee Stadium attitudes and turn players into living relics in every generation; from Ruth to Gehrig to DiMaggio to Mantle to Rivera to Jeter to Cano flew the coop to the next heart-throb is ? All the money generated by a Yankee feeling; from Jupiter to Avenue J; keeping baseball a float. My slips are fewer.
I wish I could hate the Yankees, but I can’t get the late Bob Shepperd’s voice out of my mind and I only heard the PA announcer once. “Now batting number 22, second baseman Homer Bush.” He sounded so simple and New York; so slow and calm. He was the ghost of Carlton the doorman from the old sitcom Rhoda. I’d be happy sitting in Yankee stadium right now; game or no game; light or dark.
I’m a sucker for the bleacher creature tradition of chanting each player’s name until the player acknowledges with gratitude; just a flip of a finger from second base is barely a whisper to the bleachers, but highly effective. Transmission complete. Serotonin rises.
Baseball without the Yankees would be communism and that would be ok. I’m part communist but not when it comes to baseball. I can’t help thinking Oakland’s strange under the radar roster is a reaction in part to the evil Yankees. And ditto for Joe Maddon’s resurrection of the Ted Williams shift; applying it to every batter during every situation, every count, every circumstance; his defense shuffling in constant tango. Those aren’t Martin Scorsese glasses Joe Maddon wears. Those are hyposcopes delving deep into x-rays matters.
The Yankees are Darth Vader dangerous and Star Wars necessary. Did Brian McCann shave his beard under the terror of some anti hair decree? Citizens of the world unite against the Spanish, the British, McDonald’s big macs, all the big daddy empires. The Yankees. They motivate us to do other worldly things we could have never imagined. Johnny Rotten is very grateful to all the acoustic guitar love poets.
So let the injury plagued team watch the hype fade and surprises bubble up and scream from down under. The weather vane points towards acceptance.