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“Gee, thank GOD I didn’t make it to that game.”
My parents had tried to make me feel better about not being able to go to the Yanks game, and they had a somewhat stronger case when the score was 4-2, but it’s a tough sell to convince someone of the non-value of going to a baseball day game on Memorial Day Weekend, in gorgeous weather, when your favorite team is playing the defending champs.
Their case was shot to hell around the time ARod choked again in the clutch. And by choked, I mean, hit the game-tying 2-run homer in the bottom of the 9th.
I woke up Saturday morning feeling about 34 times worse than Friday. I felt like Donald Duck in the Disney version of Jack and the Beanstalk. I woke up on the couch (again), which makes it now at least a week I’ve gone without making it to my bed. And I woke up with that creepy really cold/burning up sensation that amounts to a perennial sweatshirt on/sweatshirt off-AC on routine.
And to add insult to injury, upon stumbling over to the fridge with the plan to mainline Gatorade, I discover with (short-lived) delight that I have Blue Flavor Gatorade! (My sister’s friend Byron maintains that blue is the most effective flavor because it has the most electrolytes, and like most everything else he ridiculously alleges, I 100% agree with him.)
But for some reason everything in my fridge was frozen. So there was no drinking to be done for at least the time it’d take for everything to thaw in my sink. It was like the Twilight Zone episode “All the Time in the World.” Except it was “All the Hydration Treats in the World.”
My phone was still gone. And calling it from my sister’s phone revealed that it had been turned off. I’m so f’n shocked, like legitimately surprised that SuperAss99 didn’t call begging me to take the thing back at around 8am. There are 3 alarms on my phone set for 7:26am, 7:47am, and 8:08am. None of which will shut off unless you enter a code. So imagine these 3 soundbytes alternating at full blast starting at 7:26am on a Saturday morning, and continuing to do so indefinitely:
My sister, my hero trekked all over creation finding an old phone that I could activate and was successful. She brings me my newly activated flip phone that used to belong to Amanda, and the funniest part is she’s treating it like she actually has to sell me on it. As if I wouldn’t have take a Beirut cup with residual beer still stuck to the sides, with a shoelace coming out of the bottom.
I guess after all that to-do about not having a phone, it was ultimately moot since I was relegated to dozing in and out of sleep on the couch all afternoon, occasionally checking my temperature. I’m not sure why. It’s kinda like weighing yourself. It doesn’t matter whether you’re 110 or 120, better to just go by how your clothes fit. I only started with the thermometer when my dad called and asked for the actual number of my fever, I think to gauge how much bedside manner was needed, because he dropped the usual tough love and was a little more sympathetic.
Which is more than I can say for my mom, whose matronly support consisted of, “Shit happens. Listen, it could be worse. People get divorced, sometimes because their spouses cheated on them…”
Yes, that was her default “put things in perspective” scenario. Not “you could be dead” or “at least you didn’t step in dog shit” (a Pollina tenet of “the worst case”). But rather, I shouldn’t bemoan my fever that was KEEPING ME HOME WHEN I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE AT THE YANKEE GAME, because somewhere someone’s getting divorced. Thanks, Mom. I feel much better.
I watched the game from home, mumbling to myself about how much it sucked, popping Tylenol and sucking on Flavor Ice in a desperate campaign to get myself well enough in time for a beer pong party. I think the game was making me feel worse, because even though the defense was a little better, and the offense wasn’t as nonexistent as Friday, they still looked too much like the “We Heart LOB” Yankees of old. That’s the thing, even if their pitching bombs, even if their opponents tee off, the #1 thing that sails to the forefront of a game is the frequency at which they strand runners. Because this is what will kill them. All the good pitching in the world is useless if they can’t bring a run in, and that’s why I don’t get unnerved by shaky outings from otherwise decent starters.
The box score wouldn’t make any kind of sense to anyone who didn’t watch the game. Hitting looked good, pitching decent, bullpen effective, and only 3 LOB? And yet until the 9th inning we were only able to get 2 runners across the plate? One being a solo from Jeter, fulfilling the clause in the club’s contract that every game they trail must feature at least 1 solo shot .It’s a weird feeling seeing ARod up these days. Because how many fans can honestly say that that’s the guy you wanted at the plate in the clutch? But now? It’s not just him. There are few Yankees that I would be uncomfortable seeing at the plate in the 9th. If I HAD to pick the last person I’d watch to see, I GUESS it would be Pena or Hideki. That’s how much I love this team, that’s how good they are. That they 2 “worst” are both .250 batters.
So when the Yanks are down by 2 with 1 out, and my sister texts to see how I’m feeling and if I need anything, my first thought= “ARod to go yard.”
Lauren has demonstrated with uncanny consistency that ARod homers when she’s not watching the game. (What a philosophical quandary! What do you do when your favorite all time player plays better when you don’t watch?) So she told me to just call her with the final score.
“Ok you can turn on the tv now.”
“Ok, hold on…AWWW MELKFACE!!! LOOK HOW HAPPY HE LOOKS!! AHHH I LOVE THIS TEAM!!”
I swear, despite the fact the walk-off has been gracing the organization with some frequency as of late, the jubilant chaos that ensues among the team intensifies every time, and I just love it. I love how the YES booth gets all giddy anticipating the AJ whipped cream pie. (Shaving cream yesterday, and Melk AND Cano got one.)
ARod looked EXACTLY like Lebron on Friday. It was amazing. So adorably excited, like he couldn’t even contain himself. It’s a new ARod, a guy whose attitude mirrors more Melky’s and less Marbury.
So where are the Aroid chants now, huh?
ARod looked EXACTLY like Lebron on Friday. It was amazing. So adorably excited, like he couldn’t even contain himself. It’s a new ARod, a guy whose attitude mirrors more Melky’s and less Marbury.So where are the Aroid chants now, huh?
Since his return:
15 games
10 hits
7 homeruns
12-3 record
10 hits
7 homeruns
12-3 record
Well done, ace. You’re back home, and your unequivocal indispensability isn’t lost on anyone.
And then there’s Melky…
When David Cone and David Wells were in town last week, I saw Cone out and I’ll reiterate that he is the nicest man on the planet, and he asked what baseball player, alive or dead, I’d watch to have dinner with.
“Well, it’s a Red Sox.”
“Ok..”
“Ted Williams.”
Which launched a discussion of beyond his baseball career, how impressive and admirable Williams’ career as a fighter pilot was.
“Can you imagine? Leaving your team to go fight like that? Can you picture anyone these days doing that?”
I thought about it. “Melky.”
“Ha, really? Why?”
“He just seems like he does what he’s told, no questions asked. Need a hit? Sure! Walkoff? Yes, sir.”
And can you argue with that logic right now? He’s certainly not the most talented player in the league, but the argument could feasibly be made that he’s the most reliable. On the field and at the plate.
So despite the fact I’ve been on the DL, I lost my phone, and missed a golden opportunity to play Beirut all night, the Yanks game made up for it. And the icing on the cake?
Not just the Sox loss, but more specifically PAPELBON’S LOSS.
Where’s the angry lip pursing now, jackass? And I don’t know what’s more gratifying, the look on Papelbon’s face when he let up that shot OR the collective feeling of defeat from every douche at Fenway once the ump came out and made the finger-swirling-homerun single, after the review of Santos’ “double.” (Please. Nice try, Boston. A double? Really?)
So that team that you all made fun of for the all-important first month of the season, the team toiling away in the cellar of the AL East? Don’t look know but they’re gaining on you. So in the words of Melvin in “As Good as it Gets,” “If you don’t have anything interesting to say, then shut the hell up.”
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