Damn Yankees

When I entered Shea Stadium on opening day on Mon., Apr. 8, the sight of glistening orange seats assured me that the baseball gods still felt sorry about their horrendous violation of fair play last October. In game five of the World Series, Mike Piazza stepped to the plate with two runners on, needing a homer off Mariano Rivera to tie the game. With Yankee fans confused about who to curse at and Mets fans inching toward the exits, Piazza hit a gargantuan blast that had Bernie Williams backpedaling helplessly as the ball headed over the fence. But then something happened. The ball, which was soaring on a magnificent arc, suddenly dropped weakly into Bernie's glove to end the game and the series. I spoke to countless people afterwards about this mysterious happening. Weathermen told me it was the wind, yet I remembered only still air. ESPN's Peter Gammons told me that Rivera's cut fastball tends to create the effect of sure home runs that die on the warning track, but Rivera's fastball had been straight the entire series. My shrink told me that I hallucinated while trying to ensure wish-fulfillment, but I later found out that he was a Yankees fan. After watching replays from thousands of angles and retreating into deep thought, I came to one conclusion: the baseball gods had knocked the ball down into Bernie's mitt.

MIKE HARRIS/NEWSMAKERS

For a century, Boston fans have spoken wistfully about the Curse of the Bambino, a phenomenon that was verified when Bill Buckner let a Mookie Wilson grounder and the dreams of millions of frigid New Englanders slip through his hands in 1986. But as Ruth's departure brought eternal scorn to the BoSox, his arrival gave the Evil Empire in the Bronx perpetual divine assistance. How else do you explain 26 championships in 80 years? Not even Tiger Woods could do that. Hatred of "Yankees" united southerners, Red Sox fans, Dodgers fans, and Giants fans at a time of world war and sectional unrest. The musical Damn Yankees showed us Yankee haters that we could only defeat them by selling our souls to the devil. But before the united front could commit that act to save the world, the Baseball Gods struck. They gave us the Cold War to unite southerners and Yankees, they shipped the Dodgers and Giants west, they forced the Red Sox to draft Mike Torrez; and they forced Damn Yankees to close.

Is there any hope for us heroic opponents of the evil empire? A few weeks after the immaculate deception, I scoured over the Yankees' roster and saw an aging Paul O'Neill, a faltering Tino Martinez, a decaying El Duque, and an atrocious Scott Brosius. Rumors of A-Rod coming to Shea filled the airwaves. In the Yanks' weakness, I found hope. But the gods threw lightning bolts at us again this December. They stole Mike Mussina, the second best pitcher in the AL, from another loyal tribe of Yankee haters, the Orioles, and teamed him with Roger "The bat thrower" Clemens to again give the Yankees the best team in baseball.

As I look around the beleaguered united front, I see despair. The Braves, who have succumbed twice before, look as bad as they have in a decade. The Cardinals lack a solid number-two pitcher behind Darryl Kile and a second bat behind the fragile Mark McGwire. The Red Sox, cursed as always, lost a hero of the anti-Yankee effort, Nomar Garciaparra, to a wrist injury, and have allowed the demons to take control of the mercurial Yankee-hater, Carl Everett. The White Sox and Indians do not have the starting pitching to compete. My A-Rod-less Mets need another bat to protect Piazza.

But wait, one team remains. The A's of Oakland are young and naïve about the powerful connection between the Yankees and the gods. They have a store of powerful young sluggers and the next Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine in Tim Hudson and Barry Zito. They came within one game of bringing down the empire in the first round of last season's playoffs. I can see it now: 2001 ALCS, Game sevenin Oakland. It is the ninth inning, Yankees up 5-4, with one on and two out. Rivera delivers a fastball to Jason Giambi, who crushes it deep to right. O'Neill goes back to the wall and...damn, well I guess we know what would happen next.

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