MY FAVORITE THINGS OF 2002
II. The Best Game I Sorta Seen
I was as happy as any Yankee fan could be when Boss George brought Jason Giambi to the Yankees after the 2001 campaign. Although I understood the sentimental attachment fans had for Tino Martinez, I felt Tino’s career as a Yankee was a perfect bridge between superstars Mattingly and Giambi, and therefore didn’t feel overly emotional about his leaving.
I attended the first home series of the 2002 season at the Stadium and strained to hold my tongue in the face of the boo’s that cascaded down on the Yankees’ new slugger. Let them have their say, I reasoned with myself, while I was secretly stewing. They miss Tino, and are entitled to have their say. Whatever. I really wanted to lash out and call the boo birds a bunch of ignorant slobs, but why fight nature’s cycle? It was only a matter of time before they would be showering Giambo with cheers.
Later in the spring, I developed a case of dizziness as a result of a stomach virus. It was a minor version of what native New Yorker, Jamal Mashburn, power-forward for the erstwhile Charlotte Hornets, contracted during the playoffs. New York is a tough town for dizziness. Everything is in motion. Needless to say, the subways and crowds of pedestrians became a temporary challenge.
This was the condition I found myself in when I went to see the latest “Star Wars” installment during it’s opening week in late May. I had plans with some of my closest friends to catch an afternoon showing at the Zeigfield and then catch the Yankee-Minnesota game later that night (my girl caught up with us for the second leg of the tour at the Stadium). Well, standing on line for the movie on 5th avenue was unsettling in and of itself, but when the movie started, I knew I was in for a long day. The entire first reel of the movie was not meant for those with vertigo, however mild my case may have been. I closed my eyes a lot, and breathed deeply. The deep breathing proved problematic, as there was a toddler next to me with enough flatulence to knock a buzzard of a shit wagon.
When we made it to the Bronx, it was already raining lightly. Our seats were in the upper tier section out in left field, which didn’t help my stomach settle down any. Or the dizziness. But as uncomfortable as I was, part of me was fascinated by the strange sensation of being so unnerved by the open space, and sitting so high up. I’d catch the flight of a bird sail past, and feel like I was going to fall over. I’m not one to leave a game until the final out is recorded, but I resigned myself to leave when I couldn’t take it any longer.
The Yanks fell behind early, but came storming back, handing Mike Mussina a cushy 8-3 lead, which he promptly pissed away. After six full, I had had enough (of the vertigo, not the Yanks), so Em and I left our gang, and headed home with the Yanks now trailing, 9-8.
The score remained the same when we got back to my place. Emily and I were embroiled in some deep emotional strudel at that time, so I blew off the end of the game in favor of hashing things out with her. Just as we were falling asleep the phone rang. My friend Liz, who was still at the Stadium, reported that Bernie had just hit a solo shot to tie the game at 9 in the bottom of the ninth. It wasn’t the time to get overly excited, so I gave her specific instructions not to call again unless she had good news to report.
She didn’t call back.
I checked my answering machine in the morning. Nothing. That was that, I thought.
Emily and I picked up where we had left off the night before in the Land of Total Heaviosity, talking for hours, exhausting us silly. Eventually I stepped out to get the papers, get the papers. It was still raining.
As fate would have it, when I turned the tabloids over to check the back pages, I discovered that Jason Giambi had hit a grand slam in the bottom of the 14th to win the damn thing for the Yanks. Holy fuggin sheet. I was way too excited for Giambi to feel badly for having missed it myself. Later, when I saw the replays I imagined Joe Torre greeting Giambi like Paul Sorvino welcoming the young Henry Hill outside the courthouse after his first bust in “Good Fellas”: “Hey, you broke your cherry!”
Cue: “Rags to Riches.”
I was only sorry that I wasn’t there to give the big fella his props in person. But then, he didn’t have to deal with too many boo bird after that night, did he?
ON AND ON
Travis Mutchell, who covers the Yankees with a sharp eye, and an even sharper wit, has reached the 5,000-hit milestone at his site, Boy of Summer. I want to take the time to not only give him a shout of hearty congradulations, but to recommend his page to anyone with even a remote interest in the Bronx Bombers. Even if you hate the Yanks, check it out. It’s good and good for you.
