Daily Archives: October 20, 2008

The Tampa Bay Rays are a good baseball team. In fact, they’re the best team in baseball. I give four reasons why over at SI.com.

By Neil deMause

Of the five hundred or so games I’ve seen at Yankee Stadium, a fair number would probably qualify as “historic”: The Pine Tar Game. The Jeffrey Maier Game. Don Mattingly’s first postseason appearance. Jimmy Leyritz’ game-winning 15th-inning homer in the 1995 ALDS, presaging his more famous game-winning 8th-inning homer in the World Series the following year. Game 6 of the 1996 World Series, which ended with Charlie Hayes’ catch in foul ground and Wade Boggs atop a police horse. Game 4 in 2001, which ended with Derek Jeter’s 10th inning “Mr. November” home run. Game 7 of the 2004 ALCS, which ended with my friend David and I watching the final out on the TV in the bleachers concession stand, then turning on our heels and leaving before the Red Sox celebration could begin. No-hitters by Jim Abbott and Dwight Gooden (though I missed Dave Righetti’s July 4 no-no against Boston, along with most of the other 300,000 people who now claim to have been there).

Those, though, are all historic events – they’d be just as famed if they’d happened somewhere else. When I think of my two-plus decades as a Yankee Stadium denizen, I keep coming back to one weekend in 1985, which though historic in its own way, was mostly memorable for other reasons:

FRIDAY: It was the summer before my sophomore year in college, and rumors of a baseball strike were in the air, so I was determined to jam in as many ballgames as possible. The final weekend before the deadline was a four-game series against the White Sox – still then in those hideous horizontal-striped jerseys – so I set out to see them all.

I took my usual seat in Section 39 – the bleachers were general admission in those days, so I’d sit in whatever row was far enough back to give room to stretch out, but close enough to hear what Dave Winfield was saying if he made one of his excursions through the outfield fence gate to chat with fans during a pitching change. The game was instantly a seesaw battle, and went into the 7th inning deadlocked at three apiece.

Andre Robertson, the former phenom whose career was derailed in a car wreck on the West Side Highway, led off with a single, and was pinch-run for by rookie Bobby Meacham. Dale Berra, brought in that year to play for his dad (who lasted all of 16 games), reached on an error, bringing up Rickey Henderson. Henderson lined a ball toward Death Valley – then still a spacious 411 feet from home – and Meacham charged home, pausing only briefly to see if the ball would be caught. Berra, meanwhile, was running head-down, and was only a few steps behind Meacham as they approached home plate.

I had a perfect view of the relay throw from Ozzie Guillen to Carlton Fisk as it arrived, well before Meacham. Fisk grabbed the ball, lunged one way to tag Meacham, then the other way to tag Berra. A stunned, awed silence settled over the stadium.

The Yanks ended up losing in extra innings. It all seemed somehow appropriate for those years.

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Mr. Charles…

Emily and I listened to the last couple of innings of Game Six on Saturday night driving home from a black tie function upstate.  By the time we returned to the Bronx Em made me promise that we were not going to watch Game 7.  So I had movies on Sunday afternoon–first The Pope of Greenwich Village and then Charlie Wilson’s War.  I watched Rourke and Roberts ham their way through the old Village and then made it through the first hour of Charlie Wilson’s War with Phillip Seymour Hoffman and his mustache chewing up the scenery before Em asked how to check the score on-line. 

We turned on the TV.  The Rays were up 2-1 in the sixth, so it was safe to watch.  And we didn’t turn the tube off until past midnight, until the dopey post-game celebration and interviews were finished.  We sat there, our hearts beating, especially during the top of the eighth, into it.  Em complained that her stomach was hurting.  Welcome to Baseball, lady, you asked for it.  Of course, when it was all over, we went to bed heppy kets. Matt Garza was terrific, just that much better than Jon Lester, who was solid once again.

So much for momentum.  So much for experience.  The Future is Now and David Price saved the Rays’ bacon and helped them advance to the World Serious.  The Red Sox defended their championship admirably–the Rays had to beat them.  And that’s just what they did.  Now, all the Red Sox fans littered throughout Manhattan can go home, go back to where they belong—they can go back to Brooklyn.