Oops, they beat me to it and I was wrong on 71.

Well, Wesley Willis probably thought he was Vonnegut at least once in his life.

How about this, jmac66:

Turning and turning in the widening field
The baserunner cannot see the third base coach;
Things fall apart; the pitching cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the playoffs,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The payroll of the Yankees is drowned;
The third baseman lacks all conviction, while the shortstop
Is full of passionate intensity.
Surely some shock result is at hand;
Surely the Day of Parity is at hand.
The Day of Parity! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of the forthcoming CBA
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with Tiger body and the head of Bud Selig,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the New York Sun,
Is moving its slow bats, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant Detroit fans.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty-six World Series victories
were vexed to nightmare by rookie pitching,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Brooklyn to be born?

Well, Wesley Willis probably thought he was Vonnegut at least once in his life

so it goes

Incidentally, you missed #88, which is Hemmingway (although possibly apocryphal) and brilliant. Well done, Delino, well done.

One Alou: check's in the mail

You also missed #54 which is Salinger, Catcher in the Rye.

100 is O Captain my Captain by Walt Whitman.

Wasn't the goal to actually get Jeter to do the slouching?

Turning and turning in the widening media vortex
Clutch ARod cannot hear unclutch ARod;
Things fall apart; the score cannot hold;
Mere grudges are loosed upon the clubhouse,
The green-tinged jealousy is loosed, and everywhere
The post-trade honeymoon is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some trade is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming of the dynasty is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of GQ
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the nightclubs of New York.

A shape with Ripken body and the head of a politician,
A gaze blank and unimaginative as one of his cliches,
Is moving its slow (to the left) thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of unwavering fans.
The season ends in failure again; but now I know
That twenty-six championship memories
were vexed to nightmare by these newborn failures,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Yankee Stadium to be captain?

George II

Pale trembling Arod, there you throw the series,
Disclaiming here the kindred of the Yankees,
And lay aside our high team's destiny,
Which money, not reverence, makes thee to except.
If failing again have left thee so much strength
As to take up thy bat and glove, then leave:
By that and all the powers of my office,
Will I trade thee to Pittsburg, stats to cellar,
What have thee choked, or thou canst worse perform.

Jeter: I'm a Clutch God and I'm okay,
I field all right and I hit all day.

Chorus: He's a Clutch God and he's okay,
He fields all right and he hits all day.

Jeter: I cut off the throw, I hit in the clutch,
I go to the Stadium Yankee.
On Wednesdays I go shopping
And have buttered scones for tea.

Yankees: He cuts off the throw, he hits in the clutch,
He goes to the Stadium Yankee.
On Wednesdays he goes shopping
And has buttered scones for tea.

Chorus: He's a Clutch God and he's okay,
He fields all right and he hits all day.

Jeter: I cut off the runs, into stands I will jump,
I like to press wild flowers.
I put on women's clothing,
And hang around Manhattan bars.

Yankees: He cuts off the runs, into stands he jumps,
He likes to press wild flowers.
He puts on women's clothing,
And hangs around Manhattan bars.

Chorus: He's a Clutch God and he's okay,
He fields all right and he hits all day.

Jeter: I cut down runs, I wear high heels,
Suspendies and a bra.
I wish I'd been a girlie,
Just like my dear A-Rod.

Yankees: He cuts down trees, he wears high heels?
Suspendies...and a bra?
...he's a Clutch God and he's okay,
He fields all right and he hits all day.
...he's a Clutch God and he's OKAAAAAAAAAAYYY.

Stately, plump Jason Giambi came from the clubhouse, bearing a bowl of lather on which a pair of syringes lay crossed. A white homejersey, unbuttoned, was sustained gently behind him on the cold morning air. He held the needles aloft and intoned:
Introibo ad altare Bonds
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:
-Come up, Roddy! Come up, you fearful adversary of all that is Good and Noble and American about the game of baseball!...

Mr Derek Jeter slept with relish with the legions of models and supermodels. He liked Indian Ms. Universes, blonde teenpop idols, a canary-nosed "serious actress," and most of all a dark angel who gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine...

TORRE
Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.

DEREK
My beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn. I, Derek, tell you verily it is even now at hand. Yea, on the word of a Derek, ye shall ere long enter into the golden stadium which is to be, the new Jeetusalem in the Nova Yorkia of the future.

(Thirtytwo hundred workmen wearing pinstripes, from all the boroughs of New York, under the guidance of Giuliani the malignant, construct the new Jeetusalem. It is a colossal edifice in the shape of Jeremy Giambi, containing forty thousand luxury boxes. In the course of its extension several low-income neighborhoods are demolished and the Babe Ruth plaque in Monument Park, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses.)...

McCarver's Monologue:

yes when I put the rose in my hair like the St. Looie girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the outfield lights and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Man, you guys are making me feel illiterate,

Derek Jeter as everyman, Zack?

Early in the game that Jeter held under his gaze, and when he went to visit Torre, A-Rod meets Steinbrenner in curious circumstances: they are at the baseball stadium when Tom Hicks was run over by a train. At the end of the novel, A-Rod throws himself under a train.

This symmetrical composition -- the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end -- may seem quite "novelistic" to you, and I am willing to agree, but only on the condition that you refrain from reading such notations as "fictive," fabricated," and "untrue to life" into the word "novelistic." Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion.

They are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (Jeter's face, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the Jeter's life. Without realizing it, Jeter composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.

It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of A-Rod, Steinbrenner, the railway station, and death or the meeting of Bernie, Rivera, Jeter, and the rings), but it is right to chide A-Rod for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty: Derek Jeter.

114 is unbearable.

Alex is my name; my deeds have been heard of in New York, and my career has been chronicled in the Joural of The BaseBall Think Factory. I am he that was called in those days MVP - cruel misnomer. For were I indeed an MVP I'd not now flail with my stick or need be carried pick-a-back in the playoffs in October weather. Aye, it was just for want of a proper swing that, in my thirteenth year, I was the kicked instead of the kicker; that I threw vainly from the corner hot and saw my missiles dropped by a brute Giambi. Mercy on that Jeter who butted me from one team to another; whose fell smile ruined my boyhood dream, drove me from the Stadium, and set me gimping through the league down the road I travel yet. These blue lips, shame of my kidship, Jeter mocked as the shame of men: I bade farewell to my hitless goathood and struck out for the World Series.

I was, in other words, the Yankee Goat-Boy.

McCarver's monologue from Ulysses was the first time in this long thread that I laughed out loud.

Action Comics, No. 2

As a distant planet was destroyed by old age, a scientest placed his infant son within a hastily devised space-ship, launching it towards Earth!

When the vehicle landed on Earth, a passing motorist, discovering the sleeping babe within, turned the child over to an orphanage.

Attendants, unaware the child's physical structure was millions of years advanced of their own, were astounded at his feats of strength.

When maturity was reached, he discovered he could easily: leap 1/8th of a mile; hurdle a twenty-story building...

raise tremendous weights...

...run faster than an express train...

and that nothing less than a bursting shell could penetrate his skin.

Early, Derek decided he must turn his titanic strength into channels that wuold benefit mankind - and so was created...

Superjeet!

As a brief intermission, let me relate what I just saw in the hot topics sidebar:

Newsblog: Esquire: Martone:
The Death of Derek Jeter
(116 - 8:02pm, Oct 19)
Last: Celebrate good times,
come on!!!! (UCCF)

The combo of username and article title made me chuckle.

Saturday, 7 October 2006
Dear George,
Yesterday there was another row. ALexplayed terribly and told Giambi just what he thought of me. He began to cry awfully, naturally I did too and I had such an appaling headache. I finally told Giambi, that I'm much fonder of him than Alex, to which he replied that I'd get over that, but I don't believe it. I have to simply force myself to stay calm with him. Giambi wishes that I, if Alex doesn't field well or has trouble hitting, would sometimes offer to help him, but I shan't.
I am working hard at fielding and am reading Fielding Bible.
Your Derek.

YOU don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Alex Rodriguez; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Stephen Goldman, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was John Sterling, or the Waldman, or maybe Michael Kay. Uncle Joe -- Rod's Aunt Polly, she is -- and Michael Kay, and the Waldman is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Rod and me found the paycecks that the Stein hid in the dugout, and it made us rich. We got 20 million dollars apiece -- all cash. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Scott Boras he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round -- more than a body could tell what to do with. The Waldman she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the Stadium all the time, considering how dismal the offseason is and decent the Waldman was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out for Stadium. I got into my old uniform and my sugar-hogsglove again, and was free and satisfied. But A-Rod he hunted me up and said he was going to start a team of clutch hitters, and I might join if I would go back to the Waldman and be respectable. So I went back.

YOU don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Alex Rodriguez; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Stephen Goldman, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was John Sterling, or the Waldman, or maybe Michael Kay. Uncle Joe -- Rod's Uncle Joe, he is -- and Michael Kay, and the Waldman is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Rod and me found the paycecks that the Stein hid in the dugout, and it made us rich. We got 20 million dollars apiece -- all cash. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Scott Boras he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round -- more than a body could tell what to do with. The Waldman she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the Stadium all the time, considering how dismal the offseason is and decent the Waldman was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out for Stadium. I got into my old uniform and my sugar-hogsglove again, and was free and satisfied. But A-Rod he hunted me up and said he was going to start a team of clutch hitters, and I might join if I would go back to the Waldman and be respectable. So I went back.

There was only one catch and that was the catch that Jeter made while face planting into the stands, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind, but not a concern Jeter shared. A-Rod was crazy and could play short. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to play third base. A-Rod would be crazy to play more third base and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he played third base he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to.

Torre was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of the Catch and let out a respectful whistle.

"That's some catch, that diving-into-the-crowds Catch," he observed.

"It's the best there is," Yankees trainer Gene Monahan agreed.

When I was a lad
it served to turn
a double play
but I had yet to learn
that to make the fans truly come alive
I would have to make a catch and, into the stands, dive

That stadium dive did so well for me
That now I am the captain of New York's Yankees

Under a spreading facade
The Yankee shortstop stands;
The man, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and cropped,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can see his Gold Glove glow;
You can hear him swing his heavy bat,
With measured beat and slow,
Like Richie Sexton ringing the bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the secret smirk,
And hear John Sterling roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the park,
And sits among his boys;
He hears Mr. Torre pray and preach,
He hears Ronan Tynan's voice,
Singing over the PA,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like Joe D.'s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of him once more,
How in the grave he lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, - rejoicing,- sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the dugout steps of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its on deck circle shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

I met a traveller from an an antique stadium
Who said: Two vast and trembling legs of stone
Stand near third base. Near them, on the dirt,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And purple lips, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that the manager well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The bat that mocked them, and the glove that clanged;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Alex Rodriguez, king of kings:
Look on my stats, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level grass stretches far away.

You guys are frigging brilliant. Seriously.

Two Rings for Clemens, from under the Skydome
Three for Knoblauch with his glove of stone
Four for the Immortal Jeter, able to fly
None for A-Rod at the hot corner
In the land of the Bronx where the money lies
No Rings for Mussina, No Rings for Damon
No Rings for Matsui, The Unit, or Jason
In the land of the Bronx where the money lies.

Two Rings for Clemens, from under the Skydome
Three for Knoblauch with his glove of stone
Four for the Immortal Jeter, able to fly
None for A-Rod at the hot corner
In the land of the Bronx where the money lies
No Rings for Mussina, No Rings for Damon
No Rings for Matsui, The Unit, or Jason
In the land of the Bronx where the money lies.

i should point out that, in relation to 118, Jeter really does have super powers. it's the only reasonable explanation.

SEYTON:
A-Rod, my lord, struck out.

JETER:
He should have struck out hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.--
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this season's schedule from day to day,
To the last day of cold October;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to miss the playoffs. Out, out, brief postseason!
Life's but a walking shadow; a weak hitter,
That struts and frets his AB at the plate,
And then is heard no more: it is a game
Managed by Frank Robinson, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Jeter as Meursault:

"ARod died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the Stein: 'Choker deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Wear rings. Faithfully yours.' That doesn't mean anything. I thought he died in ’06."

or ARod as Meursault:

"As if that blind rage has washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with K’s and errors, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me (as always) with cries of hate. And “Jeter’s better.”

JETER: Well, shall we go to the World Series?

A-ROD: Yes, let's go.

<They do not move.>

Hell is other shortstops.

Hell is other shortstops.

Hell is other shortstops.

Jeter as Meursault:

"ARod died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the Stein: 'Choker deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Wear rings. Faithfully yours.' That doesn't mean anything. I thought he died in ’06."

or ARod as Meursault:

"As if that blind rage has washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with K’s and errors, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me (as always) with cries of hate. And “Jeter’s better.”

Jeter as Meursault:

"ARod died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the Stein: 'Choker deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Wear rings. Faithfully yours.' That doesn't mean anything. I thought he died in ’06."

or ARod as Meursault:

"As if that blind rage has washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with K’s and errors, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me (as always) with cries of hate. And “Jeter’s better.”

Jeter as Meursault:

"ARod died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the Stein: 'Choker deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Wear rings. Faithfully yours.' That doesn't mean anything. I thought he died in ’06."

or ARod as Meursault:

"As if that blind rage has washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with K’s and errors, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me (as always) with cries of hate. And “Jeter’s better.”

If folks ever again say that this site has gone downhill, they should be directed to this thread. It ranges from the valiant to the sublime. My congratulations to those who have given it a go.

The Day-O-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the foxscreen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round the streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the foxscreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; a vast Sheaborne armada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy's rear, the blue-orange arrow tearing across the tiger’s tail of black. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: 'Vast strategic manoeuvre -- perfect double-switch -- utter rout -- half a dozen pitching changes -- complete demoralization -- control of the whole of baseball -- bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory -- greatest victory in NY history -- victory, victory, victory!'

Under the table Alex’s feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at the portrait of Derek Jeter. The colossus of clutch that bestrode the world! The rock against which the NL hordes had dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago -- yes, only ten minutes -- there had still been equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the field would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Leyland army that had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry of Glove, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment.

The voice from the foxscreen was still pouring forth its tale of chokers and rings and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The Tampa people were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the playoff shares. Alex, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his wallet was filled up. He was not batting or fielding any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Glove, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating only himself. He was walking through the monument-lined lawn, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The long-hoped-for bullet was entering his brain.

He gazed up at the enormous face. Four seasons it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden behind the clutchiness. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving fist pumps! Two money-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Derek Jeter.

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bah

Failing in my attempt to give you a completely Yankee blue page, we'll go with another Irish novel:

HAVING placed in my mouth sufficient sunflower seeds for three minutes' chewing, I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression. I reflected on the subject of my spare-time sabermetric activities. One Beginning and one ending for a baseball game was a thing I did not agree with. A good game may have three openings entirely dissimiliar and inter-related only in the prescience of the players, or for that matter one hundred times as many endings.

Examples of three separate openings - the first:

Billy Beane, a member of the devil class, sat in his office in the middle of the Coliseum meditating on the nature of numerals and segregating in his mind the odd ones from the even. He was seated at his computer (the one he used to write "Moneyball"). His stained chewed down fingers toyed with a chaw bag of perfect squareness and through a gap in his teeth he whistled "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". He was a courtly man and received honour by reason of the generous treatment he gave his manager, one of the Machas of Pennsylvania.

The second opening:

There was nothing unusual in the appearance of Mr Alex Rodriguez but actually he has one distinction that is rarely encountered - he was born at the age of twenty-eight and entered the world with 9 years in the majors behind him but, in the eyes of New York fans, without experience in any game that mattered. His statistics were well formed but stained by a lack of clutchiness, despite an MVP awarded and another threatened in his second season in pinstripes. His knowledge of Yankee lore was moderate and extended to an Esquire article on Derek Jeter Reggie Jackson.

The third opening:

Babe Ruth was a legendary hero of old Yankee land. Though a bit rotund, he was still a man of superb physique and development. Each of his thighs was as thick as a bundle of bats, narrowing to a calf as thick as a bundle of hot dogs. Sixty homeruns flew off the might of his swing, which was large enough to halt the march of the Red Sox to a world championship for over eighty years.

For a long time, I went to bed early. Sometimes, with the Yankee game scarcely switched off, my eyes closed so quickly that I barely had time to say: "A-Rod made the final out." And, a half-hour later, the thought that it was time to turn the game off woke me up again; I wanted to punch the power button on the remote and switch off the light; while asleep I never stopped thinking about the Yankee game, but these thoughts took a specific form; it seemed to me that the announcers were speaking about me: as if I were a monument in center field, Stan's Sports Bar, the rivalry between Jeter and Alex. This belief lasted for a few seconds after I woke up again; it did not scandalize me, but lay like scales on my eyes and prevented me from realizing that "New York, New York" had long since come and gone, and the power on the set had winked away to nothing. Then it became intelligible to me, as after promotion to the majors the rookie has flashes of remembrance of his minor-league life; the texture of the season detached itself from me; and soon I was conscious again and surprised to find the chatter of the FOX or ESPN or YES men faded away, and my surroundings sweet and calming to my eyes, and all the more so to my spirit, to which all the nattering about whether Torre would or would not cede to Piniella had evanesced and become a thing obscure. I asked myself what inning it could be; I heard the clanking of the el train, nearer or further, like a cowbell in the rightfield bleachers, limning for me the deserted Bronx avenue where the commuter rushes toward the next subway station; as the sidewalk that he follows becomes graven in his memory by the excitement that owes itself to goodbyes said under drooping streetlamps, and that follows it in the silence of the night towards the sweet return of next April.

For a month the Yankees lived on David's sunflower seeds, same with the Red Sox after the war. The telephone rings and rings. Jeter is not at home. He is with Alyssa Milano . They are eating oranges from the team president. They are alone on the roof of a Yankee Stadium suite. A picture of DiMag's Marylin Monroe in Jeter's back pocket, molded by heat and sweat to the shape of his buttocks. Jeter is gripping the phone, smiling, eating seeds, crying, "I am with the important women now." Jeter will always be more important than you. You will never be important enough.

I'm going to need another annotation by someone much smarter than I.

it's not fair when repoz gets involved. beowulf someone's going to get, but jesse bernstein?

I'm going to need another annotation by someone much smarter than I.

I'm not smarter, but...

25. Kafka, Metamorphosis
36. Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
45. Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
47. Robbins, Still Life With Woodpecker
51. Joyce, Finnegan's Wake
54. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye
55. Jackson, "The Lottery"
59. Frost, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening"
60. Hemingway, "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber"
63. cummings, "Buffalo Bill"
64/68. Burgess, A Clockwork Orange
65. Carroll, "Jabberwocky"
67/72. Poe, "The Raven"
69. Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow
70. Marquez, A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings
71. Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions
73. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
74. Heller, Catch-22
75. Kipling, The White Man's Burden
76. Nabokov, Lolita
77. Seuss, "How the Grinch Stole Christmas"
78. Austen, Sense and Sensibility
81. Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
83. Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
84. Corso "The Mad Yak"
86. Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five
87. Lawrence, Lady Chatterly's Lover
88 Hemingway, "For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn"
89. Eliot, "The Waste Land"
91. Beowulf
92. Melville, Moby-Dick
100. Whitman, "O Captain! My Captain"
103/108. Yeats, "The Second Coming"
109. Shakespeare, Richard II
110. Monty Python, "The Lumberjack Song"
111. Joyce, Ulysses
114. Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
116. Barth, Giles Goat-Boy
118. Siegel/Shuster, Superman
120. Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank
121. Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
123. Heller, Catch-22
124. Gilbert & Sullivan, "When I Was a Lad"
125. Longfellow, "The Village Blacksmith"
126. Shelley, "Ozymandias"
128. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
131. Shakespeare, MacBeth
132. Camus, The Stranger
133. Beckett, Waiting for Godot
134. Sartre, No Exit
141. Orwell, 1984
144. O'Brien, At Swim-Two-Birds
145. Proust, Swann's Way
146. Bernstein, "Come Out Tonight"

And 142 would have been Tristram Shandy if I could have recreated the black page. Oh well.

I did like our existentialist run.

In the beginning, when Steinbrenner owned the Yankees and Mattingly was set to retire, the pitching staff was an aceless wasteland, and unclutchiness permeated the lineup, while a mighty wind swept over the pennants of Yankee Stadium. Then Jeter said "Let there be me," and there was Jeter.

Jeter saw how clutchy The Jeter was. Jeter then separated The Jeter from the minor leagues.

Jeter called himself "The Clutch," and the enemy he called "Vanquished." Thus 1996 came, and the World Series followed -- the first ring.

Then Jeter said, "Let there be a Brosius near third base to separate The Jeter from the foul line." And so it happened: the Yankees acquired Brosius, and he hit an even .300 while separating The Jeter from the foul line.

The Jeter called Brosius "World Series MVP." 1998 came, and the World Series followed -- the second ring.

Jeter: (flipping coin) Heads.

(flips coin again) Heads.

(again) Heads.

(again) Heads.

(again) Heads.

A-Rod: It’s enough to make one lose his faith, if in nothing else then the laws of probability.

Jeter: (flips coin) Heads.

A-Rod: The law of averages state, if I have this correctly, that if six monkeys are simultaneously tossed into the air, then the most likely scenario is that three monkeys will land on their tails, and three monkeys will land on their…

Jeter: (flips coin) Heads.

A-Rod: It must be indicative of something, apart from the redistribution of wealth.

Jeter: I’m afraid it isn’t your day.

A-Rod: I’m afraid it is.

I'm amazed it took that long for someone to think to do the Bible, but regardless bravo, Dolf.

Benji, shouldn't someone with your screen name do a little Phillip Roth?

152: Stoppard, R&G Are Dead

Arod Carr: . . . I couldn’t be an clutch anywhere—I can do none of the things by which is meant clutch.

Derek Tzara: Doing the things by which is meant clutch is no longer considered the proper concern of the clutch player. In fact it is frowned upon. Nowadays, an clutch player is someone who makes clutch mean the things he does. A man may be an clutch player by exhibiting his hindquarters. He may be clutch by drawing words out of a hat. In fact some of my best clutch hits have been drawn out of my hat which I afterwards exhibited to general acclaim at the Dada Gallery in Bahnhofstrasse.

Arod Carr: But that is simply to change the meaning of the word clutch.

Derek Tzara: I see I have made myself clear.

Arod Carr: Then you are not actually clutch at all?

Derek Tzara: On the contrary. I have just told you I am.

I owe the discovery of Jeter to the conjunction of a TV and a website. The TV troubled the depths of a corner in a go-go bar on Soi 8 in Pattaya, Thailand; the website is fallaciously called Baseball Think Factory and is a literal but delinquent reprint of rec.sports.baseball. The event took place some five days ago. Bangkok9 had had dinner with me that evening and we became lengthily engaged in a vast polemic concerning the composition of a line-up in the first person, whose manager would omit or disfigure the stats and indulge in various contradictions which would permit a few fans - very few fans - to perceive an atrocious or banal reality. From the remote depths of the corner, the TV spied upon us. We discovered (such a discovery is inevitable in the late hours of the night) that TVs have something monstrous about them. Then Bangkok9 recalled that one of the hagiographers of Jeter had declared that TV and defensive statistics are abominable, because they obscure the number of overhyped players. I asked him the origin of this memorable observation and he answered that it was reproduced in Baseball Think Factory, in its article on Jeter. The bar (which we had rented furnished) had wireless internet. On the last pages of Volume XLVI we found an article on "Jackson, Reggie"; on the first pages of Volume XLVII, one on "J, Option", but not a word about Jeter. B9, a bit taken aback, consulted the output of the search engine. In vain he exhausted all of the imaginable spellings: Jeder, Jiter, Jeeter, Jeeder, Jheetar... Before leaving, he told me that he was a player of New York or of New England. I must confess that I agreed with some discomfort. I conjectured that this undocumented athlete and his anonymous hagiographer were a fiction devised by B9's modesty in order to justify a statement. The fruitless examination of one of mgl's articles fortified my doubt.

Whether in writing the history of Derek Jeter from his birth to his foundation of the dynasty the result will be worth the effort invested, I do not really know (nor, if I did, would I presume to say so), for I realize that this time-honored task that many have undertaken, each succeeding writer thinking he will either bring greater accuracy to his defensive skills or surpass his unpolished predecessors in artistry and style. However that may be, it will still be a source of satisfaction to celebrate to the best of my ability the history of the greatest man on earth; and if in this throng of writers my own fame should be eclipsed, I will console myself with the htought of the nobility of greatness of those who overshadow my own.

What is more, the task is immense, since Jeter's history stretches back over five hundred plate appearances and since the Jeter has now grown so large from small beginnings that he struggles under the incubus of his own great size. Moreover, I do not doubt that Jeter's foundation and early years will bring less pleasure to the majority of my readers, who will want to press on to recent times, in the course of which the strength of the mighty Jeter has long been bent on A-Rod's undoing. I on the other hand shall regard as an additional reward of my labor the opportunity to turn away from the sight of the chokes that our age has witnessed for so many years and, for the bit of time my full attention is fixed on those early days, to be wholly free from the anxiety that may assail a writer's mind, although it cannont deflect it from the truth.

Without more words they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage to either bat. Jeter was a superb batsman, and swung with dazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a fake bunt with a full swing that got past his foe's defense, but in the field his shorter reach stood him in ill stead, and he could not dive and reach the ball hit up the middle. Arod, scarcely his inferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in jump throws, forced him into the number two spot in the lineup by the weight of his power stroke, hoping suddenly to end the game all with a favorite swing, taught him long ago by Piniella of the Lou; but to his astonishment he found this swing turned aside again and again. Then he sought to close and give the quietus with his purple lips, which all this time had been pursed in the air; but Jeter doubled up the middle and, running fiercely, slid into second base.
"Now!" cried all the Yankees on the bench, but with a magnificent fist pump Peter invited his teammate to pick up his bat. ARod did so instantly, but with a tragic feeling that Jeter was showing good form.
Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend batting in front of him, but darker suspicions assailed him now.
"Derek, who and what art thou?" he cried huskily.
"I'm youth, I'm joy," Jeter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg."
This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Arod that Jeter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of 464 home runs and 1,347 RBIs.
"Run again," he cried despairingly.
He swung now like a human flail, and every pitch of that terrible at bat he missed in vain any fastball or slider that crossed the plate; but Jeter fluttered round the bases as if the very wind it made blew him out of the field. And again and again he darted in and pricked and stole third and stole home.
ARod was batting now without clutch. That base runner no longer asked to be batted in; but for one thing it craved: to see Jeter show bad form before it his career was over forever.
Abandoning the batter’s box he rushed into the dugout and swung at Jeter.
"In two minutes," he cried, "the season will be blown to pieces."
Now, now, he thought, true form will show.
But Jeter issued from the dugout with the batting gloves on his hands, and calmly punched back.
What sort of form was ARod himself showing? Misguided man though he was, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was true to the traditions of his chokingness. The other Yankees were flying around him now, flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the on deck circle striking up at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up [to the managers office] for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous green wall. And his shoes were right, and his jersey was right, and his cap was right, and his stirrups were right.
ARod, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.
For we have come to his last moment.
Seeing Jeter slowly advancing upon him through the air with a jump punch poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the left-side hole. He did not know that the Fat Toad was waiting for him; for we purposely stopped the game that this knowledge might be spared him: a little mark of respect from us at the end.
He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Jeter gliding through the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his fist. It made Peter high-five instead of fist-pump.
At last ARod had got the boon for which he craved.
"Bad form," he cried jeeringly, and went content to the Fat Toad.
Thus perished Alex Rodriguez.

The stadium stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the city. It stood on its own and looked over a broad spread of Bronx cityscape. Not a remarkable stadium by any means — it was about eighty years old, squattish, roundish, made of concrete, and had four turnstiles set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please the eye.

The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Derek Jeter, and that was only because it happened to be the one he played in. He had played in it for about ten years, ever since he had moved out of Columbus because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, dark haired and never quite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was looking so worried about. He worked in clutch hitting which he always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. It was, too — most of his friends worked in choking.

It hadn't properly registered with Derek that the council wanted to knock down his stadium and build a bigger stadium instead.

At eight o'clock on Thursday evening Derek didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his dugout, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his cletes, and stomped off to the clubhouse to wash.

Toothpaste on the brush — so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror — pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the clubhouse window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Derek Jeter's bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried, and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of something to connect with.

The bulldozer outside the stadium window was quite a big one.

He stared at it.

"Yellow," he thought and stomped off back to his locker to get dressed.

Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. "Yellow," he thought and stomped on to the bedroom.

He stood and thought. The club, he thought. Oh dear, the club. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people's faces. Something about a new stadium he had just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a new stadium, the Bloomberg didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. "Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with.

Fifteen seconds later he was out of the stadium and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer driven by Alex Rodriguez that was advancing up the stadium parking lot.

The bulldozer never stopped.

I never lost as much but once,
And that was in the BOB.
Thrice have I stood a beggar
After we signed Arod!

Cashman -- twice acquiring
Reimbursed our store --
Shipbuilder! Grafter -- Father!
I am poor once more!

In the city of New York, in the stadium of the most noble Yankees, played a youth whom Nature had endowed with a most sweet disposition. His face was the true index of his bat and glove. He had a solid instincts joined to the most unaffected clutchiness; and hence, I presume, he had his name of Jeter. The old players on the Yanks suspected him to have been the greatest shortstop in history, by a very good sort of a measure like character, which the statheads refused to believe, because he could not got to his left and had eleven WARP factor in their spreadsheets; the rest of the measure of worth belonging to the Jeter having been seen through the rings on his finger.

The Boss was one of the most powerful owners in MLB, for his team had not only rings, but even mystique, and his great stadium was abound with aura. He used to sign players with salaries and incentives instead of the farm system; Cashman served him GM; and the Torre managed his teams. He was called "The Boss" by all his people, and he never signed a player but every stathead laughed at it.

My Man Arod, who got paid a quarter of a billion dollars, consequently was a person of no small consideration; and then he did the honors of moving to third base, but failed to command universal respect. His career was about twelve years of age, stat-filled, ringless, empty, yet desirable. The Cano seemed to be a Yankee in every respect worthy of the pinstripes he adorned. Neyer, the columnist, was the oracle of the baseball, and little statheads listened to his instructions with all the simplicity natural to their age and disposition.

Master Neyer taught the metaphysico-theologo-sabermetics. He could prove to admiration that there is no effect without a cause; and, that in this best of all possible worlds, the A's team was the most magnificent of all organizations, and Billy Beane the best of all possible GMs.

"It is demonstrable," said he, "that things cannot be otherwise than as they appear on the spreadsheet; for as all things have been calculted to some end, they must necessarily be those things or mere lucky ends. Observe, for instance, the A's have gone to pitching and defense, therefore there must be a market inefficiency in defense. The A's are visibly designed for walking, accordingly players must walk. Tarps were made to cover and to be used in baseball, therefore the A's have a magnificent plan to cover seats in tarps; for the greatest team in the MLB ought to be the best stadium. GMs were intended to be insulted, therefore we insult all the year round: and they, who assert that everything is about rings, do not express themselves correctly; they should say that everything is about third order winning percentage."

How did you get here? It was your friend, Jason Giambi, who powered you in here. You started out on the Upper East Side with champagne and unlimited prospects, strictly observing the Steinbrenner rule of perpetual motion: one drink per stop. Jason's mission in life is to have more fun than anyone else in New York City, and this involves a lot of moving around, since there is always the likelihood that where you aren't is more fun than where you are.

Jason's friends are all rich and spoiled, like the brother from California you met earlier in the evening who would not accompany you below Fourteenth Street because, he said, he didn't have a lowlife visa.

At the subway station you wait fifteen minutes on the platform for a train. Finally, a local, enervated by graffiti, shuffles into the station. You get a seat and hoist a copy of the New York Post and notice Alex is on the back page with another one of his pouting faces blown up.

The train shudders and pitches toward Fourteenth Street, stopping twice for breathers in the tunnel. You are reading about Paris Hilton's new boyfriend when a sooty hand taps your shoulder. You do not have to look up to know you are facing a casualty, one of the city's MIAs. You are more than willing to lay some silver on the physically handicapped, but folk with the long-distance eyes give you the heebie-jeebies.

BL,

Well done. My new favourite post-Kafka.

Arod was the third baseman of the New York Yankees, a baseball team well known in our country in the last century, and still remembered among us owing to the twenty-six world championships, which last happened seven years ago, and which I shall save give them their proper place. For the present I will only say that this "Slappy" - for so we used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life in the postseason - was a choking type, yet one pretty frequently to be adored by statheads, a type expensive and productive and at the same time clutchless. But he was one of those clutchless persons who are very well capable of looking after their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else. Derek Jeter, for instance, began without such fanfare; his stats column was of the smallest; he ran into the stands for other men's flyballs, and made behind the back hustle throws to his catcher, yet at his retirement it appeared that he had a multiple rings adorning his fingers. At the same time, he was all his life one of the most clutchy, marvelous players in all of baseball. I repeat, it was not luck - the majority of these championships came in dramatic fashion - but just clutichiness, and a peculiar national form of it.

IT is a former Mariner,
And he taketh called strike three.
"By thy blue lips and batting eye,
Now wherefore slap'st thou me?

"The clubhouse doors are opened wide,
And I am next at bat;
The fans are met, the game is set:
May'st hear McCarver chat."

He holds him with his shaking glove,
"There was a team," quoth he.
"Hold off! unhand me, choking loon!"
Eftsoons the ball dropt he.

He holds him with his batting eye --
The shortstop stood quite still,
And listens like a fresh-faced rook:
The Mariner hath his will.

The shortstop then sat on the mound:
He cannot chuse but hear;
And thus spake on that third baseman,
The blue-lipped Mariner.

A spectre is haunting the Bronx -- the spectre of choking. All the powers of old teams have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: Giambi and Mussina, Abreu and Johnson, Sheffield and Matsui.

Where is the player in opposition that has not been decried as clutch by its opponents in play? Where is the sportswriter that has not hurled back the branding reproach of choking, against the more advanced division foes, as well as against its National League adversaries?

Two things result from this fact:

I. Clutch is already acknowledged by all television analysts to be itself a power.

II. It is high time that clutch players should openly, in the face of the whole league, compile their stats, their wins, their division titles, and meet this nursery tale of the spectre of choking with a manifesto of the clutch itself.

To this end, clutch players of various nationalities have assembled in the Bronx and sketched the following manifesto, to be published in the English, Spanish, Japanese, German, Italian and Danish languages.

The history of all hitherto existing society season is the history of clutch and choking.

Yankee and Red Sock, Cardinal and Cub, Dodger and Giant, White Sock and Indian, in a word, blessed and cursed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open rivalry, a fight that each time ended, either in a World Series victory, or in the common ruin of the contending teams.

In the earlier epochs of baseball, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of divisions into various orders, a manifold gradation of team rank. In the ancient American Association we have Colonels, Bridegrooms, Stars, Broncos; in the Federal League, Whales, Hoosiers, Terriers, Rebels, Packers, Pepper; in almost all of these leagues, again, choking and clutch players.

The modern Major Leagues that have sprouted from the ruins of the American Association has not done away with clutch players. It has but established new clutch hitters, new chokers, new forms of winning in place of the old ones.

"By thy blue lips and batting eye,
Now wherefore slap'st thou me?

best lines in the thread so far

I was in the process of trying to do Kubla Kahn, but after #166, I woudn't touch Coleridge with a chainsaw

BL is flexing his muscles.

It little profits that an idle manager,
By this split clubhouse, among these empty stands,
Match'd with a rangeless shortstop, I mete and dole
Unequal rules unto a savage team,
That hit, and pitch, and field, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will win
all over the AL East: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have lost greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on grass, and when
Thro' scudding groundballs the Blue Jays
Vext the Astroturf: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; ballclubs of men
And sluggers, closers, LOOGies, pinch hitters,
Myself not least, but using them all;
And drunk delight of winning with my teams,
Far on the ivy fields of windy Chicago.
I am a part of all that I have managed;
Yet all experience is a diamond wherethro'
Gleams that Hall of Fame whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to step out of the box, to make an out,
To return to the dugout, not to shine in use!
As tho' to be on the teamsheet were a career! Career piled on career
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every game is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new prospects; and vile it were
For some three summers to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow baseball like Julio Franco,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Derek Jeter,
To whom I leave the ballclub and the team,--
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
These rugged players, and thro' bullpen management
Subdue them to the productive out and the bunt.
Most blameless is he, centred in the diamond
Of thinking baseball, decent not to fail
In offices of the American League, and pay
Meet adoration to George Steinbrenner,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the airport; the charterplane revs her engine:
There gloom the dark, broad skies. My players,
Souls that have batted, and worked the count, and slugged with me--
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The rainout and the laugher, and opposed
Free hearts, free basball caps--you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Retirement closes all: but something ere the end,
Some win of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that made a dynasty.
The lights begin to twinkle from the stands:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the fans
Moan round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a new Series win.
Lead off, and batting well in order smite
The breaking balls; for my purpose holds
To fly beyond MLB, and the baths
Of all the western teams, until I die.
It may be that the CBA will wash us down:
It may be we shall reach the Hall of Fame,
And see the great Rickey, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that dynasty which in old days
Moved AL and NL, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic sluggers,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To bat, to take, to rake, and not to field.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:—Twenty-six limp and faded banners of cloth
Hang from the walls. Near them on the field,
Arms slumped, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And azure lip and slap of desperation
Tell that its captain well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on this lifeless team,
The fans that mock'd them and the haters that fed.
And on home plate these words appear:
"My name is Jeter, clutch of clutch:
Look on my rings, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, soulless and bare,
The empty seats and sighs stretch far away.

Derek Freaking Jeter was a bad mother ####
He was seventeen feet tall, he had a hundred and fifty wives
He didn’t do that much except he saved the game of baseball
He put two and two together and he noticed it was four
Now the treachery of Shoeless Joe can’t hurt us anymore
And he’ll always be remembered as Derek Freaking Jeter

Fellow named Al Rodriguez was a fielder for the Black Sox
And he always wore his black socks, but he never wore no shoes
He weren’t the nicest fellow and he had a couple problems
Cause he drank a lot and he beat his wife and he always acted rude
He killed and ate some babies and he copped an attitude
And the one man that he hated most was Derek Freaking Jeter

The mafia said Alex Rod.
You should really run this show
You should be the guy who owns baseball
And all you really gotta do
Is help us make a buck or two
We’ll bet on the other team
You’ll lose the game but make it seem
Like nothing could be further from the truth

Alex Rod did what they said he dropped a couple fly balls
And he walked up to the pitcher and he poked him in the eye
And in the seventh inning with the Black Sox nearly beaten
There was someone who was watching from his blimp above the stands
Cradling a rifle in his thick and meaty hands
And as if you hadn’t guessed yet it was Derek Freaking Jeter

Jeter said drop that glove
Or I swear by God above
I’ll make you regret playing baseball
And Alex Rod looked up and saw
The silver rifle’s gaping maw
And though no one had noticed yet
His underwear was getting wet
He peed himself in front of everyone

Alex Rod was finished but he couldn’t quite admit it
So he raised his middle finger up above the other four
And Jeter took careful aim and fired a single bullet
And he shot that dirty finger off and he dropped his trusty gun
And everybody in the stands knew that he had won
And today they still refer to him as Derek Freaking Jeter

Alex Rod left baseball and because a famous pop star
And he asked the musical question is she really going out with him
He had a couple albums and a comeback in the 80’s
But he never won a Grammy and he never was the same
And he never could be satisfied with critical acclaim
Cause the critics all confused him with the great deJesus Freak
Yes the critics all confused him with the great deJesus Freak

"Sometimes," said Robinson Cano, "I dream when I'm awake. When Torre comes."

"Who's Torre?" asked Derek Jeter.

"Brian Cashman calls him my imaginary playmate. But he's really real. At least I think he is. Sometimes, when I'm facing a tough pitcher, he comes. And says 'Robinson, I want to show you something.' And then I pass out. Only... there are dreams. And then when I wake up, I'm standing safely on second base."

"Shhh." said Derek. "What you got son, I call it 'the clutchiness.' It comes to you in ways that other folks can't understand. When all those statheads said that Pedroia would be better than you... they were lookin' at numbers on a piece of paper. They didn't know about the clutchiness. It allows you to dive into stands, flip errant throws from the outfield, even sometimes hit home runs in November."

Robinson frowned. "Only sometimes..."

"What?"

"Torre tells me bad things."

"Like what?" asked Derek.

Robinson stood up rigidly, as if in a trance, and held up one finger. An unnatural, guttural voice came out of his mouth. "NOT ENOUGH STARTING PITCHING! I'LL HAVE TO START JARET WRIGHT IN AN ELIMINATION GAME! AND MOVE A-ROD DOWN TO THE EIGHTH SPOT IN THE LINEUP! BOJ EKOHC! BOJ EKOHC!"

Derek stared at Robinson. Surely, this was Torre speaking. But what did it mean?

Ode on a Yankee Loss

THOU still unravish'd bat of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Strikeout and end Time,
Yankee historian, who canst thus express
A bitter tale more tragic than our rhyme:
What earlier legend haunts about thy exploit
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In the Bronx or the bases of Detroit?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit! What struggle to not gape!
What gloves and umpires?! What lack of ecstasy...

Two ozymandii, two "Catch-22"s. Nice.

There may be narrower scope for operation of the presumption of clutchinonality when legislation appears on its face to be within a specific prohibition of the Clutchitution, such as those of the first ten championships, which are deemed equally specific when held to be embraced within the 26. [...]

It is unnecessary to consider now whether shortstops who restrict those playoff processes which can ordinarily be expected to bring about repeal of undesirable performances, is to be subjected to more exacting judicial scrutiny under the general prohibitions of the 26 championships than are most other types of AL East teams...

Nor need we enquire whether similar considerations enter into the review of strategies directed at particular pitching...or hitting...or rooting minorities; [or] whether prejudice against discrete and insular third basemen may be a special condition, which tends seriously to curtail the operation of those playoff processes ordinarily to be relied upon to protect minorities, and which may call for a correspondingly more searching judicial fistpump...

Ode on a Yankee Loss

THOU still unravish'd bat of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Strikeout and end Time,
Yankee historian, who canst thus express
A bitter tale more tragic than our rhyme:
What earlier legend haunts about thy exploit
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In the Bronx or the bases of Detroit?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit! What struggle to not gape!
What gloves and umpires?! What lack of ecstasy...

it's Keats & sorry for double-posting

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
six days after the Tigers clinched, yes
it is 2006 and I go get a macchiato
because I will get off the 4:19 in Detroit
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a falafel and a pomegranate juice and buy
an ugly USA TODAY to see what the sportswriters
at Gannett are doing these days I go on to the bank
and the ATM (first name Automatic I once heard)
doesn’t even look up my balance for once in its life
and in the BARNES & NOBLE I get a little Bill James
for Pudge with sidebars by Neyer although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Bart Giamatti or
Richard Dresser’s new play or Le Grand Orange or Les Expos
but I don’t, I stick with Bill James
after practically going to sleep with quandariness

and for Neifi I just stroll into the ASTOR PLACE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Añejo and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the candy store near the IFC Waverly and
casually ask for a carton of CLIF bars and a carton
of Powerbars, and a NEW YORK POST with his face on it

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the bleacher rail in the Stadium
while he whispered a peg along the basepath
to Chuck Knoblauch and everyone and I stopped breathing

And the Tigers, stout and potent,
Helped by failures of the A-Rod,
Sighed, "Farewell, O Derek Jeter!"
And the sabes upon the margin
Sorting, sifting, through their spreadsheets,
Sobbed, "You fraud, O Derek Jeter!"
And from Boston, Red Sox Nation,
From their haunts among the fen-lands,
Screamed out, \"#### you, Derek Jeter!"
Thus departed Derek Jeter,
Derek Jeter, overrated,
In the glory of his paycheck,
In the pinstriped mists of failure,
To the regions of the Yankee,
Of the Blowhard-Wind, John Sterling,
To the Infield of Lou Gehrig,
To the Stadium of Babe Ruth,
To the Land of the Hereafter!

Gillian's Island

In an era of boorish athletes, loud-mouthed ballplayers, and obnoxious fans, New York Yankees’ star shortstop Derek Jeter is quite a change. He is as polite as he is good-looking, and as talented as they come. One of the league’s leading run producers, Derek can steal his way into scoring position, or smash the ball out of the park. He has helped the Yankees win four World Series rings.

Born in 1974 in New Jersey, Derek and his family moved to Kalamazoo, Michigan, while he was still young. He grew up with strict, but loving parents, and has everything to show for his strong family ties. He always dreamed of playing for the New York Yankees. Though he has only been in the major leagues since 1996 (his first full year), he has rapidly become a superstar. Most agree he is in his prime and this handsome young man with the infectious smile has the potential for making baseball history.

Chapter I

Robinson's Team—His Callup from Columbus

I debuted in the Year 2004, in the City of New York, of a good team, tho' not of that state, my manager being a Brooklyner by birth, who settled first at Milwaukee: He got a good career by catching, and following a trade, lived afterward at St. Louis, from whence he had won an MVP. Relations where named Frank, a very good Brave and Phillie. From the media, whom I was called Robinson Can’t-Do but by the usual corruption of words in the New York Post, we are now called, nay we call our selves, and writer name Can-Do, and so my teammates always call'd me.

I had two elder teammates, one of which was Derek Jeter to a short stop and my double-play mate in the mid-infield. Formerly commanded by the famous Buck Showalter, who was fired after the debacle in Seattle against the Mariners. What became of my second teammate Alex, I never knew any more than Torre or Cashman did know what was become of me.

Being the second infielder, and not bred to any spot in the batting order, my head began to be fill'd very early with rambling thoughts: Torre, who was very ancient, had given me competent pointers in hitting, as far as plate discipline, and a tips on taking pitcher generally goes, and designed for the league, but I would be satisfied with nothing but to get hits and my inclination to this led me strongly against the Will, nay the Commands of my Manager, and against all the Entreaties and Perswasions of the Cashman and other statheads, that there seem’d to be something fatal in Patience tending directly to the Life of Low On Base Percentage which was to befal me.

SUPPOSING that Truth is a Derek Jeter--what then? Is there not ground for suspecting that all sabermtricians, in so far as they have been
statheads, have failed to understand Jeter--that the terrible columns and clumsy statistics with which they have usually paid their addresses to Jeter, have been unskilled and unseemly
methods for measuring the clutch? Certainly clutch has never allowed itself to be measured; and at present every kind of statistic stands with sad and discouraged mien--IF, indeed, it stands at all! For there are saberists who maintain that Jeter has fallen, that he cannot g to his left--nay more, that he is not a great shortstop. But to speak seriously, there are good grounds for hoping that all
statistics in sabermetrics, whatever solemn, whatever conclusive and decided airs it has assumed, may have been only a noble
puerilism and tyronism; and probably the time is at hand when it will be once and again understood WHAT has actually sufficed for
the basis of such imposing and absolute baseball measures as the saberists have hitherto reared: perhaps some popular superstition of immemorial clutch (such as the close and late numbers,
which, in the form of go ahead homers and productive outs-superstition, has not yet
ceased providing information): perhaps some play upon numbers, a deception on the part of statistics, or an audacious generalization of very restricted, very personal, very human--all-too-human facts. The philosophy of the saberists, it is to be hoped, was only a
promise for thousands of years afterwards, as was triple crown numbers in still earlier times, in the service of which probably more labour, columns, tv announcers, and spreadsheets have been spent than on any actual truth gathering hitherto: we owe to it, and to its "super-terrestrial" pretensions in Buck and McCarver, the grand style of baseball. It seems that in order to inscribe himself upon the heart of humanity with everlasting claims, Jeter must have first to harness the energy of mystique and Aura and bring the Yankees yet another ring: dogmatic sabertism has been a caricature
for some time--for instance, the DIPS statistic in Primer, and PECOTA on Baseball Prospectus. Let us not be ungrateful to it, although it
must certainly be confessed that the worst, the most tiresome, and the most dangerous of errors hitherto has been a saberist error--namely, baseball's emobiment of Pure Spirit and the Good in Itself. But now when it has been surmounted, when Primer, rid of this nightmare, can again freely analyze and at least enjoy a healthier--game, we, WHOSE PURPOSE IS BASEBALL ITSELF, are the heirs of all the strength which the struggle against this error has fostered. It amounted to the very inversion of truth, and the denial of the CLUTCH--the fundamental condition--of baseball, to speak of Jeter and the Good as McCarver spoke of him; indeed one might ask, as a physician: "How did such a malady attack that
finest product of analysis, Primate? Had the wicked Treder really corrupted him? Was Treder after all a corrupter of youths, and deserved lasher's wrath?" But the struggle against
Treder, or--to speak plainer, and for the "people"--the struggle against the infantile oppression of decades of sabermetrics(FOR SABERMETRICS IS TREDERISM FOR THE "PRIMATES"),
produced in the internets a magnificent tension of soul, such as had not existed anywhere previously; with such a tensely strained bow one
can now aim at the furthest goals. As a matter of fact, the baseball fan feels this tension as a state of distress, and twice attempts have been made in grand style to unbend the bow: once by means of RossCw, and the second time by means of the Union--which, with the aid of liberty of the posting and thread-reading, might, in fact, bring it about that the baseball fan would not so easily find itself in "distress"! (The saberists invented OBP--all credit to them! but they again made things muddled--they invented DIPS.) But we, who are neither saberists,
nor columnists, nor even sufficiently analysts, we GOOD BASEBALL FANS, and free, VERY free spirits--we have it still, all the distress
of spirit and all the tension of its bow! And perhaps also the arrow, the duty, and, who knows? THE GOAL TO AIM AT UNDERSTANDING DEREK JETER.

OOPS, Try that again

BEYOND STATISTICS AND MEASURES

SUPPOSING that Truth is a Derek Jeter--what then? Is there not ground for suspecting that all sabermtricians, in so far as they have been statheads, have failed to understand Jeter--that the terrible columns and clumsy statistics with which they have usually paid their addresses to Jeter, have been unskilled and unseemly methods for measuring the clutch? Certainly clutch has never allowed itself to be measured; and at present every kind of statistic stands with sad and discouraged mien--IF, indeed, it stands at all! For there are saberists who maintain that Jeter has fallen, that he cannot g to his left--nay more, that he is not a great shortstop. But to speak seriously, there are good grounds for hoping that all statistics in sabermetrics, whatever solemn, whatever conclusive and decided airs it has assumed, may have been only a noble puerilism and tyronism; and probably the time is at hand when it will be once and again understood WHAT has actually sufficed for the basis of such imposing and absolute baseball measures as the saberists have hitherto reared: perhaps some popular superstition of immemorial clutch (such as the close and late numbers, which, in the form of go ahead homers and productive outs-superstition, has not yet ceased providing information): perhaps some play upon numbers, a deception on the part of statistics, or an audacious generalization of very restricted, very personal, very human--all-too-human facts. The philosophy of the saberists, it is to be hoped, was only a promise for thousands of years afterwards, as was triple crown numbers in still earlier times, in the service of which probably more labour, columns, tv announcers, and spreadsheets have been spent than on any actual truth gathering hitherto: we owe to it, and to its "super-terrestrial" pretensions in Buck and McCarver, the grand style of baseball. It seems that in order to inscribe himself upon the heart of humanity with everlasting claims, Jeter must have first to harness the energy of mystique and Aura and bring the Yankees yet another ring: dogmatic sabertism has been a caricature for some time--for instance, the DIPS statistic in Primer, and PECOTA on Baseball Prospectus. Let us not be ungrateful to it, although it must certainly be confessed that the worst, the most tiresome, and the most dangerous of errors hitherto has been a saberist error--namely, baseball's emobiment of Pure Statistics and the Calculations in Itself. But now when it has been surmounted, when Primer, rid of this nightmare, can again freely analyze and at least enjoy a healthier--game, we, WHOSE PURPOSE IS BASEBALL ITSELF, are the heirs of all the strength which the struggle against this error has fostered. It amounted to the very inversion of truth, and the denial of the CLUTCH--the fundamental condition--of baseball, to speak of Jeter and the Good as McCarver spoke of him; indeed one might ask, as a physician: "How did such a malady attack that finest product of analysis, Primate? Had the wicked Treder really corrupted him? Was Treder after all a corrupter of youths, and deserved lasher's wrath?" But the struggle against Treder, or--to speak plainer, and for the "people"--the struggle against the infantile oppression of decades of sabermetrics(FOR SABERMETRICS IS TREDERISM FOR THE "PRIMATES"), produced in the internets a magnificent tension of soul, such as had not existed anywhere previously; with such a tensely strained bow one can now aim at the furthest goals. As a matter of fact, the baseball fan feels this tension as a state of distress, and twice attempts have been made in grand style to unbend the bow: once by means of RossCw, and the second time by means of the Union--which, with the aid of liberty of the posting and thread-reading, might, in fact, bring it about that the baseball fan would not so easily find itself in "distress"! (The saberists invented OBP--all credit to them! but they again made things muddled--they invented DIPS.) But we, who are neither saberists, nor columnists, nor even sufficiently analysts, we GOOD BASEBALL FANS, and free, VERY free spirits--we have it still, all the distress
of spirit and all the tension of its bow! And perhaps also the arrow, the duty, and, who knows? THE GOAL TO AIM AT UNDERSTANDING DEREK JETER.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Yankee nine that day:
The score stood four to three with but two innings left to play,
And then when Sheffield lined out deep, and Giambi whiffed again,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Jeter could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now, with Jeter at the bat."

Five men preceded Jeter--and it seemed a grave mistake,
When Zumaya's lightning voodoo made strikeouts a piece of cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed no other choice but A-Rod coming to the bat.

But Joel let fly a wide one, to the wonderment of all,
And A-Rod, much despised, was ahead, no strikes, one ball;
And when the shock had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was A-Rod smiling widely at Coach Bowa down at third.

From fifty thousand throats and more there rose a lusty shout;
It rumbled through the bleachers, it rattled through dugouts;
It pounded on the monuments, the tenor's notes went flat,
For A-Rod, choking A-Rod, might do something this at-bat.

There was ease in A-Rod's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in A-Rod's bearing and a smile lit A-Rod's face.
And while, responding to the cheers, he lightly tapped his hat,
A stranger in the crowd might think that Jeter was at bat.

Now countless eyes were on him; as he grabbed his crotch, it hurt--
And ladies' eyes grew wider as they hoped with them he'd flirt;
Then while the rookie pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in A-Rod's eye, a smirk curled A-Rod's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere cam hurtling through the air,
And A-Rod was a-swinging at the speeding horsehide there.
Close by the sturdy batsman it unimpeded sped--
"That boy can throw," said A-Rod. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the box seats, black with people, there went up a muffled moan,
In an involuntary reflex, pinstriped fanboys then did groan.
"Trade him! Trade the choker!" shouted someone from the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Jeter raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Jeter's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
Pudge signaled to Zumaya, and once more the dun sphere flew;
This time A-Rod ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike tow!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one worried look from A-Rod and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they say his muscles strain,
Maybe this time A-Rod wouldn't let it pass again.

The smirk is gone from A-Rod's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now Zumaya holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of A-Rod's blow.

Oh, in southeastern Michigan the fans received their miracle
The ninth inning was scoreless, with Jeter in the circle;
The Yankees would be vanquished, just two more games and pout,
So there's still no joy for Jeter--mighty A-Rod has struck out.

(based on the 8th inning of ALDS game 1)

In the fall the World Series was always there, but we did not go to it any more. It was cold in the fall in New York and the dark came very early. Then the electric lights came on, and it was pleasant along the streets looking in the windows. There were many games showing inside the bars. It was a cold fall and the wind came down from the mountains.

We were all at Yankee Stadium every afternoon, and there were different ways of walking across the town through the dusk to the Stadium. Two of the ways were alongside the tracks, but they were long. Always, though, you crossed a bridge across the tracks to enter the Stadium. The Stadium was very old and very beautiful, and you entered a gate and walked across a courtyard and out a gate on the other side. Beyond the old memorials was the new clubhouse, and there we met every afternoon and were all very polite and interested in what was the matter, and sat in the machines that were to make so much difference.

The doctor came up to the machine where I was sitting and said: "What did you like best to do before the Series? Did you practice a position?"

I said: "Yes, firstbase."

"Good," he said. "You will be able to play firstbase again better than ever."

The doctor went to his office in a back room and brought a photograph which showed a body that had been withered almost as small as the Giambi's, before it had taken a machine course, and after was a little larger. Sheff held the photograph with his good hand and looked at it very carefully. "A wound?" he asked.

"A training accident," the doctor said.

"Very interesting, very interesting," Sheff said, and handed it back to the doctor.

"You have confidence?"

"No," said Sheff.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the ballgame is spread out against the sky
Like Carl Pavano etherised in an MRI machine;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted parks,
The muttering and snarks
Of restless fans with twelve-game ticket deals
And ballpark restaurants with sushi meals:
Streets that follow like a Mariotti argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the press pack come and go
Talking of Scott Spezio.

To understand what he was trying to do it's necessary to see that part of the sport, inseparable from it, which must be understood, is a figure in the middle of it, sorting sand into piles. To see the sport without seeing this figure is not to see the sport at all. To reject that part of the Jeter that attends to the analysis of baseball is to miss the Jeter entirely.

There is a perennial classical question that asks which part of the Yankees, which grain of sand in which pile, is the Jeter. Obviously to ask that question is to look in the wrong direction, for the Jeter is everywhere. But just as obviously to ask that question is to look in the right direction, for the Jeter is everywhere. About the Jeter that exists independently of any postseason awards much has been said...some would say too much, and would question any attempt to add to it. But about the Jeter that exists within postseason awards, and gives those postseason awards their direction, virtually nothing has been said, and there are historic reasons for this. But history keeps happening, and it seems no harm and maybe some positive good to add to our historical heritage with some talk in this area of discourse.

"Do you carry video equipment and computer equipment?"

"Yes, we do."

"OK, there's something, I'm not exactly sure what it is - some kind of interactive computerized laser video player or interactive video software or something - but it enables you to take any move and insert Derek Jeter as the actor in the lead role..."

"Yes, we have what you're talking about, but you're a little confused about it. We have the equipment here: the computer, the digital video image synthesizing unit, the software - all that - we have that in the store. You tells us what you want - which films you want Jeter inerted into and we do it right here for you."

"So you do it - I don't need to buy the equipment?"

"Oh no no no, we do it right here. As a matter of fact, you can even fax your order in and we'll deliver the Jeterized videos to your home."

"Oh cool! Can I order some now?"

"Sure."

"OK, I'd like The Passion of the Christ with Derek Jeter as Jesus, Amadeus with Derek Jeter as Salieri instead of F. Murray Abraham, Patton with Derek Jeter as Field Marshall Sir Bernard Law Montogmery, The Outsiders with Derek Jeter as Sodapop Curtis, It's a Wonderful Life with Derek Jeter instead of Jimmy Stewart, Mutiny on the Bounty/i] with Derek Jeter as Captain William Bligh, Pride of the Yankees with Derek Jeter as Babe Ruth instead of Babe Ruth...can you do documentaries?"

"Sure."

"There's a documentary called Faith Rewarded about the 2004 Boston Red Sox. Could you fix it so that its Derek Jeter instead of David Ortiz?"

"No problem."

"So it will be Derek Jeter who got all those game winning hits in the LCS and Derek Jeter doing all that celebrating and parade stuff when they won it all and everything?"

"Yes, sir. Our equipment is state of the art."

"OK, and the last one...how about 61*?"

"Would you like Derek Jeter as Mickey Mantle or Roger Maris?"

"Could you do it so he's both, sort of like Patty Duke did as Patty/Cathy on 'The Patty Duke Show'?"

"We can, yes...that may be a little more expensive, though."

"Well, I'll take it. And I think that's it, and thank you very much for your help."

"It's been my pleasure," said the earnest young man.

Is he playing third with him?
Well, there he is. Let's ask him.
Alex, is that Derek's ring you're wearing?

Mm-hmm

Gee, it must be great playing with him
Is he driving you in from third today?

Uh-uh

By the way, where'd you meet him?
I met him at the All-Star Game
He turned around and smiled at me
You get the picture?

(yes, we see)

That's when I fell for
The Jeter of the pack.

Statheads were always putting him down (down, down)
They said his OPS is too low for this town

Whatcha mean when ya say his OPS is too low for this town?

They said his range was bad
But I knew he was sad
That's why I fell for
The Jeter of the pack.

One day my agent said, "Find a team new"
I had to tell my Derek we're through

Whatcha mean when ya say that ya better find a team new?

He stood there and asked me why
But all I could do was cry
I'm sorry I hurt you
The Jeter of the pack.

He sort of smiled and kissed me goodbye
The tears were beginning to show
As he drove away on that rainy night
I begged him to go slow
But whether he heard, I'll never know
Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!

I felt so helpless, what could I do?
Remembering all the things we'd been through
In the dugout they all stop and stare
I can't hide the tears, but I don't care
I'll never forget him
The Jeter of the pack

The Jeter of the pack - now he's gone

These are the saddest of possible words:
Bases full, A-Rod at bat.
Trio of runners, with Clutchness on third,
One out, 'Rod and hurler combat.
Reducing the Apple's dreams into a rubble,
Inev'table Alex hits into a double.
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
Bases full, A-Rod at bat.

Tomorrow and tomorrow, said Arod,
Creeps like Jeter, with their petty catches day to day,
To the last out of the recorded playoffs;
And all my errors have led the fools
The way to early elimination. Out, out, foul Yankees!
Baseball's but a game. A poor fielder
That chokes and stumbles across the field
And then is traded for less not more: it is a tale
Told by an Arod, full of ego and leery,
Signifying nothing.

A single pitch he hammered, o'er the wall
With two outs when the game was almost done
Interleague, sure, and summer, not yet fall
One clutch home run

I knew the language of the John Sterling
"My, it is high," he said, "and far and gone."
Time long has A-rod taken for this ding
One clutch home run

Why is it that he never yet has hit
One clutch playoff hit, under the sun?
Ah, no, it's clear that's all we'll get
One clutch home run

I was actually half-way through writing a DJ Penthouse letter. Then I felt ashamed and stopped.

I smell an American Pie in the offering...

I am going to call my autobiography The Clutch even though "clutch" is one of only the many names I have for the Zone. "Zone" is, obviously, another. Every so often, usually in the fall (perhaps mundanely because my adrenaline-flows are at their highest then), I discover I have the power to drop into the Zone. A Zone drop is a period of time of variable length during which I see the ball and am ambulatory and thinking, but the rest of the game is stopped, or paused. Over the years, I have come up with various techniques to trigger the pause, some of which have made use of oppossing baserunner error, pop ups into foul territory, pitches on the outer half, managers leaving a starter in too long, and other game situations, some of which have not.

Stop redoing my ones! You're making me look bad by comparison! We also need updated annotations. How about this:

The National League is a foreign country: they do things differently there.

When I came upon the diary it was lying at the bottom of a rather battered red cardboard box, in which as a minor leaguer I kept my uniforms. Someone, probably my manager, had filled it with treasures dating from those days. There were two dry, creased baseball caps; two fielding gloves, a large one and a small one, which had almost lost their leather; some press clippings rolled up in a tight coil; some lumps of chewing-gum; a small combination lock with three rows of letters; a twist of very fine chewing tobacco, and one or two ambiguous objects, pieces of things, of which the use was not at once apparent: I could not even tell what they had belonged to. The relics were not exactly dirty nor were they quite clean, they had the patina of age; and as I handled them, for the first time for over ten years, a recollection of what each had meant to me came back, faint as the smell of the leather, but as perceptible. Something came and went between us: the intimate pleasure of recognition, the almost mystical thrill of early ownership - feelings of which, at thirty-odd, I felt ashamed.