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Thursday, October 19, 2006

Esquire: Martone: The Death of Derek Jeter

Fiction, sure. Just like Moneyball.

Ipish Posted: October 19, 2006 at 01:56 PM | 318 comment(s) Login to Bookmark
  Tags: yankees

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   201. Zagg Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:21 PM (#2219728)
Alex was beginning to get very tired of sitting by Buck Showalter in Arlington and of having nothing to do in October. Once or twice he had peeped into the book Buck was reading, but it had no advanced statistics in it, ‘and what is the use of the book,’ thought Alex, ‘without stats showing me to be the best?’

So he was considering in his own mind (as well as he could for that hot day made him feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of getting a World Series ring would be worth the trouble of getting up and playing well in the postseason, when suddenly a Yankee with blue eyes ran close by him.

There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that, nor did Alex think it so VERY much out of the way to hear the Yankee say to itself, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!’ (when he thought it over afterwards, it occurred to him that he ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural.) but when the Yankee actually TOOK A RING OFF ITS FINGER, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alex started to his feet, for it flashed across his mind that he had never before seen a player with either a pinstriped uniform or a ring engraved with World Series markings, and burning with curiosity, he ran across the field after him, and fortunately was just in time to see him pop down a large tunnel under the mezzanine.

In another moment down went Alex after him, never once considering how in the world he was to get out again.

The tunnel went straight on for some way and then dipped suddenly down to a dugout, so suddenly Alex had not a moment to think about stopping himself before he found himself sitting at the end of a very long bench.
   202. Guapo Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:28 PM (#2219735)
I sat at my locker, polishing my bat and trying my hardest to think about not thinking, when I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror. Or at least I was pretty sure it was my face-- it could have been a piece of rejected flanksteak someone pulled out of a dumpster from the meatpacking district. My eye was swollen up like one of Giambi's testicles and my cheek was more purple than Steinbrenner's face after the 2004 ALCS. Then it all came back to me. I'd had a little run in with a seat in the third row during the fifth inning of last night's game. When you're in my profession, people ask you to dive into the stands for foul balls, and sometimes that means you have an up close and personal rendevous with a seat. And in my experience- the seat always wins.

My name's Derek Jeter. And I'm a shortstop.

I grimaced, took two aspirin, and washed it down with a slug of Gatorade, not that that ever takes the pain away. But then something walked into the clubhouse that did. I would have exceeded the recommended dosage of her anyday. She had long legs, hair that fell down below the hem of her miniskirt, and a figure that could make Theo Epstein throw a chair.

She walked up to me and smiled. "You're Jeter, right?" she said in a husky voice.

"Who wants to know?"

"Don't be cute." The smile was gone now. "I need you to help me out with something."

"I'd love to help you out, lady. Only thing is, I have a little policy. Dames that look like you, I figure they know how to help themselves."

She handed me an envelope. Peeking out of it was a wad of green paper that was fatter than David Ortiz' ass. "If I could do this myself, I'd do so. I need the clutchest. I heard that you were the guy."

A lot of guys would have gone ahead and blown their first round pick on a dame like that once they saw her, because a body like that was defintely projectable. Me, I'm a stats guy. I like to see the numbers first. And these numbers were nice and big.

"OK, sweetheart, I'm interested. Tell me a story."

She sat down across from me on a stool. It was all I could do to maintain eye contact. Bursting out of her blouse were two sweater puppies, each the size of Don Zimmer's head. Something told me that this girl was going to be more trouble than Ozzie Guillen at a diversity seminar.

"You heard the name Carl Pavano?"

"Yeah, rings a bell." Actually, I had no idea who Carl Pavano was. I don't like to seem ignorant in front of a beautiful dame, though.

"Your employer paid him a lot of money to come work for him. Then he disappeared. Nobody knows where he went. Well, I think I might have found him."

She handed me a crumpled up polaroid of a Porsche, sitting in the rain, on the side of a road. The Porsche looked like it had been in a wreck bigger than the 2006 Red Sox season. And my gut and my brain don't usually like to work as a team, but they were both telling me the same thing: this Pavano character had been behind the wheel.
   203. pv nasby Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:30 PM (#2219737)
There once was a man from Nantucket,
Whose jon thomas was so long he could suck it,
But shrinkage came to him,
For the news was so grim,
Derek Jeter has just kicked the bucket.
   204. Francoeur Sans Gages (AlouGoodbye) Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:33 PM (#2219742)
If I should retire, think only this of me;
That there's some corner of an away field
That is for ever Yankee. There shall be
In that infield dirt a richer dust concealed;
A dust the Yankees bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her grass to love, her basepaths to roam,
A body of New York's breathing Yankee air,
Washed by the Hudson, blest by fans at home.

And think, this heart, all strikeouts shed away,
A pulse in Joe Torre's mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by Yankees given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And pennants, flags and trophies; and monuments,
In hearts at peace, under a Yankee heaven.
   205. Delino DeShields & Yarnell Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:37 PM (#2219748)
Jim Furtado has informed me the site cannot handle the volume of text nor formatting of the copious footnotes I had made for a David Foster Wallace "Year of the Clutch".
   206. Klutts! Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:46 PM (#2219756)
All happy teams are like one another; each unhappy team is unhappy in its own way.

Everything was in confusion in the Yankee clubhouse. A-Rod had found out that Jeter had threw him under the bus (again) with the obtuse complicity of Torre and Giambi and had told Jeter that he could not play next to a SS with such crappy range. This situation had gone on for 3 years and was felt acutely by Jeter and A-Rod themselves, by all members of the Yankee "family", and by their sycophants. All the members of the Yankee "family" and their sycophants felt that their was no sense in A-Rod and Jeter playing together and that A-Rod should be traded to the Cubs or Royals or some other flyover team for that team's three or four best players. Jeter held forth in the clubhouse that any season that didn't end with a WS win was a "disappontment" and A-Rod's power stroke had been gone for the entire playoffs (again). Sheffield and Giambi roamed all over the clubhouse spewing inanities; Torre had been given notice only to find that he was wanted; the Big Stein had issued a statement post-loss (again) saying that the failures were unacceptable.
   207. b Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:49 PM (#2219757)
Jim Furtado has informed me the site cannot handle the volume of text nor formatting of the copious footnotes I had made for a David Foster Wallace "Year of the Clutch".

Well, we did manage to get an excerpt from the Wake in here, but no one followed it up with any critical theory. There's far more written about Joyce, after all, than Joyce wrote. Suffice it to see that the dynastic cycle is in and of itself very Viconian and that ARod is dutifully playing the role of the fallen hero. Even Joyce's simple replication of the sound of the crack of the bat yields 30 plus pages of other words hidden within the batword, all addressing various thematic themes of the section at hand, so if someone wants to tackle that, maybe we could start there.
   208. Kirby Kyle Posted: October 20, 2006 at 06:55 PM (#2219765)
On an October evening of the early aughts, Derek Jeter was playing shortstop at Yankee Stadium in New York.

Though there was already talk of the erection, in remote metropolitan distances within the Bronx, of a new Stadium which should compete in costliness and splendour with those of the great Western cities, the world of Yankeedom was still content to reassemble every autumn in the shabby blue seats of the sociable old Park. Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and thus keeping out the "bandwagoners" whom New York was beginning to dread and yet be drawn to; and the sentimental clung to it for its historic associations, and the serious fans for its sightlines, always so problematic a quality in stadia built for the playing of baseball.

It was Jeter's first appearance that postseason, and what the daily press had already learned to describe as "a lovestruck crowd" had gathered to watch him, transported through the leaf-strewn streets in limos or in the humbler but more convenient taxi. To come to the Stadium in a taxi was almost as honourable a way of arriving as in a car; and departure by the same means had the immense advantage of enabling one (with a forceful elbow to others in line) to scramble into the first yellow conveyance in the line, instead of waiting till the vandalized hulk of one's own car could be located in the parking lot. It was one of the cabdriver's most profitable intuitions to have discovered that New Yorkers want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it.

When George Steinbrenner opened the door at the back of the club box the first pitch of the third inning had just been thrown. There was no reason why the old man should not have come earlier, for he had dined at seven, alone with his toadies and sycophants, and had lingered afterward over a glass of warm blood in his private suite lined with the skulls of former managers. But, in the first place, New York was a metropolis, and perfectly aware that in metropolises it was "not the thing" to arrive on time at the game; and what was or was not "the thing" played a part as important in Steinbrenner's New York as the Bombers that had ruled the American League decades ago.

The second reason for his delay was a personal one. He had dawdled over his drink because he was at heart madly in love with Jeter, and thinking over a pleasure to come often gave him a subtler satisfaction than its realisation. This was especially the case when the pleasure was a delicate one, as his pleasures mostly were; and on this occasion the moment he looked forward to was so rare and exquisite in quality that--well, if he had timed his arrival in accord with the prima donna's first at-bat he could not have entered the Stadium at a more significant moment than just as Jeter was valiantly diving into the crowd for a foul pop.
   209. bumpis hound Posted: October 20, 2006 at 07:53 PM (#2219811)
A blue Yankee batting helmet squeezed the top of the bald balloon of a head. The blue earflaps, full of large ears and unchecked ego and the fine bristles that grew in the ears themselves, stuck out on either side like turn signals indicating two directions at once. Full, purple lips protruded beneath the wispy black liphair and, at their corners, sank into little folds filled with disapproval and potato chip crumbs. In the shadow under the Yankee blue visor of the cap Alexius J. Rodelly’s supercilious blue and yellow eyes looked down upon the other people waiting under the clock at the Barney’s department store, studying the crowd of people for signs of bad taste in dress. Several of the outfits, Alexius noted, were new enough and expensive enough to be properly considered offenses against taste and decency. Possession of anything new or expensive only reflected a person’s lack of theology and clutchness; it could even cast doubts upon one’s soul.
   210. bumpis hound Posted: October 20, 2006 at 08:17 PM (#2219833)
Shout out to the "Travesties" entry, just got to see that play last weekend. Great stuff.
   211. Jefferson Manship (Dan Lee) Posted: October 20, 2006 at 09:09 PM (#2219880)
We also need updated annotations.

189: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Pirsig
   212. Repoz Posted: October 20, 2006 at 09:14 PM (#2219882)
   213. Pasta-diving Jeter (jmac66) Posted: October 20, 2006 at 09:19 PM (#2219889)
Shout out to the "Travesties" entry, just got to see that play last weekend. Great stuff.

I was lucky enuff to be living in NYC when it was on Broadway many years ago--John Wood was fantastic as Carr

Tom Stoppard is one of my all time heroes (along with Groucho)
   214. Tree Posted: October 20, 2006 at 09:31 PM (#2219900)
This is without question the best thread in the history of the site. If this doesn't win the Primey for best thread there is a major, major problem.
   215. Pasta-diving Jeter (jmac66) Posted: October 20, 2006 at 09:45 PM (#2219908)
This is without question the best thread in the history of the site. If this doesn't win the Primey for best thread there is a major, major problem.

it may be runner-up or tied with the "Nomar-jumps-into-boston-harbor-to save-2-women" thread; that one brought out the best in everybody
   216. Tree Posted: October 20, 2006 at 09:59 PM (#2219917)
Sunday 8 October

190 lbs., alcohol units 12 (too much stress), cigarettes 0 (v. good), times visited trophy case in basement 6 (bad psychologically but v. good exercise-wise)

2:00 AM Woke up in floods of tears from a hideous dream I keep having where I am batting with the bases loaded and Derek is on 1st base rooting me on but secretly laughing at me as I swing and miss at strike three while my pants fall down. I know its all to do with my worries about failure in playoffs (again) but still bloody annoying.

6:00 AM Can't believe batted so poorly. Visit trophy case to remind self of Gold Gloves, etc.

6:30 AM Pick up NY Times. Why does everyone hate me so much?

7:29 AM It's always Derek bloody this Derek bloody that. What the #### has he ever done except win some rings and dive into the stands like a bloody stage diver at a naf Arctic Monkeys show?

Must remind self that OPS is more important than rings. I am a good player and I will play well next year. Will win ring next year. Will be Derek's friend. Must get George to like me too. Am I asking too much?

11:18 PM Totally alone. Entire year has been failure.
   217. b Posted: October 20, 2006 at 10:30 PM (#2219937)
Did someone request some Roth? How bout-

"You're a real one for opening your mouth in the first place," Randy said. "What do you open your mouth all the time for?"

"I didn't bring it up, Unit, I didn't," Alex said.

"What do you care about Derek Jeter for anyway?"

"I didn't bring up Derek Jeter. He did. I didn't even know what he was talking about. Jeter is clutch, he kept saying. Jeter is clutch." Alex mimicked the monumental voice of Michael Kay.

"Jeter is a player who is more clutch than you and me," Alex continued. "That's what Kay said-"

"Yeah?...So what! What do I give two cents whether he's clutch or not. And what do you gotta open your mouth!" Randy Johnson favoured closed-mouthedness, especially when it came to Alex Rodriguez's quotations. Joe Torre had had to see Michael Kay twice before about Alex's quotes, and this Wednesday at four-thirty would be the third time. Randy prefered to keep his manager in the dugout; he settled for behind the back subtelties such as gestures, faces, snarls, and less delicate barnyard noises.
   218. DEFCON: jive. Posted: October 21, 2006 at 03:33 AM (#2220035)
Jetersis 2:6 But there went up a mist from the ground, and watered the whole face of New York.
7 And the LORD Jeter formed baseball from the dust of the ground, and breathed into its nostrils the breath of clutchness; and baseball became a living soul.
8 And the LORD Jeter planted a stadium eastward in the Bronx, and there he put the baseball he had formed.
9 And out of the staduim made the LORD Jeter to grow every player that is pleasant to the fan, and good for Ruth; the tree of Ringzzz also in the midst of the stadium, and the tree of knowledge of DiMaggio and Steinbrenner.
   219. HCO Posted: October 21, 2006 at 04:22 AM (#2220052)
THE YEAR WAS 2006, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and MLB. They were equal every which way. Nobody was clutcher than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker on the first step towards a ground ball than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 2002 Collective Bargaining Agreement, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the Commissioner of Baseball.

Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April, for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the MLB men took Charles and Dorothy Jeter’s fourteen-year-old son, Derek, away.
   220. Buzzards Bay Posted: October 21, 2006 at 04:28 AM (#2220055)
I'm against it
I'm against it
I don't like the new front rows
I don't like Joe Torre's nose
I don't like Jeter in spring
I don't like anything

I'm against it

I don't like playing 3rd base
I don't like cameras in my face
I don't like bases loaded two outs
I don't like my fans who doubt

I'm against it

I don't like the word clutch
I don't even like the Dutch
and I'm against it
I don't like Ruth as king
I don't like anything
and I'm against it
   221. HCO Posted: October 21, 2006 at 04:31 AM (#2220058)
The silence within the office was absolute. Neither Torre nor Derek nor any of the retired numbers made a sound. Even Suzyn Waldman had fallen silent.

"Joe?" Derek said quietly, for Torre, still staring at the ESPN broadcast, seemed completely lost in thought. "It.... did that mean.... What did that mean?"

"It meant," said Torre, "that the person who has the only chance of conquering Boston for good was born at the end of June, 32 years ago."

Derek felt as though something was closing in upon him. His breathing seemed difficult again.

"It means -- me?"
   222. Backlasher Posted: October 21, 2006 at 06:21 AM (#2220090)
Updating Annotations through 200 (someone double check me)

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. Willis, Rock over London, Rock on Chicago
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"
151. The Lord thy God, The Bible, Genesis
152. Stoppard, "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead"
156. Stoppard, "Travesties"
157. Borges, "Ficciones"
158. ? (tried Gibbons, I Claudius, Asimov and Russell)
159. Barre, Peter Pan
160. Adams, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
161. Dickinson, "I Never Lost as Much but Twice"
162. Voltaire, Candide
163. McInery, Bright Lights Big City
164/165. Dostyevsky, The Brothers Kamarazov
166. Coleridge, "Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
167. Marx/Engles, "The Communist Manifesto"
171. Tennyson, "Ulysses"
172. Shelly, "Ozymandius"
173. Coulton, "Kennesaw Mountain Landis"
174. Heller, Catch-22
175/178. Keats, "Ode to a Grecian Urn"
177. Stone, Unites States v. Corlene Products
180. O'Hara, The Day the Lady Died
181. Longfellow, "Song of Hiawatha"
182. Townes, Derek Jeter (Repoz can't play anymore. He's too obscure).
183. Dafoe, Robinson Crusoe
184/185. Nietsche, Beyond Good and Evil
186. Thayer, "Casey at Bat"
187. Hemingway, "In Another Country"
188. Eliot, "Love Ballad of J. Alfred Prufrock"
189. Pirsig, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance"
190. ?
193. Morton/Barry/Greenwhich, "Leader of the Pack"
194. Adams, "Baseballs Sad Lexicon"
195. Shakespeare, "Macbeth"
196. ?
199. Baker, The Fermata
200. Hartley, The Go-Between
   223. BDC Posted: October 21, 2006 at 12:05 PM (#2220120)
196 is Dorothy Parker, "One Perfect Rose."
   224. greenback slays lewks Posted: October 21, 2006 at 12:54 PM (#2220127)
Fans, Primates, countrymen, lend me your ears
I come to bury Jeter, not to praise him
The clutch hits men do live after them
Fielding groundballs hit up the middle is often interred with their bones
Don't let it be with Jeter! The noble King George
Hath told you Jeter partied too much
If it were so, it was a grievous fault
And grievously hath Jeter answer'd it
Here under leave of King George and rest
(For King George is an honorable man
So are they all, all honorable men)
Come I to speak in Jeter's funeral
He was my friend, faithful and just to me
But King George says he partied too much
And King George is an honorable man
Jetes had brought many flags to the Bronx
Such games did YES programming hours fill
Was Jeter partying too much then?
When that A-Rod have cried, Jeter hath wept
Partygoers should be of sterner stuff
Yet King George says he partied too much
And King George is an honorable man
You all did see, that with Mike Lupica
I thrice presented him MVP crowns
Which he did thrice accept. Was this partying too much?
Yet King George says he partied too much
And sure he is an honorable man
I speak not to disprove what King George spoke
But here I am, to quote VORP and Win Shares
You all did love him once, not without cause
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him
O UZR! thou art such a brutish beast
And have lost thy reason. Bear with me
My heart is in the coffin with Jeter
And I must pause til it come back to me
   225. Run Joe Run Posted: October 21, 2006 at 02:37 PM (#2220157)
A Prayer for Derek Jeter
The Foul Ball
I am doomed to remeber a man with a cannon arm - not because of his hitting, or because he was the best looking person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my team's death in the playoffs, but because he is the reason I believe in baseball; I am a fan because of Derek Jeter.
   226. Run Joe Run Posted: October 21, 2006 at 02:38 PM (#2220158)
A Prayer for Derek Jeter
The Foul Ball
I am doomed to remeber a man with a cannon arm - not because of his hitting, or because he was the best looking person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my team's death in the playoffs, but because he is the reason I believe in baseball; I am a fan because of Derek Jeter.
   227. Reidmar the Mediocre Posted: October 21, 2006 at 02:59 PM (#2220171)
Rage-- McCarver, sing the rage of Rodrigo's son Alexander,
murderous, doomed, that cost the Yankees countless losses,
hurling down to the October golf courses so many sturdy souls,
great fighters' souls, but made their fingers ringless,
feasts for the dogs and birds,
and the will of Boras was moving towards its end.
Begin, McCarver, when the two first broke and clashed,
Derek Jeter lord of men and brilliant A-Rod.
   228. WillYoung Posted: October 21, 2006 at 03:42 PM (#2220182)
BL, regarding #158 - Gibbon is close, but it's another ancient historian.
   229. WillYoung Posted: October 21, 2006 at 04:49 PM (#2220217)
GRANDFATHER: I brought you a special present.

THE KID: What is it?

GRANDFATHER: Open it up.

The Kid does. He does his best to smile.

THE KID: A book?

GRANDFATHER: That's right. When I was your age, television was called books. And this is a special book. It was the book my father used to read to me when I was sick, and I used to read it to your father. And today, I'm gonna read it to you.

THE KID: Has it got any baseball in it?

GRANDFATHER (Suddenly passionate): Are you kidding? Homeruns. Clutch Plays. Cutoff Men. Revenge. Diving. Injuries. Chokejobs. Escapes. Miracles.

THE KID (shrugging): It doesn't sound too bad. I'll try and stay awake.

GRANDFATHER: Oh. Well, thank you very much. It's very nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming. All right. Book open now, be begins to read <u>The Life You Imagine: Life Lessons for Achieving Your Dream</u>, by D. Jeter. Chapter One. I was about eight years old as I walked along our thick carpet.

Camera dissolves to: The story he's reading about, as the monochromatic look of the bedroom is replaced by the monochromatic look of a hallway

GRANDFATHER off-screen: past the pictures of my grandparents on the hallway walls and into my parents' bedroom. (to the kid) Isn't that a wonderful beginning?

THE KID off-screen, doing his best to show interest: Yeah. It's really good.

GRANDFATHER off-screen, reading: Nothing gave Derek Jeter as much pleasure as ordering his friend Alex around.
   230. Jefferson Manship (Dan Lee) Posted: October 21, 2006 at 04:57 PM (#2220222)
"It's very hard to play the infield in the Bronx with a man who's learning to play third base."

That's what Jeter told the police when he handed them the empty revolver.
   231. Thok Posted: October 21, 2006 at 06:28 PM (#2220258)
I think that I shall never alit
A poem as lovely as a clutch hit
While crowds whose hungry mouths are prest
In silence holding hands to their breast;
A stadium that looks to Jeter this day,
They lifts their collective arms as if to pray;
A fly ball that may in summer wear
A saving grace for Yankees fair;
Upon whose bosom loss has lain;
Who from now a thunderous shout does rain.
Poems are made by fools with no wit,
But only Jeter can make a clutch hit.
   232. Daryn Posted: October 21, 2006 at 06:45 PM (#2220267)
158 is The Rise of Rome, I believe. And I swear I never saw OneAlou's Macbeth before I did mine. His is clearly better and I am ashamed.
   233. HCO Posted: October 21, 2006 at 06:48 PM (#2220270)
Hey folks, I've put the list on the Wiki because I thought we might have an easier time keeping track there.
   234. Francoeur Sans Gages (AlouGoodbye) Posted: October 21, 2006 at 06:53 PM (#2220274)
Derek Jeter, the Shortstop

When a man is choked by terror; when the man turns and chokes the terror
When that man lives to hit in the clutch over and over
That man becomes a hero.
Jeter, he, the batter who hit all
Jeter who wrote his story in the papers for all
Jeter, the one who knew all.

He saw the great Selig, he knew George Steinbrenner:
He recovered the knowledge of all the times before Curt Flood.
He journeyed beyond the Hall of Fame; he fielded beyond mere zone rating,
And then he wrote his story in the papers.
He fielded on the sacred grass of the Yankees,
He ran on the sacred basepaths of the Yankees,
New York's sacred borough of the Bronx.
Touch the monuments as crying fans touch them
They touch the monumnets as they once touched their players now all retired, every one
No one has ever built monuments like these.
Stand on the bleachers and feel the wind in the darkest night
Feel the wind leap away to the heavens above from the monuments below.
   235. balzac Posted: October 21, 2006 at 07:08 PM (#2220281)
#43 is a parody of Ring Lardner's classic "You Know Me Al" short stories.
   236. BDC Posted: October 21, 2006 at 07:26 PM (#2220299)
My desert-island, all-time, top five most memorable post-season choke jobs, in chronological order:

1. Kenny Rogers, 1996
2. Mo Rivera, 2001
3. Jeff Weaver, 2003
4. Tony Clark, 2004
5. Mike Mussina, 2005

These were the ones that really hurt. Can you see your name in that bunch, Alex? I suppose you'd sneak into the top ten, but there's no place for you in the top five; those places are reserved for the kind of humiliations and heartbreaks that you're just not capable of delivering.
   237. b Posted: October 21, 2006 at 08:12 PM (#2220327)
added to the Wiki

190: it's no fun if i tell you...i can't be the only one who loves this novel
212: too funny...Ensler, The Vagina Monlogues - it makes me want to keep a running list of what/who Jeter has replaced in the originals excerpts.
217: Roth, "The Conversion of the Jews"
220: The Ramones, "I'm Against It"
225: Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany
230: Brautigan, "Scarlatti Tilt"
234 looks like Gilgamesh
236: Hornby, High Fidelity
   238. Daryn Posted: October 21, 2006 at 08:29 PM (#2220337)
190 reads like Matt Thorne or Douglas Coupland, but I can't place it. I believe I've read it though.
   239. b Posted: October 21, 2006 at 08:38 PM (#2220347)
Came out within a year or so of Generation X. Thorne would have been about 18, so I can see how he would have been influenced.
   240. WillYoung Posted: October 21, 2006 at 08:42 PM (#2220349)
I saw the Boss in a turtleneck, cocked back in an easy chair with his sock-feet propped on a straight chair in front of him, and his eyes bugging out and a forefinger out in the air in front of him as though it were the stock of a bull whip. Then I saw what bull whip would have been flicking the flies off of if that forefinger of the Boss had been the stock of a bull whip: it was Mr. Joseph P. Torre, Yankee Manager, and his long jowly paraffin-colored face was oozing a few painful drops of moisture and his eyes reached out and grabbed me like the last hope.

I took in the face that I was intruding. "Excuse me," I said, and started to back out the door.

"Shut the door and sit down," the Boss said, and his voice moved right on without any punctuation to something it had been saying before my entrance, and the forefinger snapped, "--and you can just damned well remember you aren't supposed to lose to Detroit. A fellow like you, sixty-six years old and gut-shot, if God-Almighty had ever intended you to go six years without winning a World Series while managing the Yankees, he'd made it happen long back. Look at yourself, damn it! You to figure you're supposed to lose in the playoffs, it is plain blasphemy. Look at yourself. Ain't it a fact?" And the forefinger leveled at Mr. Joseph P. Torre.

But Mr. Torre did not answer. He just stood there in his unhappiness and looked at the finger.

"God damn it, has the cat got your tongue?" the Boss demanded. "Can't you answer a civil question?"

"Yes," Mr. Torre managed to with gray lips that scarecely moved.

"Speak up, don't mumble, say, 'It's a fact, it's a blasphemous fact,'" the Boss insisted, still pointing the finger.

Mr Torre's lips went grayer, and the voice was less than loud and clear, but he said it. Every word.

"All right, that's better," the Boss said. "Now you know what you're supposed to do. You're supposed to win the World Series and take orders. I don't care about your sanity, which from the looks of you you don't have any trouble keeping plenty of. There'll be a little something coming to you now and then in the way of sweetening, but Cashman'll tend to that. Don't you go losing any more. You got that? Speak up!"

"Yes," Mr. Torre said.

"Louder! And say, 'I got that.'"

He said it. Louder.

"All right," the Boss said, "I'm going to stop this firing business for you. But don't go and get the notion it's because I love you. It's just because those fellows at the Post can't get the idea that they can just up and knock off somebody with a rumor. Are my motives clear?"

"Yes," Mr. Torre said.

"All right, then sit down over there at that desk." And the Boss pointed at the little desk with the pen tray and the telephone. "Get a sheet of plain paper out of the drawer and take your pen in hand." He waited until Mr. Torre had glided spectrally across the room, and settled himself at the desk, making himself remarkably small, like the genie getting ready to go back into the bottle, drawing himself into a hunch as though he wanted to assume the prenatal position and be little and warm and safe in the dark. But the Boss was saying, "Now write what I say." Then he began to dictate: "Dear George Steinbrenner, -- because of ill health -- which renders it difficult for me to attend conscientiously --," The Boss interrupted himself, saying, "Be sure you put that conscientiously in now, you wouldn't want to leave that out," and then continued in the business voice --" to the duties of my position as Manager -- I wish to offer my resignation -- to take effect as soon after the above date -- as you can relieve me." He eyed the hunched figure, and added, "Respectfully yours."

There was silence, and the pen scratched across the paper, then stopped. But Mr. Torre's balding, wrinkled, and droopy head remained hbent over close to the paper, as though he were nearsighted, or praying, or had lost whatever it is in the back of a neck that keeps a head up straight.

The Boss studied the back of the bent head. Then he demanded, "Did you sign it?"

"No," the voice said.

"Well, God damn it, sign!" Then when the pen had again stopped scratching across the paper, "Don't put any date on it. I can fill that in when I want."

He held out the sheet to the Boss, who read it, folded it, tossed it over to the foot of the bed near which he sat. "Yeah, he said, "I'll fill in the date when I need to. If I need to. It all depends on you. Fifty-five years old when I hired you and all that time just waiting your one big chance. Waiting for your ship to come in. Waiting for the big chance, and this was it, and everything was going to be different. But --" and he whipped the forefinger and Mr. Torre again -- "you were wrong, Joseph. This was not your big chance. And there never will be one. Not for the likes out you. Now get out!"
   241. HCO Posted: October 21, 2006 at 08:56 PM (#2220359)
TRUE! --lucky --very, very dreadfully lucky I had been and am; but why will you say that I am clutch?
   242. Kirby Kyle Posted: October 21, 2006 at 08:57 PM (#2220360)
190 looks very much like Mark Leyner to me. Is it Et Tu, Babe?
   243. Benji Gil Gamesh VII - The Opt-Out Awakens Posted: October 21, 2006 at 09:16 PM (#2220378)
one, two, three, four, rings against none
four, four, against none
said one, two, three, four, rings against none
four, four...four, four...four against none

torture you're you, not me
unclutch and not the Jete

i'd rather play...
i'd rather play with...
i'd rather play with Paul and Tino

why don't you like the sac play?
so frightened what they'll say...

i'd rather play...
i'd rather play with...
i'd rather play with that troll doll Sojo
i'd rather play...
i'd rather play...
i'd rather play with Shemp and Cano

i'd rather play...
i'd rather play with...
i'd rather play with Brosius and Mo
i'd rather play...
i'd rather play with...
i'd rather play with Wade or Cairooooooooooo

said one, two, three, four, rings against none
four, four...against none
one, two, three, four, four against one
four, four...against none
   244. Iwakuma Chameleon (jonathan) Posted: October 21, 2006 at 09:20 PM (#2220384)
If there were no eternal clutchiness in a Jeter, if at the bottom of everything were only a wild Rodriguez, a choker that twisting in dark passions produced everything in non clutch at bats; if an unfathomable, insatiable Steinbrenner lay hid beneath everything, what would life be but despair?
   245. Repoz Posted: October 21, 2006 at 10:23 PM (#2220409)
Suddenly, at 161st Street and River Avenue , Tiger Wang spotted someone across the street: a tall, dark, and incredibly handsome man in a camel’s-hair coat. His name, Wang said, was A-Rod. Just looking at him intimidated Jeter: How does anybody get that handsome?

Jeter smiled at the sight of him in that camel’s-hair coat. Harry Horseshite, he thought. That was what they used to call a guy who thought he was smooth with the ladies. Anybody who wore a camel’s-hair overcoat, with a camel’s-hair belt and fake diamond cuff links, was automatically Harry Horseshite.

But this guy, Jeter knew, was the real deal. He was standing with a shorter, older, uglier fellow named Fasano, and when he saw Wang, he waved them over. They crossed the street. Jeter was amazed all over again when he saw how good-looking he was...long, rugged face; great profile; thick, dark brows and eyelashes. And a suntan in March! How’d he manage that? Jeter could see he had kind of a twinkle as he talked to the older guy. Charisma is a word Jeter would learn later. All Jeter knew then was that he couldn’t take my eyes off Wang’s pal.
   246. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: October 21, 2006 at 10:43 PM (#2220415)
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy fielding was like, and how the Yankees were all losing and all when I first showed up, but I don't really feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, Steinbrenner and Cashman would have about two hemmorrhages apiece if I told you anything pretty personal about them, and in the second place, it isn't any of your business.

--JD Salinger, The Shorstop in the Rye
   247. Joe Bivens, Slack Rumped Rutabaga Head Posted: October 21, 2006 at 10:48 PM (#2220419)
#43 is a parody of Ring Lardner's classic "You Know Me Al" short stories.

No way.
   248. b Posted: October 21, 2006 at 10:49 PM (#2220420)
190 looks very much like Mark Leyner to me. Is it Et Tu, Babe?

Yuppers, with Jeter playing the role of Schwarzenegger.
   249. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: October 21, 2006 at 10:52 PM (#2220423)
Okay, one more and I'll stop:

Some time when the infield is ice ask me
errors I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done makes me clutch. Others
have come in their slow way into
my mind, and some have tried to hit
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest boos and jeers have made.

I won't listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent Jeter and wait. We know
the prowess is there, hidden; and there
are beat men and broadcasts from miles away
that hold the clutchness exactly before us.
What the Jeter says, that is what I say.
   250. Francoeur Sans Gages (AlouGoodbye) Posted: October 21, 2006 at 10:58 PM (#2220427)
"Gentlemen," concluded Jeter, "I will give you the same toast as before, but in a different form. Fill your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is my toast: To the prosperity of The New York Yankees!"

There was the same hearty cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. But as the reporters outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the players? McCarver's old dim eyes flitted from one face to another. Some of them had five All-Star appearances, some had four, some had three. But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an end, the players took up their cards and continued the game that had been interrupted, and the reporters crept silently away.

But they had not gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the clubhouse. They rushed back and looked through the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. The source of the trouble appeared to be that Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez had each played an ace of spades simultaneously.

Twenty-five voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the players. The creatures outside looked from Jeter to A-Rod, and from A-Rod to Jeter, and from Jeter to A-Rod again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.
   251. Kirby Kyle Posted: October 21, 2006 at 11:33 PM (#2220452)
"What was Jeter like before he was the greatest?" he said. "What did he play like, how was he different from other shortstops, how was he similar to other shortstops? We can't answer these questions because we've heard the hype, seen the people fawning. We can't get outside the aura. We're part of the aura. We're here, we're now."

He seemed immensely pleased by this.
   252. Backlasher Posted: October 22, 2006 at 12:03 AM (#2220507)
THE BOSS—After his twelve years’ residence at the Bronx, I have the honour and happiness of presenting Mister Derek Jeter for contract renegotiation, as a baseball player not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in the Yankees polished and refined circle. Those virtues which characterise the young shortstop, those accomplishments which become his pinstripes and position, will not be found wanting in the amiable Mister Jeter, whose clutchness and heroics have endeared him to his fans, and whose delightful sweetness of temper has charmed the aged and youthful sportsreporters.
In popups, in stadium diving, in productive outs, in every variety of batting and fielding, he will be found to have realised the Yankees fondest wishes. In Arod there is still much to be desired; and a careful and undeviating use of him, for four playoff series during the last three years, was not recommended and counterproductive to the acquirement of that dignified world series tropy, so requisite for every Yankee team of glory.
In the principles of interviewing and captainship, Mr.Jeter will be found worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the memory of The Great Ruth, and the ghost of the admirable Mr. Dimaggio. If he left the Yankees, Mr. Jeter would carry with him the hearts of Yankee fans, and the affectionate regards of the cable viewers, who have the honour to subscribe to your YES network,
Mr. Steinbrenner,

Jeter's most obliged humble servant,
   253. Backlasher Posted: October 22, 2006 at 12:10 AM (#2220524)
“P.S.—Mr. Rodriguez still accompanies Mr. Jeter. It is particularly requested that Mr. Rodriguez's stay in the Bronx may not exceed ten days. The Chicago Cubs, with whom Lou Pinella managers, desire to avail themselves of his services as soon as possible.”
   254. Backlasher Posted: October 22, 2006 at 12:53 AM (#2220660)

If you have lived in New York City and have gone to the ballpark on a summer afternoon, you have perhaps seen, standing in a corner on the corner of the infield, a huge, unclutch kind of ballplayer, a creature with choke, strikeouts, errors at inopportune moments and a bright blue set of lips. This player is a true monster. In the completeness of his choking he achieved a kind of perverted heroism. Statheads reading about the player are fascinated, real baseball fans turn away with an air of disgust, and women linger for a moment, trying perhaps to figure if this man can introduce them to Derek Jeter.

Had you been in the earlier years of your life a fan of the Tennessee Volunteers, there would have been for you no mystery in regard to the player at third base. “It is like Peyton Manning,” you would have said. “As he sits at third base there, Arod is exactly like old Peyton trying to figure another way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.”

Alex Rodriguez, the third baseman of the New York Yankees, was the most unclutch player in baseball. His choking was immense, his failures notable, his ring finger bare. He was a choker. Everything about him was unclutch. Even the whites of his eyes looked scared.

I go too fast. Not everything about Arod was unproductive. He hit a lot of homeruns. His statsheet was fat, but there was something untimely about those dingers in a 12 to 3 victory against the Devil Rays on a getaway day. In his youth Alex Rodriguez had been called the best shortstop in baseball, and in despite of his degradement to third base and inability to perform in the clutch, he was still proud of his ability.

Arod did not associate with the other players on the team on which he played. “I’ll have nothing to do with them,” he said, looking with bleary eyes at the Yankees who walked along the infield of Yankee Stadium on their way to take an at bat. Up along Manhattan he went in the evening to the coolest nightclubs, and after blowing unbelievable quantities of cash staggered off to his hotel room in the Waldorf with a Brazilian model for his bed for the night.

Alex Rodriguez was a man of choking. A thing had happened to him that made him hate baseball, and he hated it wholeheartedly, with the abandon of Dan Werr. First of all, he hated other players. “B1tches,” he called them. His feeling toward fanss was somewhat different. He pitied them. “Does not every stathead let his life be managed for him by some statistic or another?” he asked.
   255. Kirby Kyle Posted: October 22, 2006 at 01:30 AM (#2220751)
Falling apart, A-Rod thinks as he stands in the dusty infield of Yankee Stadium watching his team in their final playoff game, a team scared compared to what it used to be. The ####### team is falling apart. But it won't touch him, not yet, because there isn't a contract on the field better than his quarter-billion dollar deal, with two teams on the hook. Read the contract, all ten years' worth. That's all he has to tell the people when they rag him. And rag him they do, the fans in the stands are getting frantic, they know the great Yankee dynasty is ending. Team payroll topping $200 million and four innings to go in another failed season. The boss ready to lop off the head of the manager to appease the grumbling. And teammates who are getting frustrated ripping away at each other, there was an incident just a few weeks ago, with the guy standing next to him holding the dagger. The Yankees are going wild, their season is going rotten, even though they shell out like there's no tomorrow. He tells them, when they get an A-Rod, they get MVPs, not rings. And they believe him. A hundred thirty RBI last year and another hundred twenty-one this year, all conveniently delivered when they mattered least. A-Rod is rich.
   256. Dolf Lucky Posted: October 22, 2006 at 02:23 AM (#2220883)
Alex had been practicing for this moment, every day after school, before Derek would come home. Tonight would be the night. As the family station wagon pulled into the driveway with that familiar sound, Alex put on his eye black and laced up his cleats. It was game time.

The two didn't even share a word. Alex went to his normal spot at 3rd base, Derek to the shortstop position. It was family ritual. Before the game started, Alex snuck a peek to his left. He had to admit that the old guy was still a tremendous athlete. Underneath the large belly and thick buttocks was the muscular core of a young Marine. And when Derek put his mind to it, he could bring back the greatness.

Derek slowly, methodically, warmed up. One step, two steps, diving for a ground ball, just missed. One step to his right, leaped in the air, threw in Jeterian fashion. Alex just watched, waited for his moment. Torre and Sheffield had gathered in the dugout to watch. "Come on, Alex", Sheffield yelled, "Beat the old mans's ass."

The game started. Back and forth. Alex made a play, Derek would answer right back. The night wore on, and the sky grew darker. Torre pleaded with Alex to come in to the dugout. "You've won, honey, let's go inside." Alex just growled back. Nothing would stop him tonight.

Finally, the big moment arrived. The pitch was thrown, the batter swung, and connected, sending the ball high into the air behind third base.

"I've got it. I've got it," Alex shouted. Fans in the upper section of the upper deck in the furthest region of the park could hear him. He oozed confidence. The sphere tumbled downwards, and nestled into Alex's glove, just as Derek came running over, crashing into Alex's knees. Alex somehow held onto the ball, and rose to his knees, a trickle of blood falling from his blue lips. He tossed the ball towards the pitcher's mound and walked towards the dugout, where Torre and Sheffield were going bananas. "Hooray for Alex," they cheered.

Derek picked himself off the grass, and walked to the baseball. He picked it up, chased after Alex, and began to bounce the ball off the back of Alex's head. "Nice game, Alexa." Thud. "What a pretty play, Alexa." Thud.

Alex kept his eyes fixed ahead of him, continuing to walk slowly. He had won, and would not give in to Derek's taunts. "I swear, Alexa, you're the best goddam woman on the whole team." Thud. "Hey Torre, isn't Alexa pretty?" Thud.

Finally, Alex reached the dugout steps, and made his run for it. He sprinted down the tunnel to the clubhouse, threw himself on the couch and sobbed uncontrollably. He stayed there until the game was over.
   257. WillYoung Posted: October 22, 2006 at 02:23 AM (#2220885)
BL, I would have thought you would use Loneliness.
   258. WillYoung Posted: October 22, 2006 at 02:32 AM (#2220905)
Jeter: Hey, hey, hey, hey. What you doing here? Aren't you going to work out this offseason?

ARod: Not anymore. I quit.

Jeter: Well, since when are you the quitting kind?

ARod: I don't see the point anymore.

Jeter: So you haven't won the World Series. There are greater tragedies in the world.

ARod: I wanted to celebrate on that field in front of the New York media. To prove to everyone--

Jeter: Prove what?

ARod: --That I was somebody.

Jeter: Oh, you are so full of crap. You're six feet nothing. Two hundred and nothing. And most players have got hardly a speck of your athletic ability. You hung in with the best baseball team in the land for three years! And you're gonna walk out of here with $252 million. In this life you don't have to prove nothing to nobody except yourself. And after what you've gone through, if you haven't done that by now, it ain't gonna never happen.
   259. Repoz Posted: October 22, 2006 at 03:07 AM (#2220995)
Things get a little easier
Once you understand
Things get a little easier
Once you understand.....

A-Rod, The Boss'll be expecting you to
Get a haircut by Friday
(Forget it, Jeter)
(That won`t change anything)
Forget nothing, you`ll do as he says
As long as you`re playing in his house

Things get a little easier
Once you understand
Things get a little easier
Once you understand.....

Jeter knows Rodriguez's not feeling well
And yet he doesn`t take one
Second out to help A-Rod
His only concern is for himself

Things get a little easier
Once you understand
Things get a little easier
Once you understand.....

A-Rod, when I was your age
I was practicing twelve hours a day
Six days a week helping to win
For the team and the organization
(I don`t understand, what`s
That got to do with me)
If you can`t figure that out
For yourself, you`re stupid

Things get a little easier
Once you understand
Things get a little easier
Once you understand.....

You have a ballplayer named Derek
Derek Jeter, age thirty two (yes)
I`m sorry, Mister Steinbrenner
You better come down
To the station house
Your player is dead (dead, how)
He died of an over-does it (oh, God)
   260. Vrhovnik Posted: October 22, 2006 at 03:27 AM (#2221008)
When they ordered Derek to lie down, he hesitated a moment, and then, looking past the writers and guards as if they were not there, came up close to the man from Tampa and said almost confidentially as if speaking to a friend, softly and heavily:
"Listen, by this world and the next, do your best to pierce me well so that I may not suffer like a dog."
The man from Tampa started and shouted at him, as if defending himself from that too initmate approach:
"March, Jeter! You who are so great a hero as to destroy the Rod's work now beg for mercy like a woman. It will be as it has been ordered and as you have deserved."
   261. My guest will be Jermaine Allensworth Posted: October 22, 2006 at 06:56 AM (#2221040)
Jeter was running. Then he was diving, the grounder rolling and jouncing behind him.

"Hello, Alex." Jeter said. He ran to the top step of the dugout and hung over the rail. Jeter smelled like chilled grapefruit, clean oak moss and spice. "Did you come to play." he said. "Did you come to meet Jeter. What did you let him get his hands so cold for, Mattingly."

"I told him to keep them in his pockets." Mattingly said. "Holding on to that ahun bat."

"Did you come to meet Jeter," he said, pumping my fist. "What is it. What are you trying to tell Jeter." Jeter smelled like ‘Driven’ and like when he says we were asleep.
   262. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: October 22, 2006 at 07:04 AM (#2221042)
I have dived for
the balls
that were in
the the second base hole

and which
you were probably
for the I would catch.

Forgive me
they were difficult
to reach
and good hits.
   263. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: October 22, 2006 at 07:05 AM (#2221043)
Please ignore 262; typographical error. That should go:

I have dived for
the balls
that were in
the the second base hole

and which
you were probably
I would catch.

Forgive me
they were difficult
to reach
and good hits.
   264. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: October 22, 2006 at 07:06 AM (#2221044)
#### it, I wasn't meant to get that right.
   265. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: October 22, 2006 at 07:17 AM (#2221047)
He moves away from JETER.
I sometimes wonder if we wouldn't have been better off alone, each one for himself.
He crosses the stage and sits down on the mound.
We weren't made for the same infield.

JETER (without emotion). It's not certain.

RODRIGUEZ. No, nothing is certain.

JETER slowly crosses the stage and sits down beside RODRIGUEZ.

JETER. You could still be traded, if you think it would be better.

RODRIGUEZ. It's not worthwhile now.

JETER. No, it's not worthwhile now.


RODRIGUEZ. Well, shall we go?

JETER. Yes. Let's go.

They do not move.
   266. My guest will be Jermaine Allensworth Posted: October 22, 2006 at 07:34 AM (#2221049)
I went to sleep with sunflower seeds in my mouth and now there's seeds in my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the marble coffee table and by mistake I dropped my wristbands in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

In the clubhouse Sheff found a syringe in his warmup jacket and Hideki found an old porn DVD he was looking for in his warmup jacket but in my warmup jacket all I found was lint. I think I'll move back to Arlington.

On the lineup card Mr. Torre let Johnny go first. Jason and Jorge got to hit before me too. I said I was being humiliated. I said, if I don't hit higher than eighth I’m going to be nauseated. No one even answered. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

In the papers Mr. Lupica liked Jeter’s ranging to his right better than my ranging to my left. At press time people said I was too bland. At counting time they said I made too much money. Who needs $252 million? I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I could tell because Jeter said I wasn't his best friend anymore. I said that Nomar was a better shortstop and he said he was the best shortstop, and that Nomar was the second-best shortstop, and that Miguel Tejada was the third-best shortstop, and that I was only the fourth-best shortstop. I hope you sit on a tack, I said to Jeter. I hope the next time you get a double-decker sandwich in bed they end up being guys and both of them have chlamydia.
   267. Lest we forget Posted: October 22, 2006 at 09:50 AM (#2221080)
No road is an easy one but they all lead to Jeter.
With all we share Jeter.
It is all with Jeter.
It is all with He.
Obey the Captain.
Blessed is He.

We are all from one - The will of Jeter.
I have seen Jeter. I have seen A-Rod -
None is greater nor can even compare to - Jeter.
He will remake us ... He always has -
And He always will.
   268. WillYoung Posted: October 22, 2006 at 02:57 PM (#2221133)
AROD: Well, I know I could hold out longer than you.

JASON: Care to make it interesting?

AROD: Sure, how much?

JASON: A hundred dollars.

AROD: You're on.

HIDEKI: Wait a second, wait a second. Count me in on this.

AROD: You?


JERRY: You'll be out before we get the check.

DEREK: I want to be in on this, too.

JASON AND AROD: Ohh, no. No, no, no..


JERRY: It's apples and oranges..

DEREK: What? Why? Why?

JERRY: Because you're the Jeter!

JASON: Alright, look, you want to be in?

DEREK: Yeah!

JASON: You gotta give us odds. At least two to one - you gotta put up two-hundred dollars.

HIDEKI: No, a thousand!

DEREK: No, I'll - I'll put up one-fifty.

JASON: Alright, you're in for one-fifty.

AROD: Okay, one-fifty.

(Scene ends)

Intercom buzzes, A-Rod gets up to answer it and he buzzes Derek up

HIDEKI: Hey, look at this, c'mere. I got ten new porn videos in the mail.

AROD: From where?

HIDEKI: I got this thing. It's like Netflix but just porn.

JASON: That's incredible.

HIDEKI: ..Yeah..yeah.. Well, I'm going to go back to my place...

DEREK: Hey. Well, where's my money? Who caved?

AROD and JASON: Not me.

DEREK: What're you looking at?

AROD: Hideki left one of his porn DVD's on the television.

DEREK: This is gonna be the easiest money I've ever made in my life. Anyway, my friend, Jeff, is pitching in a World Series game. I'm gonna go tonight. Todd Jones is going to be there!

Hideki casually enters, takes a few step toward the kitchen, and slaps a wad of bills onto the counter

HIDEKI: I'm out!

(Scene ends)

Hideki enters A-Rod's apartment, plops down on the couch and puts in one of his porn DVD's

AROD: I am going to grab the remote, and I'm going to turn this crap off!

HIDEKI: Woah, woah, woah. What-what did you just say?

AROD: I can't take it anymore! It's driving me crazy! I can't sleep, I can't leave the house without looking impeccable at two in the morning, I'm climbin' the walls. Meanwhile, I'm playing third base, I'm batting eighth - something's gotta give!
   269. Zagg Posted: October 22, 2006 at 02:59 PM (#2221135)
You broke your promise.
Jeter spins, dropping his glove -- ARod's sitting in front of a locker opposite him.
Jesus, Alex!
You ####### talked to the press about me!
What the #### is going on here?
I asked you for one thing, one simple thing.
Why do people think that I choke like you?
ARod shakes his head, extremely irritated.
Answer me!
Jeter sits on the side of the bench, face to face with ARod.
Now answer me, why do people think that I choke like you?
I think you know.
No, I don't.
Yes, you do. Why would anyone possibly confuse you with me?
I...I don't know...
You got it!
CLOSE ON JETER, who's making an error in Game 5.
Say it!
JETER is sitting in dugout, watching as Angels celebrate victory on the field,
Say it!
Because we're both chokers.
That's right.
I don't understand this...
You were looking for a way to change your life. You could not do this on your own. All the ways you wished to fail...that's me! I look like you wanna look, I hit in the regular season like you wanna hit, I'm smart, capable and most importantly, I completely piss the bed in the postseason in all the ways that you could not.
This is impossible. This is crazy.
People do it every day. Bonds failed in the posteason for most of his career. Ted Williams' postseason stats were pretty poor. They don't have the courage you have, to go from clutch to choker.
Naturally you're still wrestling with it...Sometimes you're still you...
JETER racks his 5th hit of the game, a home run to centerfield.
We should do this again sometime.
Other times you imagine yourself watching me.
JETER stands surrounded by eager rookies, under the Florida sun, talking and behaving like ARod...
If this is your first time in the big leagues – you have to choke.
Jeter listens, his mouth hangs open.
Little by little. You're just letting yourself become...Alex Rodriguez!
   270. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: October 22, 2006 at 07:16 PM (#2221225)
I worked for a lot longer on this one than I probably should have, and it's still not that great. Ah, well.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the ball from bouncing as Guillen comes home,
Silence the PA’s and slowly bang the drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows on the monuments and black ribbons above,
Let the lesser shorstops wear Jeter model gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
some claimed there were better but I knew he was best.
My hero, my captain, he played like a song;
I thought that Jeter was forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the Ruth, let the Mantle be gone;
Wash away Joe Torre and Tino and Paul.
For without the Jeter they were no good at all.
   271. Ipish Posted: October 22, 2006 at 07:55 PM (#2221249)
Derek Jeter's
who used to
dive watersmooth-silver
to his left
just past onetwothreefourfivehundred groundersjustlikethat

he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your bluelipped boy
Mister Torre
   272. b Posted: October 23, 2006 at 12:54 AM (#2221500)
For Alex Rodriguez

I saw the best shortstop of my generation destroyed by
mediots, RBIless pressing unclutch,
dragging himself to the dugout after a strikeout
looking for one big blast,
pinstripped teammates burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the championship memories of the monuments in left
who ringless and envious and hollow-eyed and beaten sat
up chewing in the magical glow of
metal halide lights floating across the tops of stadiums
contemplating clutch,
who prayed for swings like Jackson in Game 6 and
saw Ruthian blasts launched into upper decks illuminated,
who passed through the regular season with radiant cool eyes
visualizing Gehrig and Mantle-like majesty
against the back ends of bullpens,
who were now expelled from the playoffs for swinging misses &
pitching obscene lines splashed on the back pages of tabloids
who cowered in visiting locker rooms in under armor, burn-
ing their money in batting helmets and listening
to the Champagne through the wall,
who got busted through grand jury leaks coming through
San Fran with a syringe of HGH bound for New York,
who ate greenies in bathroom stalls or spread flaxseed oil in
Gold’s Gym, jacked, or broken their
tissue game after game
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, ster-
oids and bat and endless balls,
incomparable game; innings of shuddering steals and
opposing hits in the mind leaping between poles of
left & right, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Plaque mounted in hall, first base brown glove slap
dawns, beer drunkenness in the bleachers,
headline papers of gleeful joyride neon
blinking scoreboard, ball and glove and bat
vibrations in the roaring fall nights of Bos-
ton, ESPN rantings and old owner light of mind,
who chained themselves to microphone for the endless
ride from Texas to holy Bronx on broken knee
until the noise of cameras and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
who sank all night in submarine light of Toot Shor’s
floated out and sat through the stale beer after
noon in desolate box, listening to the crack
of doom off of Damon’s bat,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
radio to television to Bristol to hall to spring
lost battalion of platonic columnists jumping
down the MVP off the band wagon off integrity
off Yankee Stadium out of the past
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and anonymous quotes
and shocks of close and late and playoffs,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for last ten games
ignoring nights with brilliant play, meat for the
masses cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere PTI leaving a
trail of ambiguous tabloid columns of pitcing
beating hitting,
suffering writer’s cramp and making themselves the
story and questions of Red Sox under ownership with
drawal in Time’s bleak furnished editorial boardroom
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
sports bar wondering where to go , and went,
leaving only broken hearts,
who called talk shows on AM AM AM racketing
through airwaves towards lonesome homes in Cat-
skill night,
who studied Lupica Stark Phillips of the Mets pun-
ditry and productive outs because the game in-
stincively vibrated a their feet in Syracuse,
who loned it through the blogs of Internet seeking vis-
ionary general managers who were visionary general managers,
who thought they were only mad when Boston
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped on tirades with Jerome of Man-
hattan on the impulse of winter hot stove
vague unsourced rumor,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Tampa
seeking sluggers or aces or all-stars, and followed the
bellicose Boss to converse about America
and Winning, a hopeless task, and so took a ship
to Milwaukee,
who disappeared into the deserts of Los Angeles leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of potential
and the sand and burn of homeruns scattered in fire
place Miami,
who reappeared in St. Louis pitching the
Cardinals in red and white with tea blonde
locks stoned in their confidence passing out income-
prehensible shutouts,
who burned fastball bullpen pitcher’s arms protesting
the lack of a second pitcher like Rivera,
who distributed statistical pamphlets over baseball
websites weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Oakland wailed them down, and wailed
down Fen, and Joe Morgan also
who broke down crying on green ballfields pinstriped
and trembling before the machinery of other
who shoved cameramen in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving foam finger and pro-
who let themselves by screwed by hall of fame
broadcasters, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those baseball seraphim
the Angels, caresses of Anaheim and Los Angeles love,
who beaten in the first games in the last rose
victory and the comeback of extra inning hits and
grand slams scattering their bloody socks freely to
whomever come Coopertstown,
who hiccupped endlessly trying to manage but wound up
with a sob playing first base against Detroit Tigers
when the old & crafty lefty came to pierce
them with a curve,
who lost their dynasty to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the free agent dollar
the one eyed shrew winking out careers
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on his ass and snip the intellectual golden
trades of his baseball people,
who contrived ecstatic and insatiate with a maker of
bets a president a package of sluggers an old
ace and fell off the pedestal, and continued along
without a ring and ended fainting
on your box with a vision of ultimate team and
ring eluding the last caret of championship,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the bleachers, and were 2-jerseyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the SS
rise, flashing smile under cap and breasts
on the streets,
who went out whoring with superficial beauties of myriad
sordid professions, N.Y., secret hero of these
poems, shortstop and Adonis of Kalamazoo-joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in hotel rooms and steakhouse bathrooms, nightclubs’
neon rows, on skyscrapers in penthouses or with
gaunt supermodels in familiar roadside lonely mini-
skirt uplifting and especially secret locker room
solipsisms of johns and hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid failures, were shifted in
print, woke on a sudden Westchester, and
picked themselves up out of McMansions hung
over with heartless Currin and horrors of Fifth
Avenue department stores & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who pitched all night with their sock soaked in blood on
the Stadium mound waiting for a door in the
Ruth House to open to a room full of sweatheat
and champagne,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the playoff
blue floodlight of the moon & their fingers shall
be adorned with rings in oblivion,
who ate the hot dogs of the concession stand or digested
the nachos of the gooey bottom of the cheese of
who wept at the romance of the 50’s with their
catchers full of onions and silly quips,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
upper deck and rose up to build crescendos in
the night
who coughed up the seventh game of Zona crowned
with bloop under the desert sky surrounded
by purple backs of diamond,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten pitcher fastball curve slider change borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure ace
who plunged themselves under diving shortstops looking for
an out,
who threw analysis off the roof to cast their ballot
for Clutch outside of Performance, & spread sheets
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who lost in the playoffs six times successively unsuccess-
fully, gave up and were forced to play for small market
teams where they thought there was no growing pressure
hold and cried,
who were buried alive in their imitation flannel uniforms
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked up clatter of the iron regiments
of small ball & the nitroglycerin shrieks of the
faeries of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken bulls of Bleacher Creatures,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of black seat row
aisles & soda venders, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their dugout in despair, fell out of
the series lead, jumped in the filthy Charles,
crashed into teammates, cried all over the bench,
danced on broken champagne bottles barefoot smashed
DVDs of nostalgic World Series
1990s Bernie jazz finished with whiskey Wells and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal aura &
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other’s pickup-Toronto jail-solitude
watch or Brooklyn glove incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to watch a
playoff game if I had a vision or if you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Victory,
who journeyed to Anaheim, who died in Miami, who
came back to Anaheim & waited in vain, who
watched over Detroit & brooded and loned in
Detroit and finally went away to find out the
Time & now Detroit is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in baseball cathedral praying
for each other’s salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated his cap for a second,
who punched through clubhouse walls waiting for
impossible painlessness with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their backs who sang sweet
memories of Dodgerland,
who retired to Tampa to cultivate a memory, or tv
booth to tender Captain or Winner to boys
or Dallas to the black liver or
Coloma to Narcissus to Holy Cross to the
Mr. Coffee or grave,

   273. b Posted: October 23, 2006 at 12:55 AM (#2221502)

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp-
tism & were left with their insanity & their
hand & an hung jury,
who threw potato salad at SABR lecturers on range
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of television with highlight reelsand harlequin speech of diving catches, demanding in-
stantaneous acknowledgement,
and who were given instead the concrete void of statistics
UZR zone rating
fielding bible &
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
statistic, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly empty except for a book of
notes, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
man doom of the wards of the pressrooms of the
Pilgrim State’s boyfriend and Sulzberger’s foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of might, dream of success a night-
mare, comments turned to stone as heavy as the
with boss finally gone, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the stadium window, and the last
gate closed at 12 A.M. and the last pitch
hurled at the mitt in reply and the last locker
emptied down to the last piece of
mental clothing, a blue paper NY twisted
on a wire hanger, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
ah, Alex, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you’re really in the total animal soup of
and who therefore flew through the bright skies obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Aura & Mystique
through plays juxtaposed, and trapped the
MVP of the soul between 2 swings of the bat
and joined the elemental swing and set the contact
and dash of consciousness together running
with sensation of Ruth Gehrig DiMaggio
to recreate the syntax and measure of athletic
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm &
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the error prone 3B and HOF SS beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after the last out,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of flannel in
the ringdiamond shadow of the past and hit the
suffering of New York’s naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabachthani bat
crack that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the game butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand d
   274. DerekDerekA**Homeric Posted: October 24, 2006 at 03:18 PM (#2223106)
is this still going? can you stand one more?

Joe Torre is my manager; I shall not lose.
He maketh me to slide headfirst in green fields:
he leadeth me beside homeplate.
He restoreth my batting title:
he leadeth me in the basepaths for Steinbrenner’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of loss,
I will fear no tigers: for Joe art with me;
his a-rod and his sheff they comfort me.
He preparest a table before me in the clubhouse of mine enemies:
he anointest my bod with andro; my cup spilleth over.
Surely titles and championships shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house that ruth built forever.
   275. Grunthos Posted: October 24, 2006 at 07:32 PM (#2223380)
In memoriam – Derek Jeter, 1974-2006.

Fellow-Citizens of New York and of the Yankee Organization:

Among the vicissitudes incident to life, no event could have filled me with greater anxieties than that of which the notification was transmitted by George Steinbrenner, and received on the 16th day of February, 2004. On the one hand, I was summoned by the Yankees, whose payroll I can never envision but with veneration and love, from a retreat which I had chosen with the fondest predilection, and, in my flattering hopes, with an immutable contract, as the asylum of my peak years--a retreat which was rendered every day more confining as well as more painful to me by the addition of bad pitching to a bandbox park, and of frequent interruptions in my complacency to the gradual waste committed on it by the team owner. On the other hand, the magnitude and difficulty of the trust to which the voice of this organization called me, being sufficient to awaken in the quietest and most respectful of its fans a distrustful scrutiny into my qualifications, could not but overwhelm with despondence one who (inheriting superior endowments from nature yet unpracticed in the duties of clutch hitting) ought to be peculiarly conscious of his own deficiencies. In this conflict of emotions all I dare aver is that it has been my faithful study to collect my duty from a just appreciation of every circumstance by which it might be affected. All I dare hope is that if, in executing this task, I have been too much swayed by an unhealthy obsession with personal invulnerability, or by an innate sensibility to this transcendent proof of the mistrust of my fellow-citizens, and have thence too little consulted my incapacity as well as disinclination for the weighty and untried cares before me, my error will be palliated by the impending campaign to trade me, and its consequences be judged by fans with some share of the partiality in which they originated.

Such being the impressions under which I have, in obedience to the owner’s summons, repaired to the present station, it would be peculiarly improper to omit in any public act my fervent supplications to the spirit of that Almighty Jeter who ruled over the league, who presided in the dugouts of champions, and whose providential aids could supply every teammate’s defect, that His benediction may consecrate to the liberties and happiness of the people of New York the Dynasty instituted by Mr. Steinbrenner for these essential purposes, and may enable every instrument employed by his administration to execute with success the functions allotted to his charge. In tendering this homage to the Great Author of every glorious and mundane victory, I assure myself that it expresses your sentiments much more than my own, and those of your fellow-citizens at large yet more than either. No fans can be bound to acknowledge and adore the Incomparable Glove which conducts the affairs of fielding more than those of the Yankees. Every step by which they have advanced to the character of a smug, entitled, holier-than-thou, soulless herd of hypocrites seems to have been distinguished by some token of providential agency; and in the important golden age just accomplished by the clutch play of their united team, the hostile radio deliberations and continual bickering of so many distinct fan communities for which the team has strived can not be compared with the means by which most teams have been supported without some return of superficially pious gratitude, along with an uneasy anticipation of the future blessings which the past seem to presage. These reflections, arising out of the present crisis, have forced themselves too strongly on my mind to be suppressed. You will join with me, I trust, in thinking that there are none under the influence of which the proceedings of the post-Jeter era can more suspiciously commence.

   276. Grunthos Posted: October 24, 2006 at 07:33 PM (#2223382)
By the articles establishing the True Yankee Heritage, it was made the duty of Captain Jeter "to recommend to his teammates and his manager such playing status as he shall judge necessary and expedient." The unfortunate circumstances under which I now meet you will acquit me from entering into that subject further than to refer to the great love for the fallen leader in whose memory you are assembled, and which, in defining your loyalties, designates the objects to which your attention is to be given. It will be more consistent with those circumstances, and far more congenial with the insecurities which actuate me, to substitute, in place of an expression of particular feelings, the tribute that is due to the talents, the rectitude, and the leadership which adorn the shortstops selected to devise and adopt them. In these honorable qualifications I behold the surest pledges that, as on one side local prejudices and attachments, intemperate views, and petty animosities will misdirect the comprehensive and equal eye which ought to watch over this great assemblage of mercenaries and heroes, so, on another, that the foundation of our team policy will be laid in the pure and immutable principles of scapegoating, and the preeminence of Yankee glory be exemplified by all the expenditures which can win the affections of its fans and command the envy of the baseball world. I dwell on this prospect with every trepidation which an ardent love for my image can inspire, since there is no truth more thoroughly established than that there exists in the economy and course of baseball an indissoluble union between money and happiness; between duty and smoldering resentment; between the genuine maxims of an honest and magnanimous manager and the solid rewards of public enmity and opprobrium; since we ought to be no less persuaded that the dour smiles of Bud Selig can never be expected on a team that disregards the eternal rules of bribery and extortion which Bud Selig himself has ordained; and since the preservation of the sacred fire of Derek’s spirit and the destiny of the Yankee model of team building are justly considered, perhaps, as deeply, as finally, staked on this experiment conducted on the spending habits of the American people.

To the foregoing observations I have one to add, which will be most properly addressed to the paying fans who grace the House that Ruth Built. It concerns myself, and will therefore be as brief as possible. When I was first honored with a call into the service of my team, then on the eve of another arduous season’s struggle with the Red Sox, the light in which I contemplated my duty required that I should renounce some part of my pecuniary compensation. From this resolution I have since departed; and being no longer under the impressions which produced it, I must decline as inapplicable to myself any concern regarding in the personal emoluments which may be indispensably included in a permanent provision for third base, and must accordingly pray that the pecuniary estimates for the station in which I am placed may, during my continuance in it, be perceived as reasonable expenditures that my private good may be thought to require.

Having thus imparted to you my sentiments as they have been awakened by the occasion which brings us together, I shall take my present leave; but not without resorting once more to the benign Paragon of the Yankee Way in humble supplication that, since He has been pleased to favor the people of New York with opportunities for celebrating in perfect ecstasy, so His divine blessing may be equally conspicuous in the enlarged views, the temperate consultations, and the wise measures on which the success of my remaining career must depend.
   277. Grunthos Posted: October 24, 2006 at 07:36 PM (#2223385)
And yes, George actually spoke that way. He never met a run-on sentence, dangling clause, or passive construction he didn't like.
   278. Mr. Faded Glory Posted: October 24, 2006 at 10:13 PM (#2223478)
TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The playoff elimination had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of range increased. I heard all things in Fenway and Camden. I heard many things in Shea. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the young man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his contract I had no desire. I think it was his trophy! Yes, it was this! One of his trophies resembled that of individual excellence - a pale blue base with a bowl over it. Whenever I looked upon it my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the man, and thus rid myself of the trophy for ever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to my teammate than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his hotel door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark flashlight all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the unclutch one’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously -- oh, so cautiously -- cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the trophy. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found him always with a groupie, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the third baseman who vexed me but his trophy. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound teammate, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for the whore moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of pararazzi), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to turn on the flashlight, when my thumb slipped upon the button, and the man sprang up in the bed, crying out, "Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of a whore. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my slut, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His horniness had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy it overkill, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the catcher in the hallway, it is only the noise of the whore," or, "It is merely the closer’s cellphone which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the trophy.
I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull silver with a hideous bowl over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.
And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the light motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the award. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The choking guy’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that hotel, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me -- the sound would be heard by a teammate! The former shortstop’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the door and leaped into the room. He shrieked once, like a girl -- once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The MVP was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His skills would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.
I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.
When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as representatives of major league baseball. A shriek had been heard by a the manager during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the league office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, -- for what had the Captain to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my random girls of the evening. The third baseman, I mentioned, was probably in Central Park. I took my visitors all over the hotel. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his room. I showed them his trophy, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The men were satisfied. My CLUTCHNESS had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered politely, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.
No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officials heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about stats, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty Me! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --
"Villains!" I shrieked, "get out of here now, be gone to the night and let rest my most clutchiest heart!"
It was my clutchiest act on the clutchiest day of the clutchiest year of my life.
   279. Scoriano Flitcraft Posted: October 26, 2006 at 10:36 PM (#2225306)
As he drove the little Ford safely to its garage, he remembered for the first time in years when he was young and brash, a student in New York, and the shriek and horror and unholy smother of Yankee Stadium had its original meaning for him as the lilt and expectation of love.
   280. b Posted: October 27, 2006 at 01:53 AM (#2225533)
got me a ball game
i want you to know
slicing up fastballs
i want you to know
shortstop so groovy
i want you to know
don't know about you
but i am un perro cuando importa
i am un perro cuando importa
i am un perro cuando importa
i am un perro cuando importa
wanna grow
up to be
be a third baseman, (third baseman)
third baseman, (third baseman)
third baseman, (third baseman)
third baseman, (third baseman)
third baseman, (third baseman)
third baseman, (third baseman)

got me a ballgame
ha ha ha ho
slicing up fastballs
ha ha ha ho
shortstop so groovy
ha ha ha ho
don't know about you
but i am un perro cuando importa
i am un perro cuando importa
i am un perro cuando importa
i am un perro cuando importa

(third baseman), third baseman
(third baseman), third baseman
(third baseman), third baseman
(third baseman), third baseman
(third baseman), third baseman
(third baseman), third baseman
   281. Francoeur Sans Gages (AlouGoodbye) Posted: October 28, 2006 at 04:46 PM (#2227296)
Sabers, ravers, fans of all flavors;
Lend me your lobes.
I come to put A-Rod in the ground,
Not to hip you to him.
The bad jazz that a cat blows,
Wails long after he's cut out.
The groovey is often stashed with their frames,
So don't put A-Rod down.
That swinger Jeter put down a cool tale
That A-Rod couldn't hit in the clutch. If true, it's a sad drag,
And that cat A-Rod has sadly answered it.
Here with a pass from Jeter and the other brass,
For Jeter is a pretty hip cat,
Yeah, and they're all pretty hip cats,
I come to wail at A-Rod's wake.
He was my buddy, and he levelled with me.
Yet Jeter digs that he choked in the clutch,
And Jeter is a pretty hip cat.
You can't deny he hit big flies
And hit them for the Yankees.
Yea, the looty was booty
And hipped the ballclub well.
Do you really dig that this was A-Rod's groove
For the choke?
When the cats with the empty kicks copped out,
Yeah, A-Rod copped out, too,
And cried up a storm.
To be a back-stabber you got to blow a stiffer riff;
Without ice a stud can't even hit it out of the infield.
Yet Jeter says he was only playing for himself.
And, yeah, Jeter is a pretty hip cat.
And all you cats were gassed at the Stadium
When he came on like a captain freak.
Three times I lay the wig on him,
And three times he put it down.
Was this the move of a greedy hipster?
Yet, Jeter said he dug the lick,
And, yes, a hipper cat has never blown.
Some claim that Jeter's story was a gag.
But I dug the story solid.
I came here to blow.
Now, stay cool while I blow.
You all dug him once
Because you were hipped that he was solid
How can you now come on so square
Now that he's struck out of this world?
The whole Bronx is flipped
And swung to a drunken zoo
And all of you cats are goofed to wig city.
Dig me hard.
My ticker is in the coffin there with A-Rod,
And, yeah, I've got to stay cool till it flips back to me.
   282. WillYoung Posted: October 28, 2006 at 05:00 PM (#2227305)
I can stand beside
Things I think are right
And I can stand beside
The idea of fistpump and fight
And I do believe
There’s he's the Captain of everyone
This is our shortstop
From the east coast
To the west coast
To throwing Giambi out
At home
This is our shortsop
   283. penguinmobile Posted: November 07, 2006 at 06:39 AM (#2232823)
Discovering that I missed this thread is almost enough to make me quit my job and start spending all my time at BBTF again...
   284. McLovin Posted: August 23, 2007 at 08:25 PM (#2497021)
   285. Francoeur Sans Gages (AlouGoodbye) Posted: July 17, 2008 at 03:27 AM (#2861925)
It's some kind of necromancy!
   286. Jeff K. Posted: July 17, 2008 at 03:35 AM (#2861928)
Hey, you can post in threads older than 30 days again! Sorry about that hiatus where you couldn't; that's my fault. I bumped an old thread, Jim took my posting keys, the Blogpark died, and old threads were closed. A sad day....
   287. Hello Rusty Kuntz, Goodbye Rusty Cars Posted: July 17, 2008 at 03:55 AM (#2861935)
Aw, I expected this to be like the Colin Farrell thread.
   288. Francoeur Sans Gages (AlouGoodbye) Posted: July 17, 2008 at 04:08 AM (#2861940)
Now, I look at all you cats and kitties out there, a whippin' and a wailin' and a jumpin' up and down, and lookin' up all those stats and pattin' each other on the back, and a hippin' each other who the greatest cat in baseball is - Mr. Jeter, Mr. Bonds, Mr. Utley, Mr. A-Rod, and all them other rods gonna hit them out, and if you can't hit them out, they know a cat that knows a cat who'll sort you out. But I'm gonna put a cat on you, was the coolest, grooviest, clutchiest, wailin'est, strongest, swingin'est cat that ever stomped on this jumpin' green sphere. And they called this here cat "The Babe." He was an upholsterer kittie.

Now, the Babe was the kind of a cat that come on so cool and so groovey and so with-it that when he hit the ball, wha-BOOM, it stayed hit. Naturally, all the rest of the cats said, "Man, look at that cat hit! He's hittin' up a storm up there. Hey, I'm tellin' ya, he swingin' that bat right, he..."

"Get off my back, Jack! What's the matter with you? I'm tryin' to dig what the cat's puttin' down!"

They're pushin' the Babe to swing his miracle stick!
   289. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: December 19, 2009 at 10:05 PM (#3417807)
Hey, I remember this thread.
   290. asinwreck Posted: December 22, 2009 at 07:06 AM (#3419319)
Fact is the outfielder needs to be sold in a hurry, and Lou sends Jim out to do it. Jim is smart and has personality. He used to trade garbage to Pittsburgh for hitters. He signed Dusty up, even though Dusty didn’t play kids. Afterward, Lou asked him for an outfielder, and the outfielder led to this. This deal has to include cash, and it has to be done tonight. Tomorrow some fans they owe might curse Jim for ever signing the outfielder. Monday they’ll be in Wrigley, home free – but world on them went out yesterday, when their GM mailed the offer of Silva. The announcement on Monday is nothing to worry about, the GM has said. They’ll be asked some questions, and they’ll sign some papers, and that’s it. But sell the outfielder, he said – today, tonight. They can hold onto the little centerfielder, Lou’s centerfielder, no problem. But they go into the season with that big malcontent, the press will shred him, and that’s that.
   291. WillYoung Posted: February 22, 2010 at 06:09 PM (#3465241)
I think this needs a random bump.
   292. CrosbyBird Posted: March 08, 2011 at 09:53 AM (#3765924)
This thread was referenced in the "A Decade of Primacy" discussion.
   293. Fancy Crazy Town Banana Pants Handle Posted: March 08, 2011 at 01:12 PM (#3765948)
I think this needs a random bump.

I wish people wouldn't do this. Thnking I missed a 300 post Jeter thread almost gave me a stroke.
   294. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: March 08, 2011 at 01:30 PM (#3765954)
I'm sure there were people who thought he'd actually died and almost had an orgasm.
   295. OMJ, urban D machine Posted: March 08, 2011 at 01:36 PM (#3765958)

   296. Home Run Teal & Black Black Black Gone! Posted: March 08, 2011 at 01:46 PM (#3765964)
This might be the Primates' collective best work.
   297. Home Run Teal & Black Black Black Gone! Posted: March 08, 2011 at 02:23 PM (#3766001)
Shortstop Falls Ablaze!
Great Captain Bursts Into Flames Upon Taking the Field: Tools Gone: Blazing Wreckage Thrown Out at First, Batspeed Slows to a Crawl
Sports Agent Aids Rescue
Sparks From Jeter/Media Love Affair Believed to Have Ignited Hydrogen Gas

New Yankee Stadium, Bronx, N.Y. -- The shortstop Jeter was destroyed by aging and explosions here this summer with a loss of 47 points of average unaccounted for out of his .317 lifetime average.

Months after the disaster fifty-one million dollars had been recovered with incentives for fourteen more. The three-year deal includes an eight million dollar player option. The Yankees front office was burned or hoodwinked or worse, and were taken to the cleaners here and in near-by markets.

The accident happened just as the great mulatto shortstop was about to tie up his career sixteen years after debuting for New York City and on the last leg of his previous ten-year contract. Until this season Jeter had never had an offensive WAR below 3 in a full season of play since debuting in 1995.
   298. Walt Davis Posted: April 27, 2011 at 01:37 AM (#3809931)
Wow. I don't think I ever knew this thread existed until linked the other day. And so, OK, this is 5 years late but, unless I missed it, nobody ever got to this obvious one (genuine theft doesn't start until the last few paragraphs):

Szym paced the floor. The weather had him in a bad mood, the cloudy rainy day giving onto a bone-chilling night more fit for a funeral than a ball game. Halloween soon, he felt the darkness as much as saw it. But it hadn’t been his idea to move the Series into late October.

Maybe he should boot up the computer. He did most of it by computer now of course, he could get through seasons much faster, keep records much more easily. The randomness was more precise. But certain games and certain players seemed to require dice and the old, fading charts. Ted Williams’ last game, Koufax’s starts, Aaron’s 714th and 715th had all been rolls of the dice, it didn’t seem right that Maddux, McGwire and Bonds should be denied that honor.

And always the World Series.

The season had started ordinarily enough. The only milestone that was going to fall that year was Derek Jeter’s 3000th hit. Pujols was in his contract year and the computer had defied the odds and left him unsigned at season’s start which, along with bizarre and foreboding early season weather, had all of St. Louis on edge. Szym hadn’t believed the Cards had left this so long and had begun to resign himself to Pujols playing elsewhere when the deal was announced in May.

That had been a short-lived burst of sanity for this season however. The wild weather continued everywhere. Most teams had so many rain-outs that there was no choice but to cut the season to 156 games and the Devil Rays had to finish their season in the SuperDome after their stadium was leveled by a hurricane.

But the real apocalypse was the decimation of run-scoring. Strikeouts skyrocketed and offense was at its lowest level in over 40 years. A new star emerged – Jaime Garcia who broke Bob Gibson’s ERA record and finished the season as the first starting pitcher with an ERA under one. Garcia and Pujols led the Cardinals to an unexpected World Series berth.

Where they stood tied with the Yankees at 3 games apiece. It had been a tumultuous season for the Yankees. Everyone sensed this was the last hurrah of this great dynasty. Everybody knew the Yankees would be back to the World Series soon enough, maybe even next season, the payroll was too big to keep them down. But this team, these players? Age had finally caught up with them – Rivera had blown 8 saves, Posada struggled to hit 210, Rodriguez had missed 37 games.

But most emblematic of the decline was the great Derek Jeter, the Captain. He had topped 3,000 hits but not by much as he struggled to a 245 average with no power. The age showed in his defense as well – the 5-time gold-glover now had so little range that sarcastic bloggers started referring to left-fielder Brett Gardner as the “backup shortstop.” The Yankees were still an excellent team but everyone knew that there would be a new shortstop next year.

Szym hated to admit it but he admired Jeter. He played the game the right way, he got the most out of his talent. And, sure, lots of past players had had memorable flings and the dice had even once rolled up Marilyn Monroe for Joe D, but the computer just spat out stunning starlet after stunning starlet for the handsome Jeter. Truth told, Szym was a bit jealous.

Game Seven, New York City. The Steinbrenner sons too sensed that this dynasty was ending. All the stops were pulled out for this one, every grudge buried and the team dragged in every reminder of its glorious past that it could – Berra, Reggie, Guidry, Paulie, Sojo. Even Torre -- Jeter’s baseball father figure who had left the Yanks amid sniping and bitterness.

The dice too seemed to sense the uniqueness of this game. Garcia pitching for the Cardinals had been masterful. Eight innings, two hits, no runs, fifteen strikeouts. Sabathia had been nearly as good for the Yanks, surrendering only a 4th inning home run to Pujols.

Jeter felt better than he had in years. His legs felt like they were 21 again. A line drive single to right center in the third, followed by a stolen base. A grounder to the hole that he beat out, followed by another stolen base. He’d ranged far to his left to steal a hit from Holliday in the 2nd and snagged a screaming liner over his head off Molina’s bat and doubled Freese off first in the 5th.

Top of the ninth, no reason to save him, Rivera on the mound. LaRussa answers the first question on everybody’s mind as Garcia bats and strikes out meekly. Theriot follows with a grounder to Cano. Cano bobbles and Theriot hustles down the line but the throw just nips him at the bag. LaRussa charges out of the dugout to argue even though the replays clearly show the throw beat him. LaRussa’s probably just trying to disrupt Rivera, Szym thinks. Rolls the dice: 2-1-1. I’ll be damned, Rivera does get a bit rattled, you wouldn’t think that would happen to “the cyborg.”

Nick Punto steps into the box. The count is quickly 0-2 and the roll: 1-1-1. Punto manages to get around on it and sends it down the first base line past the diving Teixeira. The ball skips into the corner past Swisher who had been playing fairly shallow. Punto’s got three for sure and is charging hard into the bag as Swisher gets there. Swisher lets loose the throw towards the infield, over the head of Cano as Punto is rounding and thinking of heading home.

And there’s Jeter for no good reason other than it’s the place to be. He calmly fields Swisher’s throw, turns towards home and puts one right on the money. Punto meekly retreats to third base.

Pujols. Holliday is an excellent hitter on-deck, but he’s not Albert Pujols. Everybody knows Girardi is going to intentionally walk Pujols here.

1-1-1: Girardi chooses to pitch to Pujols.

The stadium is throbbing as if all fifteen million New Yorkers are in attendance. Even the grizzled vets in the glory section are standing, all except Torre the old gentleman, seated in a worn leather jacket.

Szym can’t sit either. It’s not just the intensity of the game. Back-to-back triple ones brings out the Stress Chart. All sorts of things could happen now. Most of them pretty ordinary – a wild pitch, an error, Pujols missing one grooved right down the middle – but plenty of odd things too – a steal of home, catcher’s interference, three straight walks.

Martin goes out to talk to Rivera. What reason is there for this other than to build the tension? Everybody knows Rivera is going to throw cutters. Maybe Martin too feels the stress and can’t sit still.

Szym cracks open another beer. Calm down, he tells himself, it’s just a game, it’s just the Stress Chart. Still the dice feel blisteringly hot in his sweaty hands. Another swig of beer and he rolls: 1-1-1.

Pujols hits a hard grounder to the left side. Rodriguez dives but it’s by him on its first bounce.

Jeter was shading a bit towards the middle. Rivera was supposed to throw cutters to break over the outside corner but this one got too much of the plate. Derek’s instincts are sharp tonight – it’s the same feeling he gets when he walks into a club with nobody on his arm but knows without even looking that there’s a beautiful woman there for him. He’s off to his right before Pujols even starts to swing and takes two, three steps in the time it would ordinarily take for his first. At full speed he ranges deeper into the hole than he has since the Clinton administration. He bends, picks the ball after its second hop, jumps, spins, throws a bullet to first.


“DEREK!! DEREK!! DEREK!!” For three minutes of commercial break the chant is unending. Everyone feels it now. The Yankees dugout is alive -- Gardner can’t stop hopping, Posada keeps repeating “We got this one now!”, Rivera calmly contemplates the idea of retiring after a World Series victory.

A long season for Jeter would soon be finished. He had already decided this would be his last, he didn’t want to keep on as a diminished player. He’d made the decision that day in mid-August when Girardi had finally made the move to bat him ninth in the order.

That decision now seemed like fate working its random ways. Derek Jeter, the Captain, was set to lead off the ninth inning of the 7th game of the World Series with his great Yankee team down by one run.

Szym snapped up the three dice and worked them around in his perspiring hand but he couldn’t sit. Couldn’t swallow, couldn’t think, could hardly focus on what he was doing. That last triple one meant the Extraordinary Occurrences Chart for the next roll.

He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. Get it over with, he said. Garcia stepped up on the rubber, took Molina’s sign, shook his head. Shook it again. Then he nodded.

The dice felt sticky in his hands. He got a plastic cup – a Pirates souvenir cup with Derek Bell. He put the dice in the cup, shook it. Cold hollow rattle. Garcia stretched. The stadium lights glared, or maybe it was just the lamp – it threw a withering glare off the papers on the table, made Szym squint his eyes, and he felt somehow he was up to something sinister. That’s it, he chided himself, pile it on, you’ll feel like a fool when nothing – he listened to the rattle, to the roar, held his breath, pitched the dice down on the table.

He knew even before he looked: 1-1-1.

Derek Jeter was dead.
   299. Bourbon Samurai, what price fettucine? Posted: April 27, 2011 at 02:03 AM (#3809978)
I love how this pops up every six months or so.
   300. Infinite Yost (Voxter) Posted: May 22, 2012 at 08:46 PM (#4138212)
Me, too.
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