Then one day, it came. We were shattered, depressed, beaten down - but suddenly, holy crap! facing free nights! We could travel! We didn't have to rise at 4 a.m. to let anybody out. Hated to lose that dog, hated to lose him... but it sure was nice being free.
Well, right now, that's how I feel about the 2013 Yankees. I would not compare this team's post-season elimination to the death of an actual human family member. That's sort of like the over-the-top Obama/Hitler comparisons thrown about by those right-wing radio Goebbels gerbils. But the death of a pet... yeah. That sums it up.
This week, our beloved Yankee pooch went from dying to dead. Thank God it's over.
For the last three months, we wrestled a losing battle with hope. We knew the dog was too old to recover, but now and then, he had a good day. We convinced ourselves his perkiness resulted from some new diet or pain pill, and he would at least last through October. Then we played Boston, and he crapped all over our living room carpet - I mean, it was awful.
Well, he's gone. No more nights listening to Michael Kay banter with Coney, or Paul, or himself. No more false hopes. Last night, while driving, I chanced upon The Master for an inning. He sounded like a priest at a funeral. Yeah, Suzyn droned a bit about the injuries - how they sapped our strength. (So go the talking points: It's like the Scooby Doo zombie who rips off his mask, turns out to be mean old Mr. Levine, and yells, "If not for those pesky injuries....!") But when Tampa scored, they didn't really care.
Don't get me wrong: I loved this team. I gave it everything. But we are free. No more Vernon Wells-sized turds in my front lawn. No more Ichiro, scratching a 3-0 count into a routine pop fly. No more wondering where Joba ran off to, or getting complaints from the neighbors about Phil Hughes. Old Spotty is in the grave. Treasure the memories, folks. But there are better ways to spend our evenings than with a batting order that suffers from incontinence.
The playoffs loom. Don Mattingly v. AJ Burnett? Nick Swisher v. Austin Jackson? Boston v. the World? Maybe I'll sit with them a night or two. But nobody can replace old Gardy, Robbie and Mariano. God, I loved that dog.
I know what you mean. Last February we lost our old friend Mr. Burd, a 30 year old Eclectus parrot. I loved that old bird but he's gone and I'm free. Yet I'd give up this freedom in a heartbeat if I could have Mr. Burd back.
ReplyDeletelast night wasn't exactly like losing Mr. Burd. I didn't cry but my heart really sank when I saw that Cleveland had won.
still going in this afternoon and I expect to see something odd, like Mo playing CF.
Or maybe Robbie's last game as a Yankee in Yankee Stadium.
ReplyDeleteYou just made me cry
ReplyDelete1967-70 were easier, in a way. They sucked so bad, there was no hope at all, all season long.
ReplyDeleteWherefore art thou, Rocky Colavito?
sigh ....
ReplyDeleteMust take issue with John M about 1967-70, probably because those were my Wonderbread years of Yankee baseball. This year, the losses and disappointments hurt, but I think I died a thousand deaths each game back then. I lit a million psychic candles for the bats of Jerry Kenny and Gene Michael and all the other hopeless hitters; calculated an infinite series of scenarios whereby the Yankees could catch up; and thanked God endlessly for the talents of Mel, Roy White and the indefatigible long relief of the great Lindy McDaniel. (When your starting staff sucks, you need a plowhorse in the bullpen capable of going 8 and two-thirds.)
ReplyDeleteJohn is right that elimination was much more of a foregone conclusion back then, but the pain from all the losses leading up to hopelessness hurt more, even if the sideshows like Rocky Colavito and Andy Kosco and Bill Monboquette were so much more entertaining.
Didn't Lindy McDaniel once throw a no-hitter over the course of several relief outings?
ReplyDeleteA great Yankee pick-up, long before Cashman discovered the scrap heap.
323... McDaniel also once pitched 13 scoreless and got the win against the White Sox. Since most of the Yankees teams he played for were not really contenders, his greatest contribution to the team may have been that he was traded by Gabe Paul for Lou Pinella before the 1974 season.
ReplyDeleteAh, for the days of the Folly Floater. Life was simpler then. The team knew it sucked and there was room for some humor. Unlike today, when we have Yankee promo spots featuring a music track that sounds very much like someone losing their erection during sex with Kate Upton, or maybe a gladiator getting the world's worst case of diarrhea as he fights in the Coliseum.
ReplyDeleteThough I understand Tom's point. Many's the nights I spent listening to West Coast games on my GE transistor radio, hoping Mickey would be able to win the game in the late innings with a 12-run shot to center. Somehow it never happened.
I am the real "Anonymous." The callous post attributed to me earlier in this thread is not mine. I understand the depth of love we feel for our animal companions--I too hesitate to call them anything other than human beings. My heart goes out to you, Hart--and to your family--for your loss. I offer these words from Walt Whitman:
ReplyDeleteI think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d;
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied—not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago;
Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me, and I accept them;
They bring me tokens of myself—they evince them plainly in their possession.
Anonymous,
ReplyDeleteYou're going to have to get a name. Maybe "The Real Anonymous."
The references to Rocky Colavito and Lindy McDaniel remind me of the time when Johnny Callison patrolled right field for us. He was the Ichiro of his era.
Which has me thinking... what would be the evolutionary chart of over-the-hill outfielders playing their final incarnations with the Yankees? Between Colavito and Ichiro, there would be some great names, am I right?