Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Posted by el duque at 6:45 AM
Actually, last night had a disturbing, Cheers reunion flashback feel to it, much like last year's torture rack afternoon at Fenway, when Joba was hammered, offering a sizable glimpse into his future.
Listen: Nobody works up a tizzy over the first game. It's one game, ferkricesake. But the Yanks - more than most teams - need a happy April and May. If they flop through June 1, a harmonic convergence of negativity, anger and misspent yacht money could tank this creaking goliath like the 2012 Redsocks' "Greatest Team Ever" under Bobby V. Not saying that will happen. Not saying last night means anything. Just saying we need a good start. And didn't we figure an opening set against the Lastros ensured one?
Before continuing, let me thank the nutjob posters and raging commenters who kept this blog alive while my family and I chased the Northern Lights into the Arctic Circle. (I will write more on this later.) I feared that, if I went away, this blog would fall into anarchy, like the early U.S. under the Articles of Confederation; in fact, it bloomed with an explosion of talent, much like the comedic career of Betty White after ending her marriage to Allen Ludden. (That's the kind of gibberish you get after a week off.)
Thank you, everybody - and I hereby publicly request - no, demand! - that KD and John M, become permanent IT IS HIGH writers. I will NEVER revoke their privileges, (barring the outcome, of course, of the federal grand jury investigations.) Who knows, someday, maybe we'll figure out the Anonomice issue, and finagle him/her/them into some role here, maybe as Ombdudsonymous? There are great wacko, lunatic, hopeless, eternal Yankee fan psycho writers out there, and if this blog evolves into a sounding board for them - under the banner of The Master, of course - that would work for me.
For the last nine days, outside an occasional WiFi hotspot, I endured crack cocaine withdrawal without my Yankee fix. When I found an Internet Cafe, I squandered all my time reading posts and comments. (Somebody mentioned the French TV series "The Returned?" Damn! WTF? I'd just finished watching it, obsessively, in the days before the trip. I crammed the last three episodes just hours before we left. Can you explain what the hell happened in the ending? Was the town flooded, killing everybody? Were they already dead? Is this the French version of "Lost?") I thank you all for keeping me tethered to the alternative Yankee reality.
But... about last night...
Didn't we all wonder what would happen on the day the Eduardo Nunez Era ended? Well, it was like watching a Nuni highlight reel. Bad throws, botched grounders, big nothings.
I listened to John and Suzyn call the first. There are unforgettable sounds in the modern human genome experience. The iPhone trill of an incoming email. The wail of Godzilla stomping a city. And then there is Suzyn's "Ohhhhhh, boy...." the reverse orgasm war cry of eternal loss and despair. When Jeet got plunked, Suzyn uncorked one - her first "Ohhhhhhh, boy..." of 2014. My heart stopped. She promptly noted that the Captain would have to have "literally his arm in a sling, with a broken bone" to leave the game. I think she might have been overstating it - that is, if there were such things as overstatements on Opening Night.
And The Master? He was hurt, yes he was; but he is far too professional to show it. Most of all, John was mystified. For those of you scoring at home, he didn't make it through the first inning without referencing the theoretical impossibility of baseball being predicted.
"Who would ever think this could happen?" he asked, after CC Sabathia gave up four runs. "Who would ever think this could happen? Could anyone - ANYONE - have been more dominating that CC in his last outings?"
Me? I sure didn't predict it. I was dead after from 14 hours of travel. I pulled the plug after Alfonso Soriano fanned with Beltran and Tex on base in the fourth. I figured it was our big shot to get back in the game. Tex had received a gift walk on a 3-2 pitch right down the middle. Up comes Sori, and, sure enough, he made short work of my slender thread of hope. Bed time for Bonzo.
Soriano came to NY last year and was a three-week monster, who then turned cold and - insanely - was thrown out trying to steal third with two outs in a critical game against Boston, a play that effectively ended our playoff chances. In his worst moments, Eduardo Nunez never did something to rank up there with that level of stupidity. Last night, Sori merely stuck out. No big deal.
Not blaming Sori here, but I am hereby reserving the right to fix obsessively and cruelly upon him later, if he turns out to be a 200-strikeout Cashman Kewpie, for whom we traded a future Yankee starter. Not saying it will happen. Just saying the Camaltoe Starting Nine could have beaten us last night. Ohhhhhh, boy.