Saturday, August 16, 2014

Fearing their fans will shoot them, the Yankees install metal detectors

O! the whimsical merriment of baseball! They say it's a metaphor for life! or for America! or for something having to do with W.P. Kinsella!

You know the deal. Three strikes: Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Four bases: Four seasons. Pitcher-catcher: Man and woman.

And now, the newest jewel of cosmic truth: Starting next week, every time you enter the turnstile, some sweaty meatball with a size-15 neck and a G.E.D. will rifle through your belongings.

Insert aged, wise, sad-sounding sigh here.

I've been reading blogger comments about this change, which the Yankees secret CEO, Lonn Trost, announced Thursday. The general view: This sucks, but - hey - who are we to question public safety? They know what they're doing, so accept it. This is the price of our freedom, and I don't care what you say, dammit, America is the greatest company in the world! 

And that, my friends, is baseball's newest gift to our troubled national psyche: You live in a world of complete and utter terror, but inside this concrete bunker, thanks to our highly skilled security professionals, you shall be as safe as clams. So pay your money, shut up and watch.

What once was a game played in pastures is now - like everything - an intricate chess war of logarithms and insider formulas, and we should never question those in the know, a group that will never include us, as long as we live.

Friends, there is a good reason why your sheriffs department now has an Abrams tanks parked outside your door. We can't tell you, because it's classified. There is a good reason why the NSA goes through your email. We can't tell you, because it's classified. There is a good reason why we traded our best home run hitting prospect in the minors for Martin Prado. We don't need to tell you, because the YES announcers already declared it a winning Yankee strategy. There is a reason for our dead farm system, for our lack of hitting, and for any sense you may have that the Yankees - the great metaphor for America - long ago went off the rails.

Another sigh. Let me now return to pointless Yankee gibber-jabber.

Last night, I once again watched the rancid and hopeless Yankee lineup piss away the 2014 season, if not the team's brand name and legacy. It's just not fair, letting the opposition score TWO runs in the first inning. TWO runs? The game is over! It's like a 5-goal lead in soccer, a 36-0 deficit in football. The notion of the 2014 Yankees scoring three runs? Man, you must be tripping.

I should walk away from this team. We all should run. The bus is overturned on the side of the road, there's blood everywhere, and the cops are yelling, "Move on, people, there's nothing to see!" But I can't move. I keep watching, paralyzed by the scope of this team's mediocrity. I am in awe of this franchise. I thought they would be bad. I never dreamed they could be this bad.

We all knew giving three years to Beltran, five to McCann, and seven to Ellsbury was a terrible long-range strategy, a ticking time bomb. But we figured: "At least they'll challenge in 2014."

Then when the AL East looked so weak in June, we figured, "At least they'll stay in the race."

And then, when Baltimore pulled away, we figured, "At least we have the Wild Card."

Now, all we can say is: "Holy f----n crap!"

With metal detectors! Expect delays, Yankee fans. Smile for the cameras. It's just the price of happiness!


Riff said...

This sucks, I have been taking my lucky switchblade with me to games since I was ten.

KD said...

threes are important in baseball for some mystical/whimsical reason. 3 strikes, you're out. three outs, your side of the inning is over. the nine inning game? Three sets of three innings. Three bases. 90 feet between the bases: 3 x 30. Babe Ruth, the greatest player of all time, wore 3. There's even threes in 60'6".

KD said...

Oh, and a baseball is three inches in diameter.

el duque said...

Currently, the Yankees are in third in the AL East.

John M said...

In the old accent that used to be common here in New York before 5 million suburban kids from Wisconsin moved here, 'third' would be pronounced 'turd.'