The only reason Derek Jeter should play today: The Master's final call

You can't predict baseball. But you can predict radio. Rush always hates Hillary, Delilah always loves love, and Casey - even from the other side - always says to reach for the stars, while keeping your feet planted on the ground.

I say John Sterling cries.

Clearly, Suzyn will.

They've sold the merchandise. They've poured the Gatorade. They've given the gifts. The lone remaining question in the Jeterian universe today is whether John Sterling, the ultimate professional voice, will lose it, and blubber like John Boehner during the last reel of Atlas Shrugged.

I say he cries. First, he assures us that he doesn't plan to cry. He says you're never supposed to get choked up behind the mike. And Jeter in New York managed not to cry.

Still, you'll know he's crying.

Youl hear the crowd - the Boston crowd - chanting Jeter's name. In the booth, you hear nothing, not John or Suzyn. Neither can speak. John will try. It doesn't work. Jeter steps out of the box. The crowd roars louder. The radio world only hears cheering. John is too overwhelmed to speak.

Her voice heavy with emotion, Suzyn tries to tell us about Celino and Barnes, the injury attorneys. She can't get it to the eight-eight-eight, eight-eight-eight-eight. Fuckit. She's bawling like a baby.

The crowd is still chanting. Jeter awaits the pitch. John pulls it together. His voice is three octaves higher than usual. "Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa pitch. SWUNG ON! THERE IT GOES! DEEP LEFT FIELD! IT IS HIGH, IT IS FAR, IT ISSSSSSSSS..."

Over.