Saturday, May 7, 2016
Papi goes berserk, gets thrown out like a Trump protester, and somewhere an angel received her wings
Posted by el duque at 6:37 AM
No matter what happens, no matter how many rock stars die, no matter how many Yankees get carted off the field, we'll always have Papi's steroidal, Oscar-caliber re-enactment of Al Pacino in Justice For All. ("I'm out of order? This court is out of order!")
From now on, every David Ortiz story involving the Yankees doesn't have to culminate with him leisurely stepping on home plate with his chubby fingers to the sky. There may not be a juju god, but at least we know there is an equilibrium of nature. Call it karma. Call it random sequence. Call it whatever. I call it strike three.
For once, Papi didn't get the benefit of the doubt on an ump's decision, so what happens? He pops like Cory Lewandowski, like a gummy bear in a hydraulic press. He goes Mento-in-Coke, railing against the world with the entitled outrage of a Hitler tweet from Curt Schilling. Ortiz is used to always getting the call. For once, it went our way. Our way.
If that pitch had gone against us - (ball four, run scores, game tied) - I have no doubt that we would have lost the game - (Phil Coke was warming in the pen) - and the series - (which we may still lose.) Joe Girardi - who has already this season absorbed more cuts than John Snow - would have been like Faye Dunaway at the end of Chinatown, staring vacantly into Suzyn's eyes and saying, "She's my sister... and my daughter. She's my sister... and my daughter..." Andrew Miller would no longer be Lord Commander of the Night Watch. We'd be waiting for the arrival of El Chapo, the shooter of garages.
But the call went our way. Our way. No matter what happens, we'll always have last night.