The Right (Pinstriped) Earth, Vol. 7

MERRY MICKMAS!

Did everyone get everything they wanted on Mickmas morning?  As for me, my usual request—the head of Brian Cashman under the Mickmas sagebrush—once again went unfulfilled, alas.  I guess I wasn't good enough this year.  Again.  

But in general, I think this Mickmas season ought to be more than the usual celebration of the Commerce Comet that once flared across our skies, cherished though his memory be.

This Mickmas ought to celebrated in sackcloth and ashes, with much rending of garments (Though I know, it's hard to tear sackcloth.  And the dry-cleaning bills!)  This Mickmas is a time of darkness and dread, with yet another Boston World Series championship in the offing.

We must, all of us, think of what we can do to appease the obviously furious JuJu gods in the future, and bring back winning—or at least tolerable—baseball to the Bronx.  

I leave you with the conclusion of our story, before retreating to my monk's cell, to spend the rest of the day in prayer and self-flagellation.

“And then it got easy.”

“Hah!  Smart ass!”  huffed Buck.  “You know as well as I do, it never gets easy.  That ball Paulie hit that juuuust cleared the wall to tie Game Five in the ninth in Cleveland, in 1997.   Then the Buhner home run that won it in the 12^th—”

“Oh, yeah.  Must have been real hard in 1998, with the greatest team ever,” Meulens laughed.

“I have to admit, that was a team.  Buhner, Bernie, and O’Neill in the outfield, with Strawberry and then Spencer DH-ing. “

“And the pitching.  Once Clemens signed with us in 1997, what were they calling them?  ‘The Five Aces’?  Or was it six?”

“Eight, really,” Showalter grinned.  “Maddux, Clemens, Cone, Wells, Pettitte, and then El Duque and Al Leiter spot-starting and relieving by 1998.  And fronting them all:  the great Brien Taylor.”

“Man, he could throw!  And when you guys got him smart—”

“It was hard to lose with all that.”

“What was it, 139 wins in the regular season, then 11 more in the postseason?  150 wins?  No one’s ever going to break that!”

“I just wanted to give you young squirts something to shoot for.”

“Then on and on it went.  Soriano coming up, and taking over at second—”

“Once we got him to lay off the outside pitches, you could start buffing his plaque in Cooperstown.”

“And you knew enough to put him in center, what with D’Angelo Jimenez and then Robinson Cano coming up to play such great second base.”

“Sure.  But it’s a shame about Cano.  I really thought we could reach him, but we couldn’t.  There’s always one guy who just doesn’t get it,” sighed Buck.

“That’s all right,” said Meulens.  “We have The Gleyber out there now, and when he shifts to short next year, we can just plug in Thairo Estrada after that Triple Crown year he had in Triple-A.  Thank goodness you prevailed on him not to go back to Venezuela last off-season, with all the violence there.  Who knows what might have happened?”

“Hey, sometimes you just get lucky,” Showalter said, and yawned.  “And we’ve had our share of luck, I know.  That three-run homer Shane Spencer hit in Arizona, just before that little storm moved in, that clinched the 2001 World Series.”

“What a tickertape parade that one was,” Meulens said.  “Right after 9/11.  All the players and the personnel walking, and the firefighers and cops and EMT people riding in the floats behind them.  Everybody crying and cheering at the same time.”

“And then the catafalque of Rudy Giuliani, pulled by six white horses.  What a fate!  Dying on your most glorious day on earth!”

“If he’d lived, he would’ve been president.  Everybody said so.  And he would’ve loved to see his Yankees win it all that year,” Meulens said.

“Oh, yeah,” Showalter replied softly.  “That one really put the game into perspective.  Thank God, we never had anything that terrible to deal with again.  Just good times after that.”

“What was your favorite?”

“Oh, I dunno.  I kinda loved 2009, when we signed Pedro for his last year.  How he won the clinching game in the Series, and coming off the mound, 76,000 fans chanted, ‘You’re Our Daddy!’  The way that brought tears to his eyes.”

“It brought tears to mine!”

“Good times, good time.”

The door swung open.

“Somebody say good times?  Doesn’t sound like it in here.”

“Hey, it’s the New Guy!”

There in the doorway stood the grinning figure of Derek Jeter, with his wife Hannah Davis and one-year-old Bella in tow. 

“Time to get this party started.  Mr. Showalter, you got to get yourself doused with some champagne.”

“I told you to stop calling me that!” Buck grinned.  “You’re a big executive now—vice-president of the New York Yankees!”

“Still seems like a dream.”

“Like your whole life does, to most people,” Showalter chortled—but then his visage turned somber all of a sudden.  “Nah, you and Hensley go on down now.  I got a plane to catch. “

“What?” exclaimed Meulens.  “What’s this?”

“Hey, that’s all right,” Jeter said, quickly catching on and hustling the manager and his own family out of the room.  “Not like there won’t be another celebration next year!”

When they had left, Buck Showalter pulled out his plane ticket, and looked once more at the picture of the three friends—the men who had taken the Yankees’ already towering dynasty to heights no sports franchise had ever matched before. 

He looked at Stick Michael, the Old Man, gone just over a year now and already ticketed for Cooperstown next season.  Then at Bob Watson, stoically refusing a kidney from his family, living out his last months on dialysis. 

It was he that Buck Showalter was going to see, to sit around with for a few days, and have some laughs, and remember the old days.  And to plan for the glorious future ahead.