Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Yankiverse stumped over the mysterious disappearance of Garrett "D.B." Cooper

Gather 'round, chitlens. I'll toss another piece of furniture onto the fire and tell a tale that'll girdle your innards. It happened back in '17, the time before the war, before the floods, before the Bryce Harper contract apocalypse. Some say this story foretold the catastrophes yet to come - that dark period when Yankee nicknames were actually pasted onto jerseys that held no pinstripes. Settle down, kids. I know this sounds disturbing, but try not to pee yourselves. This really happened. Let me tell you of the mysterious disappearance of Garrett "D.B." Cooper. 

Who was he? Nobody really knows. He appeared as a tall, baby-faced stranger, probably the result of plastic surgery. They say he came from Colorado Springs. In fact, records suggest he was leading the Pacific Coast League in hitting - .366 with 17 home runs - that is, if you believed the fake sports news. It was late July that year when he suddenly turned up in New York City, reputed to be from a trade for someone named Tyler Webb - one of several interchangeable "Tylers" known to populate the Yankee roster.

He quickly blended in, going 0 for 7. In his third game, Cooper doubled off of Boston's David Price, causing him to be immediately replaced by pinch hitter Brett Gardner. The next night, against Minnesota, Cooper went three for four with two doubles. During his brief July incarnation, D.B. had six hits in 26 at bats, including three doubles and a triple. He helped the Yankees "win" the trade deadline, becoming universally acclaimed for their front office savvy, and being named the "Golden State Warriors of baseball." This happened by acquiring the Toms River miracle Todd Frazier - which caused Cooper to be sent to central Pennsylvania to toil in the newly resurrected coal mining industry.

Little Johnny, throw that plastic resin chair onto the fire. No, don't worry about the fumes. Just breathe in the other direction.

Where was I? Oh yes, eight days later, the phone rang in a certain Wilkes Barre coal yard, and D.B. learned that he was being summoned to Toronto, to play against the Blue Jays. Over the next four days, the story goes that he went 8 for 14, with two doubles and four RBIs, raising his average to .359! 

And then - poof - radio silence. Never to be seen or heard from again

It is said that D.B. went out alone in the wild streets of New York City, searching for a bagel and cream cheese. Did he fall into the river? Did he disappear into one of the underground tunnels, where lost souls are said to still be waiting for their trains? Was he spirited away by the violent hipster mobs who roamed the streets, protesting racism while searching for the perfect IPA? Nobody knows. He simply was gone. Gone. 

To this day, theories abound on the fate of D.B. Cooper. Some blame the disappearance on his inability to hit solo home runs during blowouts - a team requirement. Others say he vanished after realizing he could never replace sluggers like Frazier (who went on a white-hot 3 for 20 tear during that same August period, lifting his average to .210!) and the suddenly reborn Chase Headley (who went 5 for 22 - that's .224, not to mention one RBI!) He simply vanished into the wooden bench.

And there you have it, kids - a Yankee mystery for the ages: 
What happened to D.B. Cooper? I guess we'll never know. So, Johnny, it's turning a bit colder. Toss that Wild Card flag onto the fire. Yes, I know it's made of vinyl. Just breathe in the other direction. Say, anyone want to hear the story of Jorge Mateo?


JJ in MA said...

On one of those fluff episodes of The Joe Girardi Show on YES -- which seem to be less and less about Joe Girardi, including interviews with players and so on -- I'd love to hear Meredith get Binders' philosophy about riding a hot bat.

Because aren't the last couple seasons full of stories like this one? Isn't that what happened with Refsnyder? Kid came up, made a difference in games, did more than could've been reasonably asked of him, learned new positions, and still got screwed over time and time again until he was finally -- mercifully -- sent somewhere that would actually give him a spot on he field.

The Legend of D.B. Cooper is a parable for our Yankee times. His face may never be seen again (does anyone remember what he looked like? I'm guessing generic white guy pretty much interchangeable with Sonny Gray, Headley, T. Frazier, Tyler Wade, etc.?), but his story will chill bones in the hot Augusts of many seasons to come.

Better get that fire going again, Duque.

Parson Tom said...

I wish those violent hipster mobs would rain some righteous IPA down on the head of whoever it is that decides that grim, old veterans are automatically better than young players. Every other sport - nay, all sports - has recognized the value of youth. Old guys are allowed to stick around IF THEY PRODUCE. Otherwise, championship teams usually have young legs. But not the Yankees. Rookies don't play unless they hit 20 homers in the first week. (Sometimes rookies get a peek at Yankee Stadium. Then they are traded away so they can have their best years elsewhere. Then we bring them back for their decline because they are old and wily.)

Alphonso said...

All Girardi.

If you are a new shirt, he won't wear it until you are an old shirt.

If he got you at a bargain price, he'll wait until you become a fad and the price goes through the roof.

It is a losing way to live.

We are doomed by so-called leadership.

Alphonso said...

P.S. Did you see the converted first baseman, Headley, do his fish flop trying ( and failing ) to catch that ground ball?

HoraceClarke66 said...

Brilliant, Duque, just brilliant!

Cashman and Girardi are just part of a national trend. Americans of all stripes are now convinced they know the real, secret knowledge about...well, anything.

They KNOW the World Trade Towers were "an inside job," or that there's a secret child slavery ring in the basement of the pizza parlor, or the Masons are really running the world, etc. We've become a nation of urban mythologists, of puffed-up, barroom know-it-alls: 'Who ya gonna believe, me or yer lyin' eyes?'

It's the same thing, really. 'So what if he hit .366 in Triple-A, or even .359 up here? Who ya gonna believe? Us Yankee experts, or yer lyin' stats?'

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