(A response to this)

You exit my apartment.

Walk south to the end of this block and the next, hang a right, walk two more short blocks and find yourself in the heart of the Bronx’s own Little Italy.

You could get yourself a thick crust slice at Full Moon, to stay or to go, or you can sit down for a full meal at Zero Otto Nove.

You can sample fresh seafood at the outdoor clam bar next to Umberto’s or buy a fresh baked loaf of olive bread at Madonia brothers.

This is New York.

You hop the D train up by Fordham Road.

While you’re riding it past 161st and River, a Mariachi band–complete with accordion–boards and somehow, even though you really hate accordions and you want to resist, you still find yourself drumming along to the music.

You get out at Columbus Circle.

You contemplate going to the Park. Sure, it’s splendid in the sun, and brilliant in the winter snow, but it’s this proposal in the rain that’ll get you every time.

You contemplate turning west, towards Lincoln Center, but it’s not quite Nutcracker season just yet. You contemplate walking just a little bit further, to where you could get cheap Chinese food at Ollie’s, and you smile. Ollie’s Noodle Bar, this is where you came this summer, after every afternoon win, a tradition between you and one of your best friends. He always gets the fried rice, you the steamed fish. The food comes so fast that you have time to eat and digest your meal and not miss a single firework on the Fourth of July.

Your stomach, however, is full from that slice at Full Moon, so instead you turn east along Central Park South, and you walk until you reach the Plaza hotel.

Across from the hotel where you once stayed as a kid the same night the Toronto Raptors were in town–you were in the elevator with Tracy McGrady, only you didn’t realize it at the time, not till you read the name on the gym bag later–there’s the Apple Store, which exists all underground, where you got your brand-spanking new computer four months ago, and there’s FAO Schwartz, where you duck in just because they’ve got candy and you’ve got one hell of a sweet tooth.

This is New York.

You continue to walk along Fifth Avenue. You pass St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where you step inside and light a taper for a Catholic friend who is in a really bad spot, and you pass by stores ranging from the ultra upscale Bergdorf Goodman to the NBA Store where you remind yourself that your brother’s birthday is in two months and you haven’t gotten him a gift yet.

You were here, you remember, on St. Patrick’s Day, when all the world seemed to be one giant college party and you found yourself longing for your undergraduate days. You can still hear the sound of the bagpipes, a reminder of the city’s Irish heritage even as you contemplate getting sushi in SoHo for dinner.

You walk past 42nd street–Times Square is to the west, and you remember spending your New Year’s there, just that once, just to be able to say that, yes, you were there, that you braved the nearly 0 F temperatures and did so without gloves and somehow did not get frostbitten.

You continue, you walk past the back side of the Empire State building, so tall that you can crane your neck and still not see all of it, and you reach 34th street–Penn Station, from where you’ve taken trains to your parents in Jersey, to your family in Long Island, to Shea in its last year and Citifield in it’s first, and the Amtrak to Boston last Christmas.

This is the same place as Madison Square Garden–and though the Jersey fan in you can’t stand the Rangers and remains indifferent to the Knicks, the annual Big East tournament is a source of pride. You’re not sure which you enjoyed more: winning it all in 2006, the wins against Cincinnati, hated UConn and Georgetown all coming on last second shots or that game in 2009, six overtimes against that same UConn, that game that wouldn’t end, that seemed destined to continue for all eternity, and you smile.

Foley’s isn’t too far from here, either–this is where you met with other bloggers, most of whom you read religiously or follow on Twitter–and this is where you had lunch with the folks who are still trying to save Gate 2 from the old Yankee Stadium, and where Nick Swisher has made an appearance a few times this season, too.

This is New York.

You walk down some more, and at 23rd street you think about walking west a few blocks–here is where your other brother lives, with his wife and your sixth month old nephew. He’s getting so big now, your nephew, that he can no longer fit into the Yankee baby clothes you bought for him the day he was born, if only because you were at the Stadium that day, and the opportunity presented itself.

Your brother and sister-in-law are still at work, however, so you instead continue, following Fifth Ave, until it ends abruptly at Washington Square Park and the NYU campus. You remember the last time you walked through Washington Square Park with your boyfriend, where he bumped into an acquaintance of his, nothing more at work here than two people in the right place at the right time.

From here, you know you could walk through Greenwich Village, and past that venue where you and a friend once saw the Daily Show’s John Oliver in a stand up performance. You could continue down to Soho, walking past Houston and along Sullivan till you wind up at Purl, your favorite yarn store, where you think that they have to be sick of you by now.

You could continue much further south and you’ll find yourself in the Financial District, and near the 9/11 memorial site, where you wish they’d hurry up already and build something there, where every year those lights still go up, and you still remember.

Instead, though, you get back on the D train and take it all the way to the end, all the way to Coney Island in Brooklyn. You get off the subway, walk past the site of the famous Nathan’s Hot Dog contest (it’s always the skinny guy, the Chestnut or the Kobyashi) and towards the pier. You stop short of the pier, however, as you pass by where the Cyclones play, and the field next to it, where you remember that on one August night, here is where you hurt your shoulder because you thought that there could not possibly be any harm in throwing too many pitches to your friend, the only ones to reach his mitt being knuckle-ball types. You remember how after you decided you absolutely had to test out the fast pitch, and registered at 30 miles an hour.

As bad as the thirty was, you laugh, it was still better than the 22 mph you threw when you went to Trenton, although that had consequences of its own.

From the pier you can see the amusement park, and just for a moment you wish you were a little bit less wimpy, hated roller coasters just a little bit less…

Against the sunset, you decide it’s time to head back, so you get on the subway again (and damn, you think, that unlimited card comes in handy), and you ride all the way up.

You pass by 145th street, where you’d get off and switch to the A to visit that same friend on 173rd, the one that urged you to throw those knuckleballs, who lives in the way-too-much maligned neighborhood of Washington Heights, that same place where Manny grew up. You can literally see the George Washington Bridge from his apartment, and it glitters in the moonlight. You keep thinking about all the baseball games you went to this year–the game the day your nephew was born, that loss against the Nationals back in June, the walk-off on July fourth, the game that didn’t start till 9.30 on July 23rd because of rain, that same game that saw the kids from Camp Sundown, that game the day after Derek Jeter broke that record, the very first game of the postseason, and now one more–the second game of the World Series. Not to mention the Staten Island, Brooklyn, Trenton and Scranton games you went to, improvising transportation and going just because you love baseball, and no other reason.

You think about the nights you spent in that apartment–once without even working electricity–because it was too late to go all the way back. You think about how when there was no roommate you could sleep on the spare bed, but now that there is one you sleep on the futon that’s never really been pulled out, and how badly your back hurts in the morning, and how much you just don’t care.

As you pass by the Stadium, you think about this.

You think about how you were there that first exhibition game against the Cubs, the night before you had to be at a conference at 8.30 AM but you still wouldn’t have missed it for the world, about the ALCS game three viewing, where you sat in the expensive seats for free and about how you were totally fooled by the Johnny Damon lookalike sitting two rows behind you.

You realize you’ve been to so many games this year that you’ve lost count. Sure, you were lucky enough to sit in the expensive seats a few times, but your favorite memories are when you got the tickets the day before, sitting in the 400s or the bleachers, and that sense of pride…you are a Yankee fan. That itself is enough.

It takes a while, but the subway reaches Fordham Road again.

You exit along E 188th, and walk downhill, past the markets, the Indian or Pakistani woman on the street selling children’s books, the community health center, the pediatrician and the weight loss clinic. You walk past the stairway to nowhere (well, that’s what you call it, anyway), the Chinese take out, Dominican barber shop, brand new bar and the fried chicken joint on Webster. Along the way a tall, strong, imposing man stops you–asks you, because of your hat, if you’re a Yankee fan. He asks how the Yankees will do, and without even thinking about it, you tell him,

“They’re going all the way.”

You bump fists.

You continue, past the playground and the basketball courts–oh, how you wish a recruiter would stop by, discover the next LeBron–and play with fate herself as you cross 3rd Ave.

You walk those last few blocks, past Arthur Ave again, and end up right back where you started.

You are exhausted, but you don’t care. The City teems with life and you love every bit of it.

The kicker, though, is that you know, you know more than anyone because you’ve lived here, that you still ain’t seen nothing yet.

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…but since baseball tonight has been postponed, here’s something to mull over:

MLB knew for days that a) the Philadelphia Phillies would not need to play a game six, and b) that the forecast called for massive rain in New York on Saturday evening.

Even so, they did nothing to change the start time of the game.

An announcement could have been made at any point Thursday or Yesterday about starting or attempting to start the game at, say, 4.30, or even 4.00, and they did not.

Then again, with a guaranteed game now being televised on a Sunday–and not a Saturday night…

At any rate, here is hoping you find a nice way to occupy your now-free Saturday evening.

Me? I baked a loaf of bread. Yeah. I’m a sword-wielding, baseball-blogging, Bronx-living, domestic. Awesome.

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So I was talking to one of you wonderful blog readers this evening, when one of you repeated a favorite Sterling-ism: “Well, Suzyn, you just can’t predict baseball!”

Although Mike Blowers might disagree, on this front, Sterling is kind of right.

I got to thinking about all the games I’ve seen in person this season, and then thought about how improbably some of the results have been:

• I saw Chien Ming Wang, the 2009 Chien Ming Wang, outpitch Roy Halladay on July 4th. Halladay didn’t get the loss, even though the Yankees won the game, but until Wang’s shoulder blew up on him, he was easily the better pitcher that day.

• I saw three walk off wins, two of which included walk offs against Joe Nathan–Nathan, who is considered one of the best closers in the league–and those two walk offs involved coming from behind in the ninth inning.

• I saw Brett Gardner hit a home run. Okay, so it was an inside-the-park home run–which, depending on your view might make it more or less unexpected.

• I saw Alex Rodriguez hit a bottom of the ninth game tying home run in the postseason (!) (tongue in cheek here, folks)

• I also saw AJ Burnett get shelled twice and,

• I saw the Yankees lose to the Nationals, the Orioles and the Royals–the three worst teams in all of baseball, pretty much, unless one counts Pittsburgh, but I don’t even know if the Pirates qualify any more.

These were just the games I saw in person, and out of a 162 game schedule, 10 games (and 2 postseason games) is not a whole lot, and yet, I still got to bear witness to some pretty incredible things.

This isn’t any sort of predictor as to what’s going to happen in the ALCS, but rather, just an observation.

This is baseball, after all, where crazy things happen in a way they don’t–and they can’t–in almost any other sport.

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I’m sitting here, watching the home run derby, and it’s boring me.

Over at River Ave Blues, one commenter reflected on the first home run he’d ever hit, and everyone filled in with their first home runs and when they started playing baseball and the like.

Me?

I played organized softball when I was seven–at that age when the coach pitches and you can’t strike out. I was more interested in playing with the dirt in the field than catching the ball.

What can I say, I have an overactive imagination…

I never played organized softball after that, but I did go to camp every summer, from when I was nine to when I was fifteen, and softball was a regularly scheduled activity.

The games tended to just be four innings long. I’d bat towards the bottom of the line up, and would be stuck somewhere out in left field–you know, where you stick the worst fielder in the team.

Most of the time I came up to bat and I would be an easy out. I didn’t always strike out–much of the time I’d sort of have a swinging but down the third base line. Sometimes I broke fast enough to be safe at first; most of the time I did not.

One time, however–and there’s always one time–it was different.

I don’t remember much. I don’t remember who was pitching or who was on base or how old I was or what the score was or how many pitches I took or swung at or anything like that.

All I remember:

I hit the ball, and it sounded different.

Real, solid contact.

I thought maybe it was a single, so I ran to first. No one had come up with the baseball–they were still running after it. So I ran to second. Still, no one had it. They were running a long way. So I ran to third. From there, I saw someone waving me home, so, without looking to see where the fielders were or the ball was, I ran home.

To this day, I can’t remember where the ball landed.

I can’t remember anything about what happened afterwards–only that people looked at me a little differently. How on earth could someone batting maybe .050 hit a HR?

The baseball gods, my friends, work in mysterious ways.

So what about you? Did you ever hit a hR? Do you remember it?

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It’s my friend Helen’s last day in New York, so we decide to spend it lying out in Central Park.

We’ve already walked through the park once before, but lying in the park for a few hours in the sun is an experience in its own right, so we decide we need to do it. We bring books and sunscreen, which are really the only things you need.

At first we start by sitting on one of the benches that line the many paths, but it doesn’t take us long before we realize that this isn’t quite right. The benches are for those taking a break from walking…not really for those that want to lie all the way out.

So we get up, walk around a little bit and find a perfectly sunny splotch of grass behind one of the softball fields.

All of the softball fields are in use by a slow-pitch softball league, and I can’t help but periodically look up from my book on the French Revolution to watch. I can hear the coach barking at the players by the bleachers; there’s no denying that they are all very into the game.

Still, for me, the real beauty of the day comes when one of the softball player’s children, along with some of his friends, end up not too far from Helen and myself, playing a makeshift baseball game.

They have a baseball bat and a baseball and one glove, but the five eleven year old kids have to improvise everything else–bases, positions, rules–and they do it all with enthusiasm.

A few times, one of their pitches gets past the catcher and the ball rolls out next to me. At first I just toss it back without fanfare, and then I decide to have some fun with it.

“Who’s your favorite baseball player?” I ask.

“Uh…” one starts, “…Derek Jeter.”

“Good choice,” I say, tossing the ball back.

They all choose Jeter in the end–although the tall one, the one with the most boundless energy of them all, says “Jeter or A-Rod.”

It’s sometimes hard to imagine how one game can bring so much joy to so many people–from adults to young children–and yet, there it is, one of the most seminal things about American culture.

You can see it on the street in the summer, simply by counting the number of people wearing a baseball cap–sure, not everyone wearing a baseball cap is a baseball fan, but the fact that the hat is so popular in America tells you something.

The US is such a nation of contrasts (just ask anyone in NY what they think of Texas, ask Texans what they think of Californians, and ask Californians what they think of Ohio), that there are, in the end few things that bind us together culturally. Sports is one of them, and perhaps no sport more than baseball.

The kids I saw might not know much about OPS, WHIP or ERA+, but they know it’s three strikes-you’re-out, and they know you’ve got to get to first, second and third before you can come home.

The dedication with which some of us watch the game is the enthusiasm with which kids still play it, even when the Xbox, Playstation and computer are that much closer in reach.

Baseball for everyone.

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Earlier this afternoon, Helen and I are on the D train from Columbus Circle, going north to Fordham.

Helen has just arrived from Newcastle, England; she’s not, as you imagine, a baseball fan by nature, though she is trying.

We’re standing, holding onto one of the poles, it’s about 4.30 pm and I can’t remember now what we were talking about then, but at 125th street, a guy and a girl get on. The guy is wearing a Yankees’ cap while the girl is wearing a Phillies’ cap.

As one might imagine, the girl starts uttering,

“We’ll be lucky if we get there by the seventh inning.”

I can’t help myself.

“All the good stuff happens in the later innings, anyway.”

Self-fullfiling prophecy, it would seem.

I have no idea as to how Andy Pettitte pitched or as to how most of the Yankees hit; when I turned the game on, it was 4-1 Phillies.

Here is what I did see:

Phil Coke is something, that 8th inning guy if/when Bruney can’t go.

Derek Jeter had a nice home run, but Alex Rodriguez hit one out in the ninth, and that one mattered, no question.

Bottom of the ninth inning, off of Brad Lidge, to tie the game…and, of course, once that happened, there really wasn’t much of a question:

AJ had to go get the pie ready.

The question became not if the Yankees would win the game, but who, and it would somehow seem fitting that Melky Cabrera, who started the last winning streak, should start this one.

***

CC Sabathia and Cole Hamels tomorrow; should be quite a match up

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Dan and I have just walked the length of Fifth Avenue, from Central Park South to 34th Street/Herald Square.

We want to get down to Greenwich Village, but our feet are a little tired, so we hop the subway to West 4th Street.

We wander around a little, trying to figure out where things are in a neighborhood I am hardly ever in. Eventually, I cave and buy a map.

We’re walking down West 4th Street towards Sullivan Street, and on the corner of MacDougal there’s a bar showing both the Yankees and the Mets games. I look quickly at the screen; the Yanks are batting in the bottom of the 10th and the game is still tied. I pause to watch the batter.

“You wanna go in and get a drink?” Dan suggests. I know it must be torture for him, to watch this much Yankees baseball when he’s a die-hard Red Sox fan.

“Sure.”

So we take seats at the bar; he gets a Sam Adams and I get a glass of water because I can’t drink beer.

We watch the Yanks do nothing in the 10th, play some stellar defense in the top of the eleventh…

…and then, in the bottom of the eleventh, we watch as Mark Teixeira works a lead off walk.

“Lead off walks come around to score sixty percent of the time,” I muse.

Next batter, Alex Rodriguez. It’d be cool if he got a hit here, I think.

He does. He sends it right over the left field wall.

****

Two walk off wins in a row.

If that doesn’t get a team going, nothing will.

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Scene: 12.30 PM, Fordham area, Bronx, NY.

Dan and I make our way up to the fourth floor of my building, where my apartment is. Dan doesn’t have a lot–you don’t need a lot when only staying for a weekend–but he puts it down on my coffee table, which I worked so hard to clean last night.

The plan was to go to Central Park, toss a frisbee and find a bar to watch the Yankees.

You could not have asked for nicer weather.

I’m sitting on the couch, checking my email while Dan’s putting his contacts in, when I get an idea.

“Hey, want to see if we can find cheap tickets to today’s game?”

“Sure, why not?” He says.

I go to Stubhub and look for tickets. I can’t do Grandstand or Terrace–Dan is not a height person–so I look around at the Main sections. I find one where the tickets start at $20. I click; I find two tickets for $26 each. I go to Yankees.com to compare face value. Face value on gameday is $80. It’s a no brainer.

I buy, they send, and we walk over to the library to print.

5.30 PM Near New Yankee Stadium, Bronx, NY.

Dan and I get off the subway. It’s quite hot out right now, the air from the city sitting heavy as it likes to do in the summer.

“Would you like to go to Stan’s or into the Stadium?” I ask. Dan’s a beer and bars fan. I can’t drink beer and I get claustrophobic in bars, but since Dan is visiting, it’s up to him. If he wants to go to the bar, we go to the bar. It’s reversed when I visit him.

“Well…” He gives it some thought. “It’s early. Let’s go to Stan’s, I’ll get a drink, then we can head over.”

So we go to Stan’s. It’s crazy crowded, and the music is really loud, but the music is good music. I can’t remember now, so many hours later, what they were playing, but I know the mood it set: life is good. Forget your troubles. Life is good.

Second Inning, Yankee Stadium.

Justin Morneau comes up to bat.

I think, but do not say, it would not be surprising if he hit a home run here. A few pitches later, I watch the ball sail over the right field fence. I do not even rise from my seat to see the ball land; there is no way it is going to come down in time for Swisher to have a chance.

At the end of the inning I am amazed it is only 1-0. The Yanks are still in this.

Third Inning, Yankee Stadium.

Dan and I have great seats, for the most part. We can see the entire field, and the players are large enough to be human, to be nuanced and flawed.

But we cannot see the pitches well.

From our angle, down the right field line, we can only tell if pitches are way high, way low or way inside–because the player jumps out of the way. We cannot see movement and location on close pitches.

When Johnny Damon strikes out, we are not sure how to react–and then Johnny Damon makes it clear for us.

He argues. There’s no question what he’s arguing about and no one is surprised when he gets tossed. We wonder if it’ll give some life to the offense; we don’t realize what, exactly, the consequences of bringing in Brett Gardner to play center will be.

Later in the Third Inning, Yankee Stadium

We kind of knew this would happen.

We kind of knew that Alex Rodriguez would be called on to do something big. Bases loaded here, one out, the Yankees down by one run, and all the Yanks need is a single to take the lead.

A-Rod’s timing is still off, however.

A few more weeks, and some of those pitches go way over the centerfield wall.

Not tonight.

The chorus of applause turns to boos. This is, after all, New York.

It’s refreshing to see some things never change.

Fourth Inning, Yankee Stadium

Minnesota’s just scored again on a sacrifice fly.

I text Joe from River Ave Blues, who’s at the game.

Me: Way too many pitches.
Joe: I’m just glad he got out of it.

How is the score only 2-0?

It baffles us.

Fifth inning, Yankee Stadium

Justin Morneau is at bat again.

I don’t think about him hitting another home run, but this is what he does.

It’s now 3-0 Twins. It’s by no means undoable for the Yankees, but eventually the runs will continue to build. If Phil Hughes can keep it here, we have a chance.

I look at the scoreboard. I can’t believe it’s already the fifth inning. I can’t believe it’s only the fifth inning.

Later Fifth Inning, Yankee Stadium

Derek Jeter is at bat.

The count goes to 0-2 (or so I think. Later I see the count was actually 2-0, but somehow I’ve missed this.)

“Please,” I say, “please, please do not strike out on three pitches.”

He doesn’t.

He plants one over the right field porch. The Stadium comes alive: We are still in this.

Sixth Inning, Yankee Stadium

“You know, Rebecca,” Dan says, “I think this is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

I want to agree; it’s hard when the Yankees are losing, but there is time yet.

Seventh Inning, Yankee Stadium

Phil Coke comes into pitch.

It’s been a few days since Coke has pitched and he’s perhaps the only other reliever in the bullpen capable of getting outs.

It’s refreshing to see him again.

So refreshing that he serves up a home run to Joe Mauer.

Not so refreshing after all. He settles down and gets two outs before Joe Girardi brings in Brett Tomko.

“Uh Oh,” I think.

Then, two pitches later, the side is retired. Maybe it’s not such a big deal after all.

Later Seventh Inning, Yankee Stadium

There are two quick outs and Brett Gardner comes up to bat. It does not seem too promising, and soon enough, Gardner is down in the count, 0-2.

“He’s going to strike out on three pitches,” I say.

“The last time you said that, there was a home run,” Dan says, not really amused.

So I watch, but I don’t expect much. Gardner doesn’t have Jeter’s power.

Gardner doesn’t hit a home run. Well, it doesn’t seem that way…just a bloop down the line…but then it gets past the third baseman and the left fielder, and Gardner never stops running.

He’s flying around the bases and by the time he gets to third the Stadium is in an uproar, because we all sense it: Gardner can make it home.

We egg him on. He keeps running. He slides, and is safe.

I have never heard the Stadium this loud. None of us have ever seen an inside-the-park-home run before. We don’t realize it’ll get louder later.

Ninth Inning, Yankee Stadium

It’s a 4-2 game and the Yankees have to hold it here to have a chance. Against Joe Nathan it will likely not be much more than that, just a chance.

“You never know,” says the man sitting in front of me. “That’s baseball.”

“You’re right,” I admit.

Dan brings up an issue that is on both of our minds: it is getting late.

“Well, if the Twins hit a two-run home run here, against Edwar, we’re leaving,” I say. They don’t hit a home run, but they do send to the bullpen for José Veras. You can hear the Stadium’s collective “Uh oh”, you can see the mass exodus.

Dan and I have a 15 block walk from the subway back to my apartment. It’s late and we, despite being city people, still find ourselves preoccupied with our safety.

“All right,” I say, “let’s go.”

We walk down the ramp and are heading towards the exit. We are in the great hall and I can see the Babe Ruth Plaza outside the gate.

Ten steps, eight, seven, six, five….

And with that, Vera strikes out the side. Do they have a rally in their bones?

I grab Dan’s arm.

“You know what? Let’s stay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s Nathan. It’ll probably be quick, anyway.”

We walk up to the edge of the field level concourse. A crowd has gathered, all like us, all nearly out the door and deciding at the last minute to stay. Hey, why not?

So I try to watch Gardner’s at bat–I can’t see the field that well, because there are too many people in front of me, but I can see the screen.

I expect Gardner to strike out, but he doesn’t. He hits the ball to the gap. He slips as he rounds first and still winds up at third. If he doesn’t slip, he quite possibly has another inside the park home run.

“Dude,” I say, “I’ve never seen one inside-the-park home run before, and we nearly had two.”

Mark Teixeira follows. We just want a ball in the outfield. Something to score Gardner.

He obliges with a single.

It’s now 4-3. The Yankees are only down one run, there’s no one out, A-Rod’s at bat. We can taste it. We are in this. We can win this.

“He’s rattled,” says the tattooed man behind me, referring to Nathan.

After A-Rod walks, it’s clear, Nathan’s definitely rattled.

We root for Matsui, who strikes out, and then root again for Swisher, who grounds out but moves Teixeira and A-Rod to second and third in the process.

This is key.

It’s key because Joe Nathan and Joe Mauer and the Twins decide to intentionally walk Robinson Canó. It’s a good idea in theory. Vaguely.

“Horrible idea,” says the tattooed man.

“I know,” I say. “Robbie’s not good with men in scoring position and Melky’s been hot. Gardner has a inside-the-park home run and a triple. You know Melky wants to do something.”

“It’s the competition. It’s working. A little center field competition,” smirks the tattoeed man.

While Robbie is being walked the Stadium starts chanting Mel-ky, Mel-ky.

Melky’s already given the Yankees one walk off this season. He’s been one of our most clutch hitters.

Right now, either he comes through and it’s the most amazing experience I’ve ever had at a Yankee game, or he doesn’t and we go home heartbroken, but right now, at this moment, none of us think Melky won’t come through.

This has walk-off win written all over it.

Nathan pitches.

Melky dunks one in there.

The Yankees win.

The Stadium is howling with WHOOO, YAY, and everything else in between, including a lot of four letter words.

Brent calls me and is excited and I can’t let him get a word in edgewise. This is way, way, too amazing.

10.30 PM, outside Yankee Stadium

Dan and I take a taxi back, instead of the subway. It’s a little on the pricey side, but it’s well worth it. The cabbie plays the Yankee postgame in the car.

“You know,” says Dan, who is from Boston and a Red Sox fan, “I almost, just for a second, got caught up there. I almost had to cheer.”

“It’s the best $25 I’ve ever spent on baseball,” I say.

I don’t add: it’s also the best two feet I never walked.

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My friend Dan is here, visiting for the weekend.

We were trying to figure out what to do tonight, so we figured we’d check Stubhub and see if there were any reasonable tickets for tonight’s Yankees game.

There was.

We bought ourselves two main level tickets–an $80 game day value per ticket–for a total, for two tickets, for $52.00.

Yes, that’s right. We bought two tickets for $30 less than the face value of one ticket and that includes Stubhub’s service fees.

The Yanks’ front office may never ‘get it’, but the fans do.

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It is almost a fact that every team in major league baseball will lose four games in a row at some point in the season.

Even so, some four game losing streaks hurt more than others.

For the second time this season, the Yankees had gotten to three games above .500, only to see it precariously disappear with some help from the Red Sox.

It’s frustrating for everyone–the team, the fans–everyone that wants the team to do well.

This week has been one of the most frustrating experiences for fans at the new Yankee Stadium.

After taking two from the Angels–the second in dramatic, walk-off fashion–the Yankees have not won another game.

The rain has been there, every night, every step of the way, canceling some games, delaying others and otherwise cloaking the Bronx in a foul, furious air as if to say “I am holding the bright days of summer hostage.”

It’s as if G-d himself has decreed those who thought to tear down the original Yankee Stadium anathema.

My friend Brent is a senior at Fordham this year. Through one trick of fate and then another, he scored tickets to every Yankee game from Saturday through today, minus Sunday’s rain out. This is what he told me, in his words:

I have never felt as shitty, frustrated and depressed about a ball club as I do now and I know the obvious reason why: I had to sit through all four of those straight losses…but as the rain poured to end the game, it just seem… fitting
like… when Matsui popped out to end the game…I now owe two friends 100 bucks, half my clothes are wet and damp, and as I was walking back, I’ll be honest, I was pissed off. I have NEVER been as angry and upset as I was after tonight’s game. As a kid growing up, you always expect the good guys to win and to win at least once when you go there, and yes, as a 21-year-old big kid, I still expected the same… at least one win out of those 4 games, but all I got was one sweet moment… that was as fleeting as the passing rain. Walking back from the Stadium was ridiculously appropriate… the weather fit my mood too well: it was absolutely POURING when the game ended, so me and J. just ran out, and I was honestly cursing up a storm, almost pumped into two people, but I didn’t care, I was mad, and I wanted out…When I got off [the D train], I continued to get poured on, I kicked my cap across the street… and stomped in EVERY puddle I can… including one that wasn’t the best…

So now, Becca, I sit here, cooling off but not completely… soaked from my shoes, socks, and shirt and cap…smelling like dog piss (that was the puddle)and… *sighs* I don’t know. I rarely justify spending or owing THAT much money back but I did for this case, to see my favorite team the team I wanted to see just once more before I started to become an adult and to be a kid again, and I was let down, not once, twice, three times, but four times, and my last game before I graduate was a 4-3 loss in a game the Yankees didn’t even deserve to be in in the first place, so yea, I just feel let down

Perhaps we shouldn’t take this game so personally…but, if you’re reading this post, chances are that you are way past the point where you can be convinced not to take it personally.

If this is how frustrated the fans are, how frustrating must it be for the team, who has seen every break go the other way? Doubles that bounce over the wall instead of staying in play, strikes given to other teams that aren’t given to our pitchers, routine plays bobbled by athletes whose best asset is normally their glove and pitching decisions that work on paper but backfire in reality.

Mark Teixeira thought he made his, well, mark with the bases-clearing double in the 8th inning rain, but when he had a chance to bring Johnny Damon in from third to tie the game in extras, he flew out, just a little too shallow for Damon to tag. Another five, ten feet and we might still be playing baseball now.

Still, even despite this, there are bright spots on the horizon.

Alex Rodriguez will return, probably by the end of the week. Brian Bruney will return eventually. Xavier Nady’s doing what he ca to get back as fast as he can. Jorge Posada does not have a history of hamstring injuries and will be back before the all star break.

Joba Chamberlain and Phil Hughes are showing flashes of brilliance. They might not be quite there yet, but if I have to sacrifice this season for years of domination down the road, it will be worth it.

The offense, though struggling a bit of late, has not yet been shut out this year.

This team will find a way.

The good ones always do.

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