I still have a cardboard cutout of Mo Vaughn in my room at home in Newton, Mass. There’s a Pedro Martinez rookie card in a prominent space on my bookshelf and a Nomar Garciappara t-shirt somewhere at the back of my closet. As a lifelong baseball fan, I know this is a special time of the year.
It’s called The Red Sox Are in the Lead and Haven’t Blown it Yet. Somewhere in this favored land, Ted Williams’ cryogenically frozen severed head is smiling on Red Sox Nation, because something else has happened too. It’s a development that feels far more like a snow day in May — which can happen in New England (and, for that matter, at Cornell) — than it does Christmas in July. Maybe it’s finally time for Joe Torre to go. Maybe Mayor Bloomberg finally remembered his Medford, Mass. roots and did something to the water supply over in the Bronx. Somehow, someway, as the Red Sox are in first place, the diabolical New York Yankees are in last. Six and a half games behind. Count ’em, baby.
Like spring itself, I’m sure the Sox’ lead will be fleeting. Every year the Olde Towne Team comes roaring out of April, only to spend July and August scrambling to dig themselves out of a hole. But I’ll take what I can get.
My breakdown of the greatest game’s greatest rivalry has more to do with my gut feeling than any half-cogent analysis of the relative skills of each squad. I can’t get past the idea that the Red Sox’ success has more to do with the mist rising off the banks of the Charles and the steam escaping from the manholes in Kenmore Square than the pitching staff’s average WHIP. I’ve never gotten into the stats-oriented school of baseball that takes Michael Lewis’s Moneyball as its bible, and I’d rather read Roger Angell on the ’62 Mets than parse numbers in a fantasy league.
Angell, who happens to be the stepson of E.B. White ’21 is the kind of writer who can keep a lyrical straight face upon using “caromed” in a sentence. Most of the time, he expresses what I love about baseball. Those who love the game know that it’s not slow per se, but drips with drama and pathos; that it’s a game that can make it seem like everything is hanging in the balance and anything could happen. As much as I respect Red Sox General Manager Theo Epstein’s delicate genius, to me baseball will always be more about the tragedy on the field than the cool-headed young wonks in the front office. I still cling to the idea that pro ball’s at its best when it comes crackling and sputtering out of a beat up radio on a summer night. ESPN just doesn’t do it for me.
This is supposed to be a political column, of course, but spring is a corrupting influence at Cornell. It’s something everyone sitting in front of the Olin picture windows watching the rest of the campus throw discs on the Arts Quad knows all too well. So over my editor’s objections (“I would prefer you didn’t write about sports,” she said.) and my own better judgment, I went ahead with the mood that struck me.
It’s not that I didn’t have anything else to work with. On Tuesday in Washington, President Bush callously vetoed the Democratic Caucus’ relatively conciliatory Iraq spending bill. More salaciously, Deborah Jeane Palfrey — madam to the D.C. power elite — is releasing the contents of her little black book to ABC News this week. In anticipation of Palfrey’s release of her delicately dubbed “escort” service’s client list, the deputy secretary of state (really!) has resigned, claiming the most he ever received from one of Palfrey’s call girls was a massage. ABC’s Brian Ross promised to identify the names of “a Bush administration economist, the head of a conservative think tank, a prominent CEO, several lobbyists and a handful of military officials,” on tomorrow’s installment of 20/20. Seriously, though, who watches that any more? You’ll read about it the next day.
I just couldn’t bring myself to write about campus events or national politics. Not with baseball functioning as a springtime distraction on par with the beautiful weather and the crowds laying out on the Arts Quad and the Slope.
As the last days of school drift to their end and the frenetic rush of finals begins, the maturation of the baseball season is an appropriate parallel to the euphoria of spring. With the Red Sox in first place and the Damn Yankees six and a half games behind — count ’em! — things couldn’t be going better. For once, there is joy in Mudville, and this time, Mighty Casey’s rounding third base.
Yet somehow, and this will be seen as blasphemy if it ever gets home, I hope the Red Sox blow their lead. Life just wouldn’t be the same without a down-to-the-wire pennant race in the fall. For a game that banks on two outs, full count, bases loaded, bottom of the ninth October nights, my home team’s six and a half game lead on our dearest rival is unacceptable. So Joe Torre, listen up; George Steinbrenner, consider this my cry for help: I want the Yankees’ mojo back. I want a robust, fear-instilling rival I can love to hate. The game’s not fun if the Evil Empire’s neither evil nor an empire. Look, Bugs Bunny needs Elmer Fudd; the Ninja Turtles need the Foot Clan; and the Democrats need the Republicans. So could you guys at least try to win some games? Please?
David Wittenberg is a Senior Editor at The Sun. He can be contacted at daw49@cornell.edu. The Scoop appears alternate Thursdays.