For those of you curious about what soul searching means to me, read on.
As I begin this post, I can't help but hum a track to myself; it is Spyro Gyra's "Here Again," and deja vu is indeed how it felt when my Yankees once again lost a division series to the hometown Angels on Monday. I suppose it's how Oakland and Minnesota must have felt when New York defeated them in consecutive division series several years ago. After the final play, I was so emotionally drained that I literally almost lost my balance trying to stand up. Since Monday, I've experienced all sorts of emotions: acceptance, frustration, speculation about what might have been, and concern about the future of the franchise. There has never been much secret about it: I've thrown myself into surprisingly watchable Rangers hockey, I follow New York hoops and football squads, but the Yankees are my favorite sons, and that's why a week like this hurts so badly.
I still think I'm doing better than I fared in 2002. After the Angels won game 4 to seal the series at home, I surprised even myself with my intense bitterness, even boycotting the rest of the playoffs in my agony. Perhaps my vivid recollections of playoffs past were the impetus for me to take a late-night trip to Borders, where I soothed myself with a jazz piano album and a vanilla blended drink. Instead of replaying a disputed call over in my mind or giving myself a chance to deny the series ever happened, I at least tried to set myself apart from it. In any case, I've mustered enough strength to watch bits of the championship series despite the notable absence of players with "New York" stitched on their jerseys. It helped that Late Night With Conan O'Brien, one my favorite TV programs, had an actor dressed like a Yankee pretend to beat up another clothed as an Angel, much to the delight of the crowd in the Rockefeller Center studio.
Are fans more attached to the game than players? I know stars like Alex Rodriguez feel terrible when they don't perform in the postseason, but I'm amazed when I hear some fierce competitors sound a bit detached after a game has been played. For example, the other day I read that Angel starter Jarrod Washburn said of White Sox hurler Mark Buehrle: "I love watching him pitch." It's obvious that Washburn poured his heart into the contest, but there's no way I could imagine myself uttering such diplomatic comments if I were in his position.
It's no fun being eliminated, but at least I no longer have to deal with the dull pain of internalizing that a particular game is yet to be decided. When you're losing, the commercial breaks are interminable, and when you're ahead every minute of action feels like eleven. Like Steve Phillips wrote about the emotions of general managers, a defeat is like being punched in the gut. Still, once your season is over, you don't come back the next day as you've grown accustomed to over the course of the year. For a seamhead like me, that kind of finality is unwelcome: who wants to wait six more months just to begin the marathon once more? Now I can watch moments like the dropped third strike controversy that propelled the White Sox to victory in ALCS Game 2 as an observer rather than a supporter.
Before the week, my mom had an interesting take on the postseason when she noted that the Yankees have had a suffered a lot of disappointment lately, and she hoped they would deliver this year. This is exactly how I feel, but it's also why so many hate the franchise. "Since when does being in the final eight every season qualify as a letdown?" they think. (Incidentally, this is how the bitter Rangers fan in me has regarded teams like the Avalanche in recent years.) This reminds me of something Bill Simmons, a prominent Red Sox fan, wrote in a column. He had said that his team would have a five-year honeymoon period after last season, but once you're immersed in a new year, naturally you want to win it as well. I regard Yankee baseball since 2000 as a series of near-misses: a blown Mariano Rivera save in Game 7 of the 2001 World Series just kicked off the chances that quality teams had to secure a title. I suppose once your team wins four championships from 1996-2000, you don't wish the run to end.
There's always a sense of helplessness involved in spectator sports, particularly those as magnified as the major league postseason. Because I follow the season from day one, am intent on reading the newest Rob Neyer column, and regard the division and wild card races as life-and-death situations, I suppose it's only natural I should feel the way I do. I think the only person I was really honest with was my mother; as I told her: "I would tell you I'm over it, but that's at least two weeks away." Worse yet, it's never forgotten: I'll guarantee you that in two decades I'll remember 2005, albeit probably not as vividly as I could recount it for you today.
baseball
As I begin this post, I can't help but hum a track to myself; it is Spyro Gyra's "Here Again," and deja vu is indeed how it felt when my Yankees once again lost a division series to the hometown Angels on Monday. I suppose it's how Oakland and Minnesota must have felt when New York defeated them in consecutive division series several years ago. After the final play, I was so emotionally drained that I literally almost lost my balance trying to stand up. Since Monday, I've experienced all sorts of emotions: acceptance, frustration, speculation about what might have been, and concern about the future of the franchise. There has never been much secret about it: I've thrown myself into surprisingly watchable Rangers hockey, I follow New York hoops and football squads, but the Yankees are my favorite sons, and that's why a week like this hurts so badly.
I still think I'm doing better than I fared in 2002. After the Angels won game 4 to seal the series at home, I surprised even myself with my intense bitterness, even boycotting the rest of the playoffs in my agony. Perhaps my vivid recollections of playoffs past were the impetus for me to take a late-night trip to Borders, where I soothed myself with a jazz piano album and a vanilla blended drink. Instead of replaying a disputed call over in my mind or giving myself a chance to deny the series ever happened, I at least tried to set myself apart from it. In any case, I've mustered enough strength to watch bits of the championship series despite the notable absence of players with "New York" stitched on their jerseys. It helped that Late Night With Conan O'Brien, one my favorite TV programs, had an actor dressed like a Yankee pretend to beat up another clothed as an Angel, much to the delight of the crowd in the Rockefeller Center studio.
Are fans more attached to the game than players? I know stars like Alex Rodriguez feel terrible when they don't perform in the postseason, but I'm amazed when I hear some fierce competitors sound a bit detached after a game has been played. For example, the other day I read that Angel starter Jarrod Washburn said of White Sox hurler Mark Buehrle: "I love watching him pitch." It's obvious that Washburn poured his heart into the contest, but there's no way I could imagine myself uttering such diplomatic comments if I were in his position.
It's no fun being eliminated, but at least I no longer have to deal with the dull pain of internalizing that a particular game is yet to be decided. When you're losing, the commercial breaks are interminable, and when you're ahead every minute of action feels like eleven. Like Steve Phillips wrote about the emotions of general managers, a defeat is like being punched in the gut. Still, once your season is over, you don't come back the next day as you've grown accustomed to over the course of the year. For a seamhead like me, that kind of finality is unwelcome: who wants to wait six more months just to begin the marathon once more? Now I can watch moments like the dropped third strike controversy that propelled the White Sox to victory in ALCS Game 2 as an observer rather than a supporter.
Before the week, my mom had an interesting take on the postseason when she noted that the Yankees have had a suffered a lot of disappointment lately, and she hoped they would deliver this year. This is exactly how I feel, but it's also why so many hate the franchise. "Since when does being in the final eight every season qualify as a letdown?" they think. (Incidentally, this is how the bitter Rangers fan in me has regarded teams like the Avalanche in recent years.) This reminds me of something Bill Simmons, a prominent Red Sox fan, wrote in a column. He had said that his team would have a five-year honeymoon period after last season, but once you're immersed in a new year, naturally you want to win it as well. I regard Yankee baseball since 2000 as a series of near-misses: a blown Mariano Rivera save in Game 7 of the 2001 World Series just kicked off the chances that quality teams had to secure a title. I suppose once your team wins four championships from 1996-2000, you don't wish the run to end.
There's always a sense of helplessness involved in spectator sports, particularly those as magnified as the major league postseason. Because I follow the season from day one, am intent on reading the newest Rob Neyer column, and regard the division and wild card races as life-and-death situations, I suppose it's only natural I should feel the way I do. I think the only person I was really honest with was my mother; as I told her: "I would tell you I'm over it, but that's at least two weeks away." Worse yet, it's never forgotten: I'll guarantee you that in two decades I'll remember 2005, albeit probably not as vividly as I could recount it for you today.
baseball
posted by Alex at 11:36 AM
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