Throughout the New York-Detroit ALDS, both Yankees and Tigers fans had to be wondering, “Where is A-Rod?” I know that up until his final strikeout, I was sure he’d show up at some point. But he never did. Luckily, no missing persons report had to be filed because a photographer in Miami finally found him:
Do you think he lives at that parking meter or is he just hiding out?
Tigers are in! One of you has to be pretty happy about that.
As we dressed for my brother’s wedding on Friday, he couldn’t stop sweating. Part of it was the uncommonly hot October in Michigan. And obviously a big part of it was the fact that he was getting married in just a couple hours. However, as we relived the previous night’s Tigers’ game while getting ready (you know, the one where the Tigers beat the Yankees in a Game 5 for the ages), he mentioned how he had been sweating just as much during the final third of the game and that his heart had been pounding just as hard. This, from a man getting married in three hours.
I couldn’t blame him, though. I spent the better part of the seventh and eighth innings looking away on every pitch out of fear that I might jinx things. And when Benoit walked in a run with the bases loaded, I was sure my worst dreams were about to come true. Sure, he got out of it but things didn’t get any better when Valverde faced A-Rod with two outs in the ninth. It seemed like one of those legendary Yankee moments where a maligned slugger breaks out of his slump and sends a fastball into the upper deck.
But not this time. Instead, Valverde danced because mighty A-Rod had struck out. And I finally breathed. I took a second, composed myself and walked down the hall in the hotel to knock on the door of my parents’ room. My dad fumbled with the chain but when he finally opened the door, we both had these stupid grins on our faces.
The Tigers may have dropped the first game at Texas last night and Verlander may not have been his usual stellar self but that stupid grin hasn’t gone away. I want the Tigers to beat the Rangers. I want them to go on and win the World Series. But knocking the Yankees out of the playoffs? That’s going to feel pretty good for awhile. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m pretty happy about that.
Yeah, I got a big mouth.
Sometimes it gets me in trouble. Sometimes it gets me… opportunity.
So that’s why when I told Confessions of a She-Fan author, Jane Heller, that I would throw all my postseason fandom towards the Evil Empire as long as she celebrated series clinchers with pics of she boozin’, I didn’t even think to… well, think. At least, not too much anyway.
But what’s done is done. And now I’m in. With the Reds eliminated, I don’t have anything to lose this postseason… so gimme an interlocking “NY” and watch me chamelonize into a slithering, spoiled, seedy Yankees fan…
Jeff as a Yankees Fan, DAY 1:
I put aside my normal breakfast of greek yogurt and blueberries for an authentic New York Jewish bagel. It’s so authentic, it insults me and tells me to go back to Hobboken.
I tune into Sportscenter and am pleasantly surprised to see my newfound team featured in every, single, friggin’ segment. Yeah, son! Yeah!
Riding the bus, I see some chumwad in a Red Sox cap. I am brought to my knees with an overwhelming sense of disgust, nausea and uncontained anger. I march right up to him and say, “Hey, buddy, how’s the number 27 sound to ya? Huh? Yeah! Eat it, son! Eat it!” Then the bus stops and I get off as fast as I can.
The office manager was able to send out five faxes, five emails and five phone calls to our customers — all within one work day! So I showed him I cared by giving him a shaving cream pie in the face.
I turn on Sportscenter and am pleasantly surprised to see my pinstripers featured in every, single, friggin’ segment!
Some jape wearin’ a Twins cap walks by my house so I yell out “Go Yankees!” and he flips me off so I moon him then he throws a rock at my window and then I shoot him. In the face.
Ohhhhhh what a day. This Bronx Bomber stuff is really taxing; but it is good to go to sleep knowing that I rest on top of the sports universe — that all professional sports franchises in all corners of the known galaxy must look up at me, in my great big pinstriped bed. Happy and relaxed, I flip on the t.v. and let Sportscenter and its endless Yankee-love-fest woo me to slumber.
– – –
To be continued…
Things should be much, much clearer now.
Oh no. There he goes again. Indeed, dear readers, my errant and oft annoying colleague, Mr. Krause, is in desperate need of some verbal “fire” — the vitriolic, infernal, flesh-eating kind most notably invoked by the devil and his evil minions.
He did the unthinkable.
He threw down the gauntlet.
He insulted Albert Pujols’ mama.
Where does Mr. Krause find all this idle time to waste on shameless maternal attacks? As a Cardinal fan sitting on top of a 10 game lead in the NL Central, I can certainly see where I would have the time from now until October. But Mr. Krause would make better use of his by pondering the pain he will feel once his streaky Tigers get eliminated early on in the ALDS.
Meanwhile, I’m feelin’ pretty damn good… so good that I’d like to just go on a rampage and say:
- Miguel Cabrera’s mama is so ugly, she makes Willie McGee look like a GQ model!
- Carlos Zambrano’s mama is so lazy, she makes Big Z look like a hard worker!
- Ryan Braun’s mama’s teeth glow so yellow, she can almost lead the Brewers out of the darkness of the NL Central! (nah, nothing glows that yellow)
- Manny Ramirez’s mama is so dirty, her batting helmet has a biohazard label on it!
- And, of course, Mr. Krause, yo’ mama is so dumb, she’d probably fall for this lame Glenn Beck advance:
Hate me ‘cuz I come back fivefold, just don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.