By Elizabeth Finn
To call them Cinderella would be an insult to the game. Nowhere in the corpulent largess and Goliath stature is there room for heartwarming tales of triumph beyond all odds–sandlot boys with scuffed knees playing a big man’s game. They are the biggest, the shiniest, the most impervious. They are caviar and not ballpark dogs. Padded seats and not knothole gangs. They are revered and reviled. Worshiped and despised.
And yet, this time, like 26 times before, they were simply a team. No longer did the payroll overshadow the skill and the celebrities in the seats vie for the spotlight with the celebrities on the field. As a team–as multi-millionaires and wide-eyed rookies–they learned to win together, shouldering individual burden when no one else could and running on sheer energy when there was nothing else left. They weren’t saints–their scandal was their own. But as they stumbled, they began to run. A losing April turned to renewed hope with the flick of their most famous bat. An 0-8 start against their fiercest rivals burned away piece by piece as the summer grew long. A fall to the worst team in baseball became the point of no return. And still, they played as a team. 50 comeback victories. 15 celebrations at home plate. Home became the 26th man, as the stadium some thought would never hold anyone but the rich and the uninterested rocked with the joy of tens of thousands cheering on their egotistical, overexposed millionaires who had left behind almost a decade of going through the motions to form a real identity.
It had begun with the same old practices in a brand new place. Foolish ideas of building from within had been abandoned when self-born urgency proved too difficult to overcome. Money was saved and immediately spent as press conferences initiating the shiniest new toys were a weekly occurrence–presentations on fresh infield dirt the real christening of their golden temple. It would hardly matter, of course; so much ego on one team could only lead to trouble. And, anyway, they’d just stumble once again when it really counted, felled by a real team with heart and guts and chemistry for miles.
But this time, like 26 times before, it worked. This time, hired hands embraced the spotlight and finally allowed the home-grown darlings to come into their own. Whipped cream pies were worn instead of business suits and music became a unifying force. On they marched, their achievement rallying, though not extraordinary. And when they hoisted that trophy with victory-weary arms, they hadn’t done anything but fulfill omnipresent expectation. But there was no diminished glory, not in the way that individual effort translated to the first championship in what had become team eternity.
They were all there–an archetypal gallery of heroes, gliding down a section of the city practically named for them. There were the stalwarts–the captain, the warrior, the gamer, and the Great One–the heroes who could do no wrong. There was the troubled superstar–without whom the team may not have seen October–the tragic hero whose years of demons had been exorcised in one homecoming. There were the new additions–the free agents whose combined contracts added fuel to the salary cap fire–the conquering heroes who embraced their roles as ready-made leaders. There too were the the understated heroes: the centerfielder whose clutch spring kept the team afloat; the versatile reliever plucked out of the Mexican leagues who snagged win after win with his crafty aresenal of mid-grade stuff; the rookie catcher who had hit only .197 in AA and whose first career home run sparked the team out of their doldrums for good. There they were, one by one holding arms aloft in a pantomime of trophy-raising. The big boys. The baseball royalty. Giddy like children with what they had accomplished together.
Because this is their sandlot ball. In expectation they have earned and in adversity they have no business blaming, they play ball. When the weight of history bears down, for the team on the field, there is only the rows of red stitches against their palms. Front offices try to buy victory, stack the odds and hold all the cards. But for a team that discovers they are suddenly more powerful than the sum of their parts, there has never been a handicap on the love of the game.
{ 2 comments }
Very well put. As unfair as the money advantage is–and it is unfair–there’s something about the Yankees for many of us that transcends salaries and attitudes. My generation, the one that remembers NYC with three teams, grew up revering Mantle, Ford, and Berra and may never have lost that sense of wonder about the Yanks. No inflated salary or degree of arrogance has been able to tarnish the aura entirely. Apparently, that feeling has been passed on to others, as well. Hence, your eloquence seems appropriately placed.
Very good article! You’ve captured the essence of this team beautifully. Hopefully you’ll be writing one just like this next year.
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