Beyond Words

I was impressed with Alex Rodriguez’ performance in the 2009 ALDS before he hit a two-run home run in the bottom of the ninth inning to tie the game.

Now I’m in taken aback. A-Rod just hit one of the most significant homers of his life. Not only were the Yankees losing by two runs in the bottom of the ninth at home, but they were facing Twins All-Star closer Joe Nathan. To hit a home run in that situation is Herculean. Or in baseball terms, moments like that turn great players into legends.  
As exciting as A-Rod’s blast was, seeing his raw emotion as he touched home plate and leaped into the air, was even more thrilling (see photo below). It put the moment into perspective.
–Alfred Santasiere III


i think we need to sit swisher he isnt being productive and its hurting us when we need a clutch hit i saw start gardner. today killed us when he had the bases loaded and poped up gardner would have gave us a better chance to win

A little Yankee-Red Sox true story from Idrian Resnick
Here for the weekend, grandsons Logan (5) and Ben (almost 15) and I were in the basement having one of our now famous Babu (my grandpa name) talks. In these, Ben, almost exclusively, asks me questions about life and dramatic (violent, if possible) events in my past and things I’ve seen and know. Of course, I love it. I try to respect that and them by not lying.
I went into the cedar closet to turn get something.
“A Red Sox flag,” said Logan, a little amazed since it is known hither and yon that I am a Yankee fan.
“It’s Grama’s,” I said. “But you notice it’s on the wall in a closet, because I won’t let her put it where anyone can see it.”
This unleashed a torrent of Red Sox nonsense from young Ben. His who family are avid Red Sox fans, as are Logan’s.
The Red Sox had beaten the Yankees in Fenway just the night before. Nothing – because there never is anything else – juices up the fire of a Red Sox fan than an actual win over the Yankees; two and they’re frothing; three, God forbid, and you can actually see tiny little World Series pennants flying over the outfield in Fenway reflected in their now red, beady little eyes.
Of course, Ben’s jumping and flailing produced what we adults know all too well as the typical, disgusting, arrogant, sneering, “hardly-worth-my-breath”, response from Yankee-fan-me. I mean, what if the Red Sox were to actually win another World Series? That would put their all time total at eight just three wins ahead of the Pittsburgh Pirates.
It went back and forth with Ben giving as good as he got. Hmmm! Impressive! I didn’t really notice Logan in all this, but in retrospect, I can see him moving around the room from Ben to me, making little grunts and squeaks here and there, trying to say something, to get in on it; after all this was clearly “big guy stuff” and it was where he wanted to be. It was a little like a kid trying to see over the outfield fence, jumping for a quick peak, clawing at the wall for a finger hold.
“Ech!” I said. “You’re dumb dirt. Red Sox fans are all dumb dirt.” Oooo! I loved that. A new slur to throw from New York to Boston! “Not ‘dumb as dirt’”, I continued. “‘Dumb dirt.’” I let it sink in.
Ben didn’t miss a beat, hardly seemed to notice the insult. Threw something equally filthy back, like, “Oh, yeah? Well Yankee fans belong in psycho wards!”
Good! Wasn’t this the point? The training of American males in how to participate in Sports Wars, and no athletic skill – current or previous is required. None of the usual social-sexual measures of American society are needed: youth, looks, strength, money, brains, access to other peoples’ power, or the beautiful girl. You don’t even have to own a great car. All you need is a mouth. Accuracy has no particular value, in the sense that the guy or guys (it’s always guys; who would ever have such a discussion with a female, except Suzyn Waldman and she’d fry your *** in 10 seconds so if you had even a pea-sized brain you’d never engage her), are not swayed one micro inch (millimeter?) by facts, especially true facts.
Somewhere distant to the fray I heard Logan’s voice and now noticed him running around the basement. By then I was working on another faucet.
“Dumb dirt? You think I’m ‘dumb dirt?’”
Oh, good, I thought. Logan’s going to take a shot.
“You a Red Sox fan?” I snapped.
“Yes.” It was between stance and retreat.
“Well, Red Sox fans are dumb dirt, like I said.” I turned back to my task. Ben had a wooden block in his hand that he seemed to be contemplating whether or not to throw at my head. It always deteriorates to this, I mused. Bleachers!
A tiny amount of time passed; filled with the sweat of combat, wound licking, arsenal searching. Like two sides taking time to make snowballs behind their forts. Decisions sifted on whether to go on or shift to talk about food.
Logan approached and touched my arm. I paused, pliers in one hand, screwdriver in the other, and looked down at him.
“Babu,” he said. There was something momentous in his face and voice. They said: “Pay attention, this is important stuff.” I did.
“I decided I’m a Red Sox fan and a Yankee fan from now on.”
“Why, Logan?” I put down my tools and faced him.
Tears in his eyes, he replied, “’Cause I don’t want you to think I’m ‘dumb dirt.’”
I took him in my arms and shed my own tears.
“Oh, no, Logan. I wasn’t talking about you. Just Red Sox fans, like, all together. I don’t think you’re ‘dumb dirt.’ You’re gold. Every bit of you.” He let me hold him, reaffirming my devotion. “You gotta stay a Red Sox fan. I love you just as much. No matter what.”
This seemed to appease him, for he smiled and wiggled out of my arms and picked up a toy monster and “gerrrrd” it at Ben.
“Besides,” I added. “Your father would murder me.”
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The “heart” in this story transcends the Yankee/Rex Sox rivalry. I love it!

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