Psalm No. 23.
Don Mattingly's psalm.
Remember opening day? April Fools Day, Yankee Stadium. Brooding crowd. Nuni at short, whiffed three times. Our DH was Ben Francisco. CC surrendered four in the second. Joba hammered in the ninth. They beat us 8-2. It wasn't "Youk" they were yelling...
I think it was Tino Martinez who once said - paraphrasing - "In New York, somebody writes your obit every week." Damn straight. I've always believed - in my traumatic Yankeecentric stress disorder - that one week with the Evil Empire equals a lifetime in Kansas City. I think that's why some players, like Alphonso Soriano this month, burn red hot upon returning - while others freeze. Maybe this happens everywhere. As a fan, I choose to believe the nothing must compare to playing for the New York Yankees.
Make no mistake, this has been the season of hellish lifetimes. Whenever we saw a beam of hope, new shadows overwhelmed us. We never saw Jeter. We never saw Tex. We never saw Pineda, or any of our so-called prospects. We steeled ourselves - I'm still clenched - to lose Grandyman for the third time. When David Phelps started to emerge - poof, he was gone. A ghost named Vidal Nino blew in on the wind, then disappeared. If you ask me how this team managed to contend for a playoff spot - even the fake, Seligian one-game shot - I shake my head. Damned if I know. But here we are.
We need two out of three against the best and hottest team in the American League, if not all of baseball. At Fenway. If that isn't the Valley of Death, baseball-wise, what is?
Well, I've written the Yankees' 2013 obit on this blog so many times I should have a user key programmed for it. But here we are.
Brendon Ryan, I hope you know what it's like to live an entire lifetime in one week. And I hope dark shadows do not frighten you. Here we go...
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