Why Couldn't He Be a Drug Addict Like the Other Kids?

By the time my son Ryan was ten years old, he'd already been playing baseball for a few years. He knew the game, was a decent player, and had developed an interest in what was going on in the Major Leagues.

I've been a Yankees fan since I was about five. My grandfather went out to Yankee Stadium during the Ruth-Gehrig days, my dad grew up in the era of Mantle and Maris, and I enjoyed the Munson-Jackson "Bronx Zoo" period of the 70's. In short, our family DNA was encoded with pinstripes. It wasn't until I was 14, in fact, that I found out that "we'll root, root, root for the YAN-KEES!" weren't the original "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" lyrics.

So when my son dropped the bomb on me, right in the middle of the game we were watching on ESPN, I was completely caught off guard.

"Dad, I don't think I'm gonna be a Yankees fan. I don't really like them that much. I have another favorite team."

Not a Yankees fan? Excuse me?

Once the initial shock wore off, I decided I'd be better off staying calm and trying to understand. I mean, Ryan was a Southern California kid, after all. He didn't have the same hometown loyalty that I'd had growing up in New Jersey. I'd just approach the situation lightly.

"WHY THE HELL WOULDN'T YOU LIKE THE YANKEES, YOU LITTLE . . ."

I didn't actually say that. I thought it, but I didn't say it. What I said was, "Okay, this favorite team of yours, is it the Dodgers?"

I felt like a suspicious husband questioning his philandering wife. "Is it that Italian-looking guy that you work with?"

"Nah, not the Dodgers."

"The Angels then?" We didn't live that far from Anaheim, and they'd just won the World Series the year before. Maybe he'd gotten caught up in the hoopla at school or something, hanging out with the wrong crowd.

"No, I hate the Angels. My favorite team is the Red Sox."

It knocked the wind out of me like a clenched Fisk to the solar plexus.

My son, my very own flesh and blood, the child I looked upon adoringly the day he was born and swore to raise and protect to the ends of the earth. The kid who peed in my ear the very first time I tried to change his diaper.

A friggin' Boston Red Sox fan.

The betrayal to the family alone was unforgivable. Imagine a Kennedy not wanting to go into politics or a Corleone treating a snitch with forgiveness and a smile.

At first, I blamed myself. I hadn't schooled him in Yankee history early enough. I assumed too much, thought that the bloodline alone would be enough to make a Yankees fan of the boy. Instead of Green Eggs and Ham, I should've been reading him Bucky Dent: The Little Shortstop that Could. Or maybe The Story of Reggie's Three Dingers.

I talked to my dad about it. He was disappointed, as you would imagine, and he also laid the blame squarely on my shoulders. "How could you let this happen?" he asked.

"Well, it could be worse, right? Ryan could hate baseball entirely."

"That wouldn't be worse."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me put it this way, would you rather your kid hate politics or be a member of the Nazi Party?"

As always, Dad had a point.So now I had to deal with the fact that Ryan was our family's version of Fredo.

"Ryan, you're my son and I love you. But don't EVER take sides with anyone against the Yankees again."

I was distraught. I noticed myself working through the stages of grief.

Denial: "There's no way he actually likes the Red Sox. He's just trying to get my attention."

Anger: "Take off that David Ortiz t-shirt this instant, or you're grounded for a month!"

Bargaining: "Look, Ryan, let me get you a cool Yankees jacket and we'll go see them when they're in town. I'll even throw in an authentic Mariano Rivera jersey."

Depression: "I'm a failure as a father. I've broken the family tradition by allowing my son to root for Team Anti-Christ."

Acceptance: Focus on my other child, Ryan's little sister. "Hey, Lindsay! Let me tell you a story about a cute shortstop named Bucky Dent!"

So now Linds has her very own Derek Jeter t-shirt and Yankees cap.

And someday, Ryan is going to have a son of his own. I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. This time I'm going to nurture the Yankee blood that I know is still in there, and bring true Bronx Bomber spirit back to the family name. I'm gonna babysit my little grandson every chance I get and tell him all the old stories about Mr. October, Louisiana Lightning, Goose and Sparky.

I don't know what my grandson's name will be. Ryan might give him a name like Steven or Michael, Seth or Kyle, Jason or Patrick.

But no matter what his name might be, I'm callin' the kid "Bucky".


d

Coach Fellin's Rules

We knew that Mr. Pizzuti called the low strike. I don't mean the "it's at the knees" low, either, we're talking "I think that hit the friggin' PLATE" low. So when I got rung up on a Glenn Green heater that I could've hit with a seven-iron, I really shouldn't have been surprised.  I also shouldn't have slammed my helmet down in disgust.

I was greeted at the top step of our dugout by Coach Fellin. He was not happy.

"Threw the helmet, huh?" he asked softly.

"Coach, that pitch was LOW!" I responded.

"Yep."

"That ump's a blind buffoon!"  At age ten, I hadn't yet learned the word "douchebag."

"I dunno.  A little near-sighted, maybe."

Since I was the third out, I retrieved my glove from its spot under the bench and started out of the dugout toward my post at third base.

"You won't need the glove, Chris, you're done for the night."

"But COACH!"

"Reds don't throw equipment. Have a seat."

Boy was I upset. I hated being taken out of a game - ever - but especially for something so stupid. After I calmed down, Coach Fellin joined me on the bench."You know, it hurts the team and makes us all look bad when you act like that," he said.  His voice was only a few notches above a whisper, but the look of disappointment in his eyes was far worse than hysterical, spittle-spraying rage will ever be.

"I know, Coach. I'm sorry. It won't happen again," I said, meaning every single word of it.

"Okay then."  He took his usual place on the top step of the dugout, watching the action on the field while I sat stewing at the end of the bench. 

A few minutes later, he came over and sat down next to me. 

"Pretty exciting game tonight, huh? That pitcher they got out there is tough, ain't he?" he asked.

"You're not kidding."

"Especially when the ump's giving him that low strike, right?"

He grabbed the bill of my cap and pulled it down over my eyes as we both chuckled.

And that was it.

Coach Fellin made sure that I knew two things that night. One, that I'd made a mistake and embarrassed myself and the team, and two, that even though I'd messed up, he didn't like me any less. Since we all basically worshipped the guy, his approval meant everything to us.

I played on the Reds for two seasons, 1976 and 1977, and at that point, Coach Fellin had already been at it for a decade. He couldn't have taken this job more seriously if he'd been coaching the New York Yankees. He kept a red three ring binder, dubbed "The Reds Bible", detailing the results, score sheets, and player stats for every season he coached and he made sure we knew the history. Best single season batting average? Kenny Kellerman, .685. Most home runs in a season?  Dickie Myers, 11.

If practice was scheduled for 4:00, we were expected to hit the field at 3:45. This wasn't a problem for me personally, since my dad preached the philosophy "Early is on time, on-time is late" from the time I was, well, born. By holding us to that standard, Coach Fellin squeezed every minute out of our practice sessions. And he made sure that our practices were fun as well as productive. We spent a lot of time working on specific situations, so that when they would come up in a game we wouldn't panic. "Before every pitch, you gotta know what you're gonna do with the ball if it comes to you," he'd say.  Over and over.  Sure he was our coach, but he was a teacher too.

Coach Fellin always emphasized that character and effort were more important than ability.  We were to play hard at all times and treat opponents and umpires with respect.  It sounds corny, but we came to understand that being a winner had less to do with the final score than it did with the attitude and effort we played the game with.

To better illustrate this, I'll need to tell you about Kelly Wilson, the captain of our 1976 squad. He was a 12-year old behemoth who pitched, caught, and occasionally played shortstop. On offense, he absolutely crushed the ball. He hit a couple home runs that season that didn't land till he was in high school.

That's also the year we made it to the league championship, squaring off against the Pirates. In game one of the three game series, Kelly made a decision that exemplified everything that Coach Fellin wanted his Reds players to be. Early in the game, we were ahead by one run. The Pirates had a runner on third with two outs, when their power hitting catcher Danny Zakashefsky hit a sky high foul popup.  Kelly, who was catching for us, tracked the ball as it floated toward the 15-foot high fence and prepared to make the catch. From my position at third base, it appeared to me that the ball skimmed against the fence on the way down before plopping into Kelly's glove. The ruling, of course, is that once the ball hits the fence, it's a dead ball. The umpire, however, didn't see that and called Zakashefsky out.

Without missing a beat, Kelly tossed the ball to the ump and said, "The ball hit the fence, Mr. Wahler."

"Excuse me?" This was a first in Mr. Wahler's umpiring career. A kid arguing AGAINST his own team.

Kelly explained, "The ball hit off the fence on the way down, I didn't catch it clean."

"Uh, okay then, foul ball, count is still 2-2."

Zakashefsky, of course, lined the next pitch into right-center for a game-tying double. When we batted in the bottom of that inning, Kelly came up with the bases loaded and launched a rocket over the scoreboard for a grand slam, giving us a lead that we would never relinquish in a 17-3 victory.

The Baseball Gods have a way of working those things out.

While our Reds team loved to win, and we were 13-4 that year, so we were certainly used to it, Coach Fellin never talked much about winning. As long as our fundamentals were solid, we hustled at all times, and we didn't take any called third strikes - that was the one thing that he didn't tolerate, striking out looking - losing didn't seem to bother him. Of course, since I was just a dumb kid, I don't remember too much about the wins, but I remember every one of the four losses that year. Half of our losses were to the Cardinals, who took two out of three games from us that year. They were led by Pat Weis, a pitcher with a nasty curveball (for an 11-year old) who we couldn't touch. He even gave Kelly problems. So we lost two games to Weis, one to the Pirates, and the other to our arch rivals, the Braves.

Our games against the Braves were the only times that we saw a slight waver in Coach Fellin's otherwise unflappable demeanor. This was because the Braves coach was essentially the Anti-Fellin.  He looked like Boris Badenov ("Vee must catch zee moose and squirrel") and had all the charm and compassion of the evil Cobra Kai sensei from The Karate Kid ("The enemy deserves no mercy").  The Braves catcher, the coach's son Boris Jr., would heckle opposing batters, often tossing dirt at them as the pitch was en route to the plate.  Braves pitchers were encouraged to brush hitters back (translation: scare the piss out of them with head-high fastballs) or even flat-out drill them in the ribcage.

The Evil Coach Boris had this raspy, high-pitched voice that seemed to carry for miles and probably gave league umpires nightmares.  "Whaddaya mean 'strike'?  Dat ball was two feet offa da plate!"   And his wrath wasn't just reserved for the grown-ups, either.  Legend had it that he once made a 10-year old pitcher cry right on the mound by implying that the kid's talents were better suited for a tutu and ballet slippers.  So anyway, based on the inherent "good vs. evil" rivalry between the coaches, our games against the Braves rose to a higher intensity level.

At a key moment in one of such battle, I was on second base and our first baseman Eric Radell was at the plate. Eric rapped a base hit to right, and I was waved around third. There was going to be a play at the plate, and Boris Jr. was ready for it. He had the plate blocked, so I knew that sliding would be useless. I just put my head down (and, okay, MAYBE I got the elbow up a tad high at, perhaps, jaw level) and Boris Jr. and I conducted an impromptu physics experiment, testing the hypothesis, "CAN two objects occupy the same space?"

Scientific conclusion: Nope.

We went down in a heap and as the ball rolled to the backstop, I was called safe.  I jumped to my feet, to the congratulations of my teammates. Boris Jr., however stayed down. APPARENTLY, my completely accidental elbow to the jaw had temporarily rattled his cage. At that point, Boris Sr. came running out of the dugout eyes bulging, arms flailing, screaming bloody murder.

"Dat's a dirty play right dere!  He took out my catcher on purpose!  You gotta call him out!"

The umpire, obviously remembering the previous inning when Boris had made a very derogatory and highly improbable suggestion about his parentage, replied, "Clean play, Coach!  Your guy was blocking the plate!  Runner's safe!"

Coach Fellin's reaction, on the other hand, was priceless.  By now I'm sure you'd guess that Coach Fellin would never in a million years have condoned barreling into an opponent to win a game, nor would he have taught us to allow our elbows to connect, completely by accident, with another player's face. That wasn't his style at all. However, as I got back to the dugout we made eye contact and Coach Fellin, very subtly, winked.

Steven A. Fellin, Sr. passed away in 2003. From what I understand, he'd continued coaching the Reds right up until the time of his death, and upon that sad occasion, Middlesex (NJ) Little League Field was renamed Steve Fellin Field. A plaque in his honor is proudly displayed on the clubhouse wall.

Decades after the fact, I've realized all that Coach Fellin taught me.  Sportsmanship, sure.  The value of hard work and perseverance, definitely.  He also taught us about organization, punctuality, and the importance of maintaining one's dignity and positive attitude.  Lessons that apply to every situation we'll ever have to deal with.

And all we thought we were learning about was baseball.

 d

Dodge THIS, You Bastards

Suppose you wake up one morning and, as always, you head to the kitchen and pour yourself a heaping bowl of Cap'n Crunch cereal.  When you open your refrigerator, much to your chagrin, you realize that one of your roommates has polished off the last of the milk.  To remedy the situation, you get in your car and drive to the local Piggly Wiggly, grab a half-gallon of lowfat and take it to the express lane.  Instead of scanning the carton, though, the checker looks at you and says, "I'm sorry, I can't sell you this milk."

"Excuse me?" you say, in complete and utter befuddlement.

"You can't buy this milk as an individual item," says the checker with a smug little smirk on her face, "it's our new policy.  Lots of people are buying milk these days, so in order to get this half-gallon, you'll also have to buy a can of Spam, two boxes of Twinkies, a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, a twelve-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper, and three pounds of ground beef."

You politely tell the checker what she can do with the half gallon of milk, and storm out of the Piggly Wiggly more frustrated than a three-legged dog with jock itch.

Or how about this?  It's June, and you've decided to take your family on a nice vacation to Orlando, Florida to spend a joyous week throwing away your hard-earned money at the Disney World Resorts.  The wife is excited, your kids have nominated you for Awesomely Cool Dad of the Century, and you're feeling pretty damn good about life as we know it.  But when you visit your local travel agent to purchase your plane tickets, you receive a dastardly surprise.  It seems that the airlines are unwilling to sell you plane tickets to Orlando.  That is, unless you also book flights to Cleveland, Boise, Austin, Boston, and Flint.

"I'm sorry," explains the travel agent, "but since Orlando is such a popular tourist destination, we've decided that in order to purchase these tickets, you have to book additional flights as well.  Have a nice day!"

Pretty ridiculous scenarios, right?  You're probably asking yourself, "Okay, what's his point?  Grocery stores don't make anyone buy Spam, and airlines certainly aren't going to force anyone to fly to Cleveland.  What's going on here, really?"

Well, let me tell you what in the name of Tommy Friggin' Lasorda is going on here, really.

This season, as part of Major League Baseball's Interleague schedule, my beloved New York Yankees will be flying out here to Los Angeles to spend a relaxing weekend beating the crap out of the Dodgers.  Knowing this, last Christmas my kids bought me four Dodger Stadium ticket vouchers, coupons that can be exchanged for actual tickets once they go on sale.  The kids' intent, of course, was for me to use these vouchers to get tickets for one of the Yankee games.

So the tickets go on sale, and I log on to Dodgers.com to purchase four seats at the Dodgers-Yankees game on June 25.  Do you know what I found out?  If you guessed "the Dodgers have blacked out that entire weekend so these tickets may not be purchased with ticket vouchers," you are correct.  Isn't that awesome?

But wait.  The fun is just beginning.

Not to be thwarted quite so easily, I decide to simply buy tickets to one of the Yankee games, and use the vouchers for a game later in the season.  Baseball is baseball, so we'll get tickets to, say, a Dodgers-Cubs game and root for the Dodgers to get their asses beat.  In the meantime, I'll shell out a few bucks to see the Yankees.

I notice that there's a special banner on the Dodgers website, advertising the series with the Yankees.  The slogan is "L.A. vs. N.Y.  Watch the Dodgers Receive a Horsehide Enema" or something like that.  I click on the banner, figuring that this will take me to the page where I can buy tickets.  But that is not the case at all.  It takes me to a page with the following message:

THE ONLY WAY TO GET TICKETS FOR THE YANKEES SERIES IS TO BUY A 28, 21, or 14-GAME DODGERS MINI-PLAN

Yeah, that's right, if I want to see the Yankees, I have to buy tickets for at least thirteen other Dodgers games, with the lowest possible option being $126 per mini-plan. For that price, you get seats that are located in El Segundo which, for those of you unfamiliar with So Cal geography, is pretty Goddamn far from Dodger Stadium.

Knowing me, I'll probably end up biting the bullet and become the Dodgers' little bitch, either buying tickets at a ridiculously marked up scalper's rate or getting a mini-plan and selling off the non-Yankee games.

Anyone interested in two seats in El Segundo for the Dodgers and Pirates?


j

The Kansas City Death Weenie

To most of the Kauffman Stadium crowd, the evening of September 8, 2009 seemed like just another night at the ballpark; families spending time together, the weather pleasant, the hometown Kansas City Royals taking their usual beating.  John Coomer was just like the thousands of other fans in attendance that night, with one notable difference: He was the only one about to get blasted in the face with a hot dog.

The perpetrator of this heinous weenie-assault was a six-foot tall, crown-wearing lion named Sluggerrr, a violent psychopath masquerading as the Royals mascot.  Just after the seventh inning stretch, Sluggerrrr shouldered his high-powered Heckler and Koch Hot Dog Bazooka and launched round after round into the mezzanine.  Children screamed and spectators fled, as bun-shrapnel and condiments rained down upon them.  Discarding his empty weapon, Sluggerrr then armed himself with a sack of foil-wrapped franks and began hurling them at the fans like grenades.  He strutted atop the Royals dugout, seeking out victims, and that's when the fickle foam finger of fate pointed in John Coomer's direction.  Sluggerrr went into his windup and arrogantly flung the weiner behind his back.  The razzle-dazzle caught Coomer off-guard and, unable to defend himself, he took the foot-long Farmer John jumbo frank right in the eye.

Coomer was rushed to the Kansas City Medical Center, where surgeons worked frantically to repair his damaged eye and reheat the hot dog.  Surgeons work long shifts and frequently have to skip meals, so one could hardly blame them for taking a quick snack break.  After undergoing two medical procedures, Coomer was released from the hospital, but he is reportedly suffering from a variety of side effects.

"Mr. Coomer's retina was detached and, as a result, cataracts have formed," says his attorney.  "His vision may never be fully restored.  You ever get relish in your eye?  Stings.  Also, he has vowed never to eat another hot dog as long as he lives.  Nothing takes the joy out of the hot dog-eating experience like having one crash into your eye socket."

The most damning testimony of all has come from Royals season-ticket holder Ray Broome.  "I've been coming to Royals games for years, and this is the most disturbing thing I've seen since the George Brett Hemorrhoid Incident of 1980," said Broome.  "Sluggerrr is a friggin' menace who's been assaulting fans for years.  First it was his T-Shirt Slingshot, now the Hot Dog Bazooka.  There's no doubt in my mind that Sluggerrr drilled that guy on purpose, I saw it with my own eyes.  He just whipped the weenie behind his back, and it nailed Mr. Coomer in the face.  Ketchup splattered everywhere, it was gruesome.  They need to put Sluggerrr away, it's just a matter of time before he kills someone."

Meanwhile, conspiracy theorists have speculated that Sluggerrr may not have been acting alone.  A witness who was sitting in the left field bleachers that night hinted at the existence of a second bunman who was firing hot dogs from the visitors' bullpen.  Known only as "the man in the Reds jacket," this witness claims to have seen a puff of mustard from behind the outfield wall right before Coomer was hit by the hot dog.

Sluggerrr's statements to police have only confused the matter.  "Yeah, I was throwing hot dogs into the crowd, that's my job.  I mean, who doesn't want a free hot dog, right?  I just fling 'em into the crowd,  I don't see where they all end up.  Maybe I threw the dog that hit him, maybe I didn't.  It was a crazy night, man, weiners were flying all over the place."

Kansas City manager Trey Hillman supported the mascot's statement, saying  "Look, if Sluggerrr actually nailed that guy, it must've been an accident.  I've been with the Royals for some time now, and if I've learned anything it's that no one in our organization is capable of throwing strikes.  Hell, if Sluggerrr could intentionally hit something, he wouldn't be the mascot.  I'd put him in the starting lineup."

The criminal investigation continues, however, Coomer's attorney told the media that the civil case his client filed against the Kansas City Royals organization has been resolved to the satisfaction of both parties.  Terms of the settlement are undisclosed but neighbors report a shiny new vehicle in the Coomer driveway.

g

The Agony

This is the second of a two-part joint venture with Suldog, recounting two defining moments in the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry. To read Part One of my contribution, go here.

The 2004 American League Championship Series could not have started any better. The Yankees won the first three games, including a 19-8 drubbing in Game Three. Since no team had ever come back from a three-games-to-none deficit in the entire history of baseball, this one was in the bag, and the Yanks were headed to the 2004 World Series.

At least, that how it was supposed to happen.

Now, if you read my account of the one-game playoff in 1978, you know that I remember (or researched) every detail of that fantastic matchup. But since the conclusion of the 2004 ALCS didn't work out so well, getting me to pore over the play-by-play of Games 4 through 7 would be like getting the Kennedy family to sign up for a tour of the Texas School Book Depository. It's just not going to happen. So I'll just dredge up the memories that my subconscious hasn't mercifully deleted.

As I said, the Yanks won Game Three by the score of 19-8. You read that right, 19-8. I've seen lower-scoring Jets-Patriots games. If the fat lady wasn't singing at this point, she was certainly running through arpeggios in the green room. I was so confident that the Yankees were going to polish off the lowly Sox that I was fairly obnoxious about it at work.

"Yeah, this baby's over," I told my secretary. "No one's ever come back from down 3-zip. The Yanks just POUNDED them." I set our phones to play "New York, New York" as the on-hold music.

Game Four took place at Fenway Park in Boston. The Yankees carried a one-run lead into the ninth inning, with the virtually unhittable Mariano Rivera coming in to close it out.

Let's examine this more closely. The Yanks are up three games to nothing, in a best-of-seven series. They're winning in the ninth inning of Game Four. The best post-season closer in the history of the universe is on the mound. The odds of Boston winning THIS GAME were slim. Winning the SERIES?

Fuhgeddaboudit.

But then . . .

The Sox got a runner on first base. Boston manager Terry Francona sent in Dave Roberts to pinch run. Roberts was a mediocre player at best, but he could fly around the bases, and as the tying run, everyone in the ballpark knew he was going to try to steal second.

Which he did. And he scored on a base hit shortly afterward, tying the game.

Boston pulled it out in extra innings. Yanks lead, three games to one.

Big deal. No one was really expecting that we'd sweep them. The Bombers will surely finish them off in Game Five.

Once again, the Yankees had the lead late in the game. Once again, Boston came back to win. Some guys got hits, some guys walked, blah blah blah, I think Fat Papi might've hit a homer or something.

Yankees lead the series, 3-2.

This is where I started getting nervous. When the Yankees eliminated Boston in the one-game playoff in '78, that was like a quick bullet to the head of Red Sox Nation. What Yankee fans experienced in '04 was more like a week-long stay in a torture chamber manned by methodical Nazi war criminals.

In Game Six, Curt Schilling pitched for Boston. Schiwwing had a boo-boo on hims widdle ankle, and he was cwying about it to all the weporters in New Engwand. He didn't know if he'd be able to thwow the baseball. Curt was afwaid that his mommy might have to take him to the doctor for a shot, and hopefuwwy a wowwipop.

To pwove to the world that his ankle was hurting weawwy weawwy bad, he marked his sock with wed Sharpie to pwetend he was bweeding.

I guess he'd just watched "The Natural" or something.

Anyway, Schilling pitched pretty well, the Sox won again, and the series was now tied at 3-3.

Let me take a moment here to place some blame at the feet of Yankees' manager Joe Torre. Torre had led the Yankees to four World Series titles in the late 90's and in 2000, but hell, I could've managed those teams to a championship. All you'd have to do is write out the lineup card and stay out of the way. But Joe's handling of the Yankees during the 2004 ALCS was abysmal. I mean, if Schilling was indeed crippled and gushing blood (which I'm not conceding, by the way), why aren't you bunting all over the place to make him run around?

But that's not the worst of it.

The worst of it is how he managed the pitching staff. Here they were, getting ready for the most important game of the year. You'd think Joe would've had a plan so that one of their aces would've been on the mound, right? Nope. Who was the Yanks starter in game seven?

Kevin Brown.

Don't get me wrong, at one time, Brown was an outstanding pitcher. A headcase, but an outstanding pitcher nonetheless. Those days were long gone. By 2004, Brown was a banged up, whiny has-been with a rag arm. At one point during the season, after giving up fourteen runs to the team from St. Mary's Academy for Wayward Girls, Brown took out his frustration by punching a cement wall.

With his pitching hand. Bloody brilliant, Kevin.

Suffice it to say that having Kevin Brown start the seventh game of the 2004 ALCS was like sending Charlie Brown out to kick a game-winning 52-yard field goal at Lambeau.

He got his ass lit up, and quickly. I don't think he got out of the second inning. Javier Vazquez came on in relief and on his first pitch, Johnny Damon hit a grand slam, giving the Sox a lead they'd never relinquish.

The final score was something like 27-2. I may be off by a few runs, but that's what it felt like. The Sox had done the impossible, winning a series after being down three games to none. As devastating as it was, I had to give them credit. Any other team would have rolled over and died, but not those idiots. They kept fighting, and it paid off.

Bleah.

When I got to work the next day, my office had been redecorated with Red Sox pennants, pictures, all sorts of stuff. My staff is hilarious, aren't they? But given the amount of smack I was running when the series was 3-0, I guess I had it coming.

As everyone knows, the Sox then went on to obliterate the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series, four games to squadoosh. After what the Sox had already accomplished, I was kinda rooting for them myself.

Oh, bullshit, no I wasn't. I wanted the Cardinals to come back from being down 3-0 and turn that sucker right around on Boston. But no. THEY laid down and died like dogs.

Two things about that Yankees - Red Sox series keep popping up, ensuring that we Yankee fans will never hear the end of it. The first is Dave Roberts. It doesn't matter what team Roberts plays for (and I think he's played for just about all of them at this point), whenever he comes up to bat, the announcers will say:

"And who can forget Roberts' key stolen base in Game Four of the 2004 ALCS, which sparked the greatest comeback blah blah blah . . ."

Dave Roberts, the Ghost of Choke Jobs Past.

I wish Roberts would do something else to be remembered for. Anything. Maybe it'll turn out that he was on 'roids, like the rest of those Red Sox were.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

The other thing that will haunt us is the whole "no team ever came back from down 3-0 in a seven game series" thing. It doesn't matter if you're watching the NBA Playoffs, Stanley Cup Finals, or the World Series. Whenever a team goes down three games to none, you'll see a graphic on the TV screen:

TEAMS THAT HAVE COME BACK FROM A THREE GAMES TO NONE DEFICIT TO WIN A 7-GAME SERIES

It's never happened in the NBA and only once or twice in hockey. But right there, under the heading "Major League Baseball" you'll see . . .

2004: Boston Red Sox, vs. New York Yankees

We'll keep seeing that until it happens again to some other team.

Don't hold your breath, though. That series was once-in-a-lifetime.

Click here to read Suldog's account of this tragic event in American history.

The Ecstasy

This is the first of a two-part joint venture between myself and Jim "Suldog" Sullivan, honoring the start of baseball's postseason. Since Jim is a die-hard Boston Red Sox fan and I'm partial to the New York Yankees, we decided to give our opposing perspectives on the two most significant clashes between the teams. We're going to start with the one-game A.L. East playoff in 1978 . . .

On October 2, 1978, the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox squared off in the greatest baseball game ever played. One game, the winners moved on to the American League Playoffs, the losers would be packing it in for a long winter's nap.

I was thirteen at the time, and a complete fanatic. To this day, the 1978 edition of the New York Yankees remains my all-time favorite team. Sure, the '77 season was incredible, and the Jeter-Torre Dynasty from 1996-2000 was a euphoric period in Bronx Bomber history, but '78 was simply magical.

It didn't start out that way, as the Yanks trailed Boston by 14 games in July and looked dead in the water. As July turned into August, though, they began a comeback. The fiery but lovable manager Billy Martin was replaced by the more laid-back Bob Lemon, and by September the Bombers were right on Boston's tail. Over one spectacular weekend at Fenway Park, the Yankees swept a four-game series by scores of 15-3, 13-2, 7-0, and 7-4. So complete was the domination that in one of the games, Yankee catcher Thurman Munson had gone 3-for-3 before the Sox's Butch Hobson had even batted. That series, forever known as "The Boston Massacre", put the two teams in a tie for first place. The Yanks took the division lead down the stretch, but the Sox got hot at the end, pulling even on the last day of the regular season.

I lived and died with every game. The one-game sudden death was sure to be a nail-biter.

I ran home from school that day, burst through the front door and flung my bookbag into the corner. I turned on WPIX channel 11 just in time for the first pitch.

Mike Torrez was on the mound for Boston. He'd been with the Yankees the year before, playing an important role in their 1977 World Series victory. But today he was the enemy, and I was hoping to see the Bombers light up Torrez like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

Ron Guidry was chucking for New York, ready to put the finishing touches on one of the best seasons a pitcher has ever had. His record coming into the game was 24-3, with an earned run average of less than two. He was, for the most part, unhittable. Earlier in the year, Guidry struck out eighteen California Angels in a game, earning him the moniker "Louisiana Lightning".

You had to like the Yankees' chances.

New York went down quickly in the top of the first. My friend Paul came bounding up my front steps during the commercials, out of breath from the three-block sprint from his house.

"What'd I miss?"

"Nothin'. Yankees didn't do squat in the first. Boston's just coming up."

He flopped down on the couch, I went to the kitchen to grab us a couple of Cokes, and we took in the action.

The Red Sox drew first blood in the bottom of the second, on a home run by Carl Yastrzemski. Yaz was about 87 years old at the time, but he managed to hook one around the right field foul pole. We watched in disgust as a Boy Scout from Martha's Vineyard helped the elderly Sox legend around the bases.

"Yaz sucks," muttered Paul.

"Yeah, he's not as bad as Fisk, though. That guy's a douchebag."

"True."

We hated every one of those friggin' Red Sox. Rice. Lynn. Burleson. Every damn one of 'em.

We looked out through the screen door and saw the guy from the other side of the duplex, Mr. Ostertag, grinning. He was from Boston originally, and our neighborhood's only Red Sox fan."HOW 'BOUT THAT YAZ!" he taunted.

"Just go back inside, old man," I said, good-naturedly. He was actually a pretty nice guy, but there's just no accounting for taste.

"Da Sawx ah just gettin' stah-ted," he replied.

"Yeah, we'll see."

Torrez held the Yanks in check, inning after inning. In the sixth Boston scored again, making it 2-0.

"It's all ovah now, boys," came the voice from next door. "Don't lemme hear ya cryin'!"

"Yeah, sure, Mr. Ostertag. It's not over until your mother sings," Paul fired back.

After we heard Mr. O's screen door slam shut, Paul and I exchanged nervous glances.

"Man, 2-zip, we better start hittin'," I said.

"Torrez is looking great. I'm not liking this at all."

I feigned confidence. "Ah, we'll be okay. Reggie's gonna be the hero just like last year."

Someone was about to become a hero, all right, but it wasn't Jackson.

With one out in the top of the seventh inning, Chris Chambliss singled. Roy White followed with another base hit, putting runners on first and second. Jim Spencer stepped up to pinch hit for the second baseman Brian Doyle. Spencer was a power hitter, and manager Bob Lemon sent him to the plate hoping that he'd be able to hit one out. With the Yankees' number nine hitter on deck, Spencer represented the best chance to take the lead.

He unceremoniously flied out to left.

Bucky Dent was a light-hitting shortstop in his second year with the Yankees. Known mostly for his glove and pretty-boy looks that made him the heartthrob of our female junior high classmates, Dent had managed just four home runs during the entire season. Put another way, Bucky Dent hit home runs about as often as Dom DeLuise said "no thanks" to the dessert tray. Perhaps Dent would be able to draw a walk or something, but his .240 batting average led Paul and me to assume that the inning was as good as over.

"Well, this inning is as good as over," said Paul.

"Yeah, but we'll have the top of the order coming up in the eighth. There's still a chance."

With the count one ball and no strikes, Bucky fouled the ball off his shin and crumpled to the ground. Beautiful. The guy can't hit to begin with, and now he's on a bum leg. As Bucky writhed in agony, Yankees' center fielder Mickey Rivers noticed that there was a crack in the bat Dent was using. He handed a new one to the batboy, who ran it over to Dent as he was hobbling back to the batter's box. Friggin' hopeless.

"So, how'd you do on the math test in Cornell's class?" I asked Paul.

"Ninety-four. You?"

"Eighty-six. I screwed up the Pythagorean Theorem."

"Shouda studied."

"Yeah, no kidding."

Our conversation was interrupted by WPIX announcer Bill White . . .

"DEEP TO LEFT! YASTRZEMSKI . . . WILL NOT GET IT! IT'S A HOME RUN! A THREE RUN HOME RUN FOR BUCKY DENT, AND THE YANKEES NOW LEAD BY A SCORE OF THREE TO TWO!"

We went nuts. The last guy on the team you'd expect to hit a home run just gave the Yankees the lead in the most important game of the year. Paul and I rushed out onto the front porch, yelling our heads off. We peeked in through Mr. Ostertag's screen door and saw him sitting in his recliner, staring at the TV. He looked sick.

When he finally decided to acknowledge our presence, he just looked at us and muttered two words: "Bucky. Dent?"

"BUCKY DENT!" we shouted back at him.

By the time we went back inside, Mickey Rivers had walked and stolen second, Torrez had gotten the hook, and Yankee captain Thurman Munson was coming to the plate. Munson had struck out in each of his first three at-bats, but this time he doubled to the gap in left-center, driving in Rivers for a 4-2 lead.

"Okay, man, just get the ball to Gossage and let's finish this thing," said Paul.

Sure enough, Lemon brought in Goose Gossage and his 100 mile-an-hour fastball with one out in the bottom of the seventh. He got out of the inning with the score still 4-2.

In the top of the eighth, Reggie hit a majestic home run to center, extending the lead to 5-2. Paul took the opportunity to needle Mr. Ostertag, who was still in his La-Z-Boy puffing on unfiltered Camels.

"Hey, Mr. O! I think I hear your mother singing!"

"It ain't ovah till it's ovah," he replied. Friggin' geezer had the nerve to quote Yogi Berra.

Turns out he was right, though. In the bottom of the eighth, Boston rallied for two runs, closing the gap to 5-4. The Yankees didn't do anything in their half of the ninth, so it all came down to the last three outs.

And damn it if the Sox didn't threaten again. With two outs, they had runners on first and third. A single would tie the game, a double to the gap could win it.

And who was up for Boston, with a chance to seal our fate?

Yastrzemski. Friggin' Yastrzemski was advancing to the plate.

"Well, we gotta bring in Lyle now, right?" Paul asked me.

"Probably. Lefty on lefty, and Sparky owns Yaz anyway."

Lemon stuck with Gossage.

Paul and I were on the edge of our seats.

"Just one more out, Goose. Come on . . . "

Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
A band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
But we laugh at Mr. Ostertag, who chain smokes, swears and pouts;
There is no joy at his place, 'cause Yastrzemski just popped out.

Click here to read Suldog's perspective on this great moment in baseball history.

The second part of our tandem post, detailing the 2004 American League Championship Series, will be published on October 20th on both blogs.