by Jane Heller
I almost said “I love you” right then and there. But we continued to watch the Yankees get creamed, and I kept my emotional outbursts focused on my team.
“I like how you’re not all about winning,” he said when he saw how hard I cheered.
Poor guy. As all too often happens with couples, he thought he was marrying one person and ended up with someone else.
On Friday the 27th, the Yankees host the Red Sox for the first of three games at the Stadium. Having barely recovered from the last series against them, I am not looking forward to this one.
“I’ll die if we get swept again,” I tell Michael as the game starts.
“Stop being so negative,” he says before going outside to fire up the grill. We are having barbecued chicken for dinner. The spaghetti and the turkey burgers did not help us beat Boston last time, so I insisted on a change in the menu.
The barbecued chicken is a bust. We lose ugly—11–4—with Pettitte allowing five runs. Proctor, Vizcaino, and Mo are awful, too. Yes, Mo. The only bright spot is Jeter’s 15-game hitting streak.
We actually win the Saturday game 3–1, although there is more bad news. Karstens gets smacked in the knee in the first inning by a line drive off the bat of Lugo. A cracked fibula. I am not making this up!
The rubber match on Sunday is a horror show—a 7–4 loss thanks to Wang and the split fingernail that is inhibiting him from throwing his good sinker. I know pitchers are fragile creatures, but am I supposed to believe that the Yankees can’t find a medical professional to deal with a fingernail? At the very least, Mrs. Wang must have a good manicurist and/or a tube of Krazy Glue.
The New York papers are fueling speculation that Joe could be out of a job if the team continues its free fall.
“Hopefully,we can catch a good streak here real soon,” Damon is quoted as saying.
I have come to like Johnny Damon. I loathed him as a Red Sock, of course, but he is always upbeat and cheerful and usually makes contact at the plate. Abreu, on the other hand, is high on my shit list. He is in the worst offensive slump of his career, and he plays right field as if he is terrified of getting his uniform dirty. Just once I would like to see him dive for a ball.
“They need someone to motivate them,” I tell Michael as he turns off the TV. “I wish I could talk to them.”
“And say what?”
“That there is behavior I will not tolerate.”
He rolls his eyes, lifts the cordless phone off its cradle, and hands it to me. “Call the dugout. Maybe they’re still there.”
He is joking, but I am not. I grab the phone. “What’s the area code for Tampa? I’m calling Steinbrenner.”
“You’ve turned into a female George.”
“There are worse things,” I say. “He’s a great owner.”
“A great owner?”
“All those championships wouldn’t have happened without him,” I say. “He spoiled me. I’m used to winning now.”
There. I said it. I am used to winning. If there were a 12-step program for Yankee fans whose innocent passions became hardcore addictions in ’96 when we began our run under Torre, I would be chairing the meetings.
“My name is Jane, and I am a Yankeeholic.”
AL EAST STANDINGS/APRIL 29
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 16 8 .667 —
TORONTO 12 12 .500 4.0
BALTIMORE 12 13 .480 4.5
TAMPA BAY 11 14 .440 5.5
NEW YORK 9 14 .391 6.5
Week 5 April 30, 2007
Joe was getting 100 percent from everybody. We had a guy we respected—as a manager, as a man, as a friend, almost as a father. Everybody who walked through that tunnel gave everything they had every single night. Sometimes you don’t get that. Sometimes you hear “I’m tired today.” But I never heard that from any of the guys.
Yesterday the Boss issued a statement through Howard Rubenstein saying he supports the manager and the team. Like all Steinbrenner Statements, this one carries a not-so-veiled threat: The Yankees had better start winning or else. I could not agree more.
But it is anew month and afresh start for the Yanks. They open a three-game series against the Rangers in Arlington. On May 1, we kick Texas around 10–1. Phil Hughes throws a no-hitter going into the seventh for his first major league victory but leaves the game with a hamstring injury. Can you catch hammies the way you catch herpes? And Damon is out with a back problem. The guy is going all Carl Pavano on us.
May 2 is my birthday, and the game is rained out, which means I am forced to actually celebrate my big day by leaving the house. Michael takes me to the Plow & Angel at the posh San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito. The waiters bring out a dessert with a candle on top and sing “Happy Birthday” to me. I am mortified because I am not the type who enjoys being sung to by waiters and because I am at that age where it is not a huge thrill to be another year older. Forget what all those rah-rah baby boomer women say about how great it is to have wisdom and experience and disposable income. I would rather have fewer wrinkles and perkier tits.
We play a doubleheader on May 3 to make up for the rained-out game, and we win both contests. Pettitte gets the victory in the opener, and Mussina, just activated from the DL, allows only one run over five innings. I take back the nasty things I said about him, but I wish I could warm to him. He is serious whenever he is on TV, kind of sourpussy. I wonder if he bows from the waist during sex, the way he bows out of the stretch.
We are home for a four-game set against Seattle this weekend, and the results are mixed. The Friday-night game on May 4 is an abomination. We lose 15–11, and the Mariners have 20 fucking hits. I boo the TV. Michael boos, too, and he hardly ever boos the TV. We rebound with an 8–1 victory on Saturday, with Wang missing a perfect game by only five outs. Sunday’s game involves a near-brawl after the Mariners bean Josh Phelps for his hard slide into Johjima, their catcher, and Proctor returns the favor by throwing behind Betancourt. Darrell Rasner and four relievers combine for a four-hit shutout, and the Yankees win. But the big event is the announcement during the seventh-inning stretch that Roger Clemens, who speaks to the masses from George’s private box like the pope, will return to the Yankees in late May/early June.
I am conflicted about the Rocket’s return. I don’t blame the Yanks for wanting reinforcements. But why bring back a guy with a history of groin problems and hammy problems and God knows what else? He is old in pitcher years. Besides, we threw him a farewell tour when he was retiring 2 years ago, only to have him unretire and play for the Astros. What kind of scumbag does that to the Yankees? What kind of slimy, ungrateful worm leaves and then comes crawling back?
AL EAST STANDINGS/MAY 6
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 20 10 .667 —
NEW YORK 14 15 .483 5.5
BALTIMORE 14 17 . 452 6.5
TAMPA BAY 14 17 .452 6.5
TORONTO 13 18 .419 7.5
Week 6 May 7, 2007
I hated Roger Clemens from playing against him. Couldn’t stand the guy. But he made us better. He made us believe in ourselves. He gave little pep talks to individual players. Like to Bobby, he said, “When I faced you in Philly, you were the toughest out in the league. Where is that guy?” He would challenge you, but he would be behind you.
While I wait for Clemens to take his spot in the rotation, I am saddled with more rookies. The latest is Matt DeSalvo, no relation to Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler, as far as I know. He only allows a run in the May 7 finale against the Mariners, but Mo serves up a homer to Beltre in the ninth and takes the loss. I love Mo and can’t imagine my Yankee fan life without him, but I love him more when he strikes batters out with his rising cutter. At least Igawa is out of the picture now. He is sent down to Class A Tampa to learn how to pitch here in America. He is in danger of becoming the next Hideki Irabu. George will not call him a fat pussy toad because Howard Rubenstein is speaking for him these days, but I am thinking that a putdown involving the word pussy would not be ent
irely out of line.
Texas comes into town for three games. Pettitte pitches a gem in the first game. Mussina looks like his old self in the second. But the finale on the 10th results in an embarrassing 14–2 loss in which Wang allows seven runs in 6⅓ innings. He is supposed to be our ace, but his inconsistency is emblematic of the team as a whole. We cannot get a streak going. We are stuck in mediocrity while the Red Sox are cruising. I grind my teeth so hard that I knock my jaw out of alignment.
The Yankees fly to Seattle for the start of a nine-game road trip. The change of scenery will be good for the players, the way a change of scenery is good for people who are sick and convalescing. But the Yanks lose two of three to the Mariners. What is alarming about all three games is that we don’t score. First the pitching was impotent. Now the bats are limp. As for me, I am descending into a state of perpetual crabbiness, as if I have a chronic case of PMS. I am short with people. I don’t return phone calls right away. I curse a lot—for no good fucking reason. This is what the Yankees are reducing me to. They are not holding up their end of the bargain. They were supposed to be my escape, and they are not doing their job.
What do I have to escape from? That is what you are probably asking yourself. I write all these funny novels and live in paradise and am married to the sensitive manly-man from The Bridges of Madison County. What’s the problem?
Crohn’s disease. That is what Michael has. It is an autoimmune disease that can cause the intestines to become inflamed and, ultimately, obstructed, and it is not pretty. I had never heard of it when Michael and I met in 1991. When he told me he had it, I shrugged and said, “Love conquers all.” Love does not conquer Crohn’s. He has had more than 30 surgeries, been hospitalized more than 50 times, and taken countless drugs, including steroids. He has spent more time doubled over in pain than anyone I know. He is at constant risk from complications. He is always one step away from the emergency room. He is the one who suffers and soldiers on, and I am merely the helpmate. But I would be lying if I said that living with a spouse who has a chronic, incurable illness is not difficult and often depressing. It is hard on a marriage, in other words. When the Yankees are winning, it gives me the illusion that there is no Crohn’s and life is beautiful. But the Yankees are not winning. They are not delivering my required dose of denial.
AL EAST STANDINGS/MAY 13
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 25 11 .694 —
BALTIMORE 18 20 .474 8.0
NEW YORK 17 19 .472 8.0
TAMPA BAY 15 22 .405 10.5
TORONTO 15 22 .405 10.5
Week 7 May 14, 2007
When you scuffle and hit adversity, you bond together stronger than ever. It’s easy to play the game when you’re winning every day. It’s tougher when things aren’t going well. You’ve got to find your way to: “I’m not gonna take this anymore.”
The Yankees fly to Chicago for three against the White Sox. The May 15 game is rained out. We split a doubleheader against them the next day, then lose the finale on the 17th. There is no excuse for dropping two of three to the 2007 White Sox, a team that bears no resemblance to the 2005 World Series champions. They are even more pathetic than we are, and yet we can’t seem to beat the fucking shit out of those cocksuckers.
And it gets worse. Our first interleague series of the season pits us against the Mets at Shea.
We lose game one on Friday night despite Pettitte’s solid outing.
We lose game two on Saturday night despite A-Rod’s homer. Cano’s three errors don’t help. Neither does the fact that Darrell Rasner only pitches to two batters before breaking his index finger.
It is this particular game that unravels me. In the fourth inning, I explode in frustration—I want to rip the plasma screen off the wall. I start flinging objects everywhere—the TV remote, a copy of Newsweek, a hunk of Gorgonzola from my Cobb salad. The cheese lands in Michael’s beard and nests there.
“What’s the matter with you!” he shouts. “You’re being a complete asshole!”
“It’s the Yankees’ fault.”
I am being an asshole. But I feel betrayed by these 2007 Yankees. They are pretenders, not contenders. I am spending my days and nights watching these clowns, and for what? So they can keep me from writing my novel, which is how I earn my living? So they can ruin my social life, which I no longer have since I traded dinners out with friends for turkey burgers with the YES Network? So they can create tension in my marriage, which is now on shaky ground because I have been driven to throwing hunks of cheese at my husband?
I sit quietly, like a good girl, and watch the rest of the game. I am the model of decorum—until the Mets start high-fiving each other.
“That’s it!” I stand and face Michael, who is skimming through the latest issue of WoodenBoat. If he were a real Yankee fan instead of the Connecticut-born Red Sox fan I suspect him of being, he would be throwing cheese, too.
“What’s ‘it’?”
“My relationship with the Yankees. It’s over. I’m done with their injuries and their excuses and their dysfunctions. I’m divorcing them.”
This gets his attention. “You don’t mean it. You’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I will not be back. I am suing them for divorce. Mental cruelty.”
He laughs. “Divorcing a baseball team—that’s funny.”
I can still hear him snickering as I storm down the hall into my office.
I plop down at the computer, open the Word program on my MacBook, and begin a new document. I am in a fury, my fingers flying across the keyboard. If smoke really came out of people’s ears when they were fired up, it would be coming out of mine.
“I am no stranger to divorce,” I write. “I thought I was over that particular brand of heartbreak, but now I am divorcing the New York Yankees—all 25 men on the active roster, in addition to the manager, the coaches, and the general manager. Oh, and the trainer, too. And, of course, the owner and all his baseball people. I made a commitment to these guys and they betrayed me.”
I go on to explain why I am cutting the Yankees loose and how I just might throw my affection to the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. When I finish venting, my eyes light on the New York Times sports section on my desk—on a column by Harvey Araton. His e-mail address is right there at the end of the piece. I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me, but what the hell, I think. I like his stuff. Maybe he will like mine. I configure my divorce essay into an e-mail to him and hit “send.” I sit back in my chair and exhale.
I continue to watch the games but with a definite detachment, as if I am legally separated and just waiting for the paperwork. On Sunday the Yankees salvage the series against the Mets by beating them 6–2. Our latest rookie starter is named Tyler Clippard, and he looks too young to drive a car. He is the beneficiary of homers by A-Rod, Jeter, and Posada, the only three Yankees in the lineup who are hitting.
AL EAST STANDINGS/MAY 20
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 30 13 .698 —
BALTIMORE 20 24 .455 10.5
NEW YORK 19 23 .452 10.5
TORONTO 19 24 .442 11.0
TAMPA BAY 18 25 .419 12.0
Week 8 May 21, 2007
No, there isn’t extra pressure playing the Red Sox. Pressure is what those kids overseas feel when they’ve got bombs whizzing over their heads. Baseball is a game. There’s a lot riding on these games, but that’s not pressure. If you can’t handle 55,000 people screaming at you, come on. The fans and the media hype up this rivalry a heck of a lot more than the players do.
The Red Sux are so familiar to me at this point that it feels like incest. Thanks to the relentless close-ups you get on Fox, I can count Kevin Youkilis’s nose hairs.
We actually beat them in Monday’s opener on the 21st. Wang pitches really well, and A-Rod homers for the third straight game.
On the 22nd it is back to losing hell. Mussina is just—well, he is hopeless. He is supposed to give us a quality start, and instead he gives them seven runs. Th
e good news is that I get an e-mail from Harvey Araton! He says he enjoyed my “tale of betrayal” and passed it on to Tom Jolly, the editor of the Times’ sports section. I am about to rush into the living room to tell Michael when I notice another e-mail in my in-box. It is from Tom Jolly! He says he will definitely find a place for my essay in Sunday’s paper, provided the Yankees don’t go on a winning streak.
“We have to root against the Yankees until Sunday!” I tell Michael.
“So you’d sell them out for a chance to be in the Times?”
“Yes,” I say, “I would.”
We beat Boston in the finale on Wednesday, and I am nervous that my article will not run on Sunday after all. We hammer Schilling, and Pettitte pitches a beauty. Rotten luck.
But then the Angels arrive for a weekend series, and I know my essay is as good as published. The Yankees are allergic to the rationalizes our dismal record against them with sound bites like “They always play us tough.” But the truth is the Yankees always spaz out against them. “Figgy.” “Vladie.” “K-Rod.” Give me a break.
The three games this weekend go exactly the way I expected.
We lose game one on Friday night. A-Rod hits his 19th homer, but the bullpen is horrendous, giving up seven runs in two innings.
We lose game two on Saturday afternoon. Wang throws eight solid innings, but our bats need Viagra. I get an e-mail from a copy editor at the Times saying that since the Yankees have cooperated and lost two in a row, my divorce story will run the next day. I also get an e-mail from Richard Sandomir, who covers the media and business scene for the Times’ sports section.