It's been taken away in a very black limo, the Bambino Thing, the ghost that wouldn't give the Sox an even break since 1918. Just like I predicted in my recent "Botox Bosox" article.
The mean-spirited Yanks have finally had their comeuppance in the most dramatic fashion imaginable. Four in a row! The last two at home. With The Ace of the opposition bleeding at the ankle, and his sidekick, Pedro, deafened by mantras of Daddy DooWop.
A-Rod was, perhaps, emblematic of Apple Illness, with the arrogant mendacity displayed in and around knocking the ball loose from Arroyo's glove, in that watershed moment from the 6th game. Just as 40,000 brothers could not match Hamlet's love for Ophelia, a Quarter of a Billion Bucks couldn't hide The Rod's sense of entitlement, superiority, or his disregard for the health of the game.
People may want to log in here in defense of that specimen, but a re-run of all the close Rodriguez confrontations in '04 will reveal a man who would step on a first baseman's extended foot and crunch it, like young Derek The Skinhead does to a black's mouth in American History X. If he could get away with it.
Yah, the same applies to others. But, then, that's the point.
I'm glad New York will stop being the Center of the Universe for a New York Minute, and that that operatic fireman with the Dumbo ears won't be able to make a return appearance. I can't take Manhattan, 'cause it's been taken along with a lot of other places.
Throwing a chair into the stands, rationalizing violence as we speed hockey-like, likkety-split, hypnotized by a split-screen of hyperbolic energy. Clemens gets an ecocidal Hummer from an Astros supporter and comes out of retirement, turning into a Schwarzenegger for Houston. The networks, not content to bombard us with a plethora of pathetic images, now feel compelled to literally flash ugly commercial messages superimposed over the playing of the game.
And has anyone noticed how no apologies are offered up for cutting back to the game late - two strikes into a count at times -- as if stations had to give equal time to sponsors?
Or how no discussion is forthcoming respecting the Haitian slave labor, broken souls, used in making baseballs?
How many people are revolted by flags being festooned over...everything? How 'bout God Bless America till you drop?
Why does no one talk about the ever-increasing number of broken bats each season?
Would it jeopardize someone's sweet, unconscionable deal?
Yes. There's a funereal silence in New York tonight, in spite of the thrilling contests that the Sox made possible with the homeys.
And while the Bosox fans fall from the rafters in Red ecstasy up north in racist Beantown, the Boys of Winter are taking us down the River Styx just a little further.
I won what's for me a small fortune with Johnny Damon breaking out of his slump, and Derek Lowe getting me high. But it's small change when juxtaposed with the changes my little Marcel will be left with when I'm buried in Left Field.
When I said goodbye to the Dodgers at Ebbets Field on the eve of their departure for LA, I never dreamed I'd ever say goodbye to baseball. In fact, I'm not sure I'm doing that just yet.
But there is a hearse moving something down the street at breakneck speed.
Yes, this is an historic moment for baseball fans, for one and all.
It is an unrehearsed moment.
Richard Oxman is the father of First Basewoman Noelle (34), Second Baseman Aja (20) and Third Baseman Marcel (4). He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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