April 11, 2006

OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN: OPENING DAY AT THE HOUSE THAT DEREK JETER RESTORED

"...There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air...
--John Keats, Lamia.

        Horsefeathers enjoyed a perfect spring afternoon, the day before Passover, at his own house of worship, Yankee Stadium, attending the home opener of the baseball season. The long winter of our sporting discontent is over. No more clock driven sports, like football and basketball, as substitutes for the real thing. The game was preceded by a superb rendition of the National Anthem by the West Point glee club while the flag was unfurled by the Corps of Cadets after they were introduced as representing the American ideals of honor, courage and patriotism. Two fighter jets roared low over the Stadium, Yogi Berra tossed out the first ball, and the game began. During a moment of silent remembrance for the troops fighting to defend our freedom, we thought of the absence of any such heartfelt tribute at this year's Super Bowl. Say what you will about George Steinbrenner, he surely understands that baseball would be the target of Islamo-Nazi fanatics, as a representative creation of infidel America. To give a jihadi paraphrase of Jacques Barzun "Whoever wants to destroy the heart and mind of America had better destroy baseball".
        The game began and the early Yankee lead faded as their starting pitcher, Chien Ming Wang, struggled. Kansas City extended its lead and the Yankees' bats seemed to slow down and turn leaden. How many summer hours have we wiled away, watching slow grounders to short and weak popflies to short right field? How many pages of newsprint have we devoured, in vain search of explanation and prediction? It was deja vue all over again. 27 outs and now we were at 21, 22, 23---and here came the Captain, Derek Jeter with the Yankees trailing.
        Lately Jeter has been under severe scrutiny by science---the science of Sabermetrics. We are grateful to these researchers who have quantified and rendered statistically intelligible athletic performance that had been subject to superstition and fantasy. They have lately told us that Derek Jeter's actual skills, as opposed to his image with the public, are limited. His range at shortstop is nowhere near the range of most of his major league peers. He can't go to his left. His at bat power numbers are less than great. He's a singles hitter, far less potent with the bat than his teammate, Alex Rodriguez. Still, we know there's something that does escape the statistical eye; anyone watching Jeter over the years has become familiar with the extraordinary baseball intelligence that puts him always in the right place at the right time. There are those singular artistic defensive plays he paints on the green canvas. Jeter from nowhere, taking a relay throw from right field and backflipping it to prevent a run from scoring. Jeter spotting a fly ball over his shoulder, not looking back and gloving it while diving over a tardy outfielder. Jeter catching a foul pop up and diving headlong into the seats. Today, as the sun was concentrating its rays on left field, the crowd was leaving and the Captain had taken the collar, going a harmless zero for three. Derek Jeter, the singles hitter, now, according to the laws of Sabermetrics, at 30, starting the downslope of his career. Derek Jeter, whose name seems more suited to a Professor of Post-Modern literary studies, than a major league shortstop; Derek Jeter, whose graceful acrobatic leaps and throws from deep short, are deemed of little or no utilitarian value; Derek Jeter, whose numbers will never come close to A-Rod's, but whom every Yankee fan would prefer to see up there with the game on the line. Derek Jeter who stands now, in the late afternoon, under the declining sun, delicately at the plate with one foot on tip toe like a pinstriped Baryshnikov poised to leap free of gravity, but not to uncoil in the most violent sudden way, which he now does- his bat, with a flick of the wrists, flashing through the air like a magic sword, lashing out at an advancing and dangerous foe. His body turns violently as his hips rotate and the bat collides with the tumbling baseball. And now, there's a brief hush in the crowd as the ball leaves his bat, not violently at all, but lazily, languidly, a pop fly, a spheroid rainbow, drifting towards left field, surely bound for the glove of the left fielder. In the stands we turn our heads disappointedly to watch its beautiful slow, slow flight, while time seems to suspend itself. There's the ball and look now, amazingly it's carrying away, away, away, as the left fielder first starting in, now suddenly realizing, turns his shoulder, puts his head down and runs desparately and helplessly towards the outfield wall. The hushed crowd also realizes and now erupts as the lazy fly ball carries well beyond the reach of the left fielder, into the eager grasp of a fan. It's the decisive winning moment, Opening Day.
        As the late great Jimmy Cannon might have said: "You're Derek Jeter, who once wanted to be like all the other guys, and now all the other guys want to be like you."