Showing posts with label 2003 ALCS. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2003 ALCS. Show all posts

Monday, October 26, 2009

Bring On The Phillies

The last time the Yankees made it to the World Series, I was a sophomore in college in Boston, celebrating primarily because the Yanks had just vanquished the Red Sox in what remains the greatest ALCS in my lifetime. It wasn't about earning the right to tango with the senior circuit. Ensnared in the life or death struggle of a Game 7 against our most hated rivals, it wasn't as much about winning as it was about not losing.

Tonight, in a Game 6 against the Angels - although there was a recent history and plenty at stake - there was not the immediate danger of losing. In poker they call that a "sweat". When you're all-in but ahead in the hand, you still have to watch the cards flip over, one by one. If the dealer isn't trying to insert any unnecessary drama it should take ten or fifteen seconds. But that fraction of a minute can feel like an eternity.

That's how the final innings last night felt. Moments creeping along, stress building, exhaling after each pitch. When Mariano Rivera got Gary Matthews Jr. to go down swinging, the Yankees had the Angels drawing dead on the turn.

Andy Pettitte came up big given the circumstances, allowing six hits, one walk and one run over 6 1/3 innings while striking out 6. In the second inning, he got lucky when Vlad Guerrero strayed too far off the bag on a shallow blooper to right field and was doubled off of first, just another of the many baserunning mistakes the Yanks' opponents have gifted them with this October. The one run the Angels scratched across was in the 3rd inning on a two out Bobby Abreu single; it put the Angels up at the time but it would be their last lead of the season.

As they had throughout the series, the Yankees continued to strand runners throughout the first three innings. They wasted back to back singles by A-Rod and Mark Teixeira in the first, left the bases loaded in the second and stranded A-Rod after he walked in the third.

In the fourth inning, not entirely by coincidence, the Yanks offense and Nick Swisher came alive at the same time. After Robinson Cano walked to lead off the fourth, Swish followed him with a single to the left side. For some odd reason, Melky Cabrera was asked to bunt them over, bringing up Derek Jeter. After throwing him a curveball in the dirt, Joe Saunders pounded Jeter with fastball after fastball, four of them which Jeter fouled back and three of them which were called balls and the Captain took his place at first base.

With the bases loaded, Johnny Damon was due up. Finally, the Yanks broke through on his single to centerfield which allowed both Swisher and Cano to score. Teixeira singled to re-load the bases, bringing up A-Rod. He worked a 3-1 and took a pitch that appeared a first blush to be a strike, but was just barely outside, forcing in a run. Saunders' night was over (3.1IP, 7H, 5BB, 3ER) and he was replaced by Darren Oliver who promptly got Jorge Posada to ground into an inning-ending double play. Still, the damage was done and the Yankees led 3-1.

Pettitte ran into some trouble in the 6th with a two out single by Torii Hunter followed by a double to Vlad Guerrero. With the tying run on second base Pettitte dug deep, getting Kendry Morales to ground out and end the threat after 5 straight fastballs.

When Andy gave up a single to Juan Rivera in the 7th, he was lifted (after 6 1/3 IP for this 4th straight postseason start) in favor of Joba Chamberlain. This is the type of move that would have been endlessly second guessed had it not worked out, but the Jobanator retired the two batters he faced.

In bottom half of the inning, A-rod led off with a single but was erased when Jorge Posada grounded into another twin killing. Jorgie had a terrible night, going 0-5 and leaving 10 runners on base - 8 if you could the ones that were erased by the DPs.

Joe Girardi, perhaps revealing that he didn't have as much faith in Phil Hughes as he had stated throughout the long layoff between games, asked Mariano Rivera for a 6 out save. It got off to an inauspicious start as Chone Figgins led off with a base hit. Bobby Abreu very nearly changed the complexion of the game with a sharp shot headed for right field, but Mark Teixeira made a spectacular diving play to his right and scampered back to the bag for the first out. (Suck it UZR!). Vlad Guerrero singled later in the frame, driving in Figgins and closing the gap to 3-2 and the Angels worked Rivera for 22 pitches in the inning.

However, they squandered their hard work and gave the Yankees a gift in the home half. Both Nick Swisher and Melky Cabrera reached base on errors after dropping down bunts. The latter was particularly costly as Scott Kazmir lofted a lollipop over the leaping try of Howie Kendrick, allowing Robinson Cano (who walked to lead off the frame) to score. Teix added a sac fly to give Rivera a little extra cushion when he came back out for the 9th. He didn't need it as he sat them down 1-2-3 and send the Yankees to the World Series. Pettitte with the win (breaking the postseason record) and Rivera with the save. Beautiful.

Oh, the World Series, our old friend. It's been far too long.

In the end, the questionable maneuvering by Girardi, the two brutal losses out in Anaheim and the rainout on Saturday night will all be just a footnotes. The Yanks can put all that behind them now as the head to the 40th Fall Classic. How sweet it is.


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

As Good As It Gets?

In a way, Aaron Boone needing to have heart surgery is sort of karmic justice for the collective cardiac trauma he inflicted on Red Sox Nation on October 16th, 2003:
Boone made the announcement Wednesday, saying he has known about his heart condition since college but tests done after his routine physical determined he needed surgery. It is not an emergency, but doctors indicated the procedure was needed.

He said doctors told him he could play baseball when he recovers, but he's not sure if he will.

Godspeed, Mr. Boone. You made one of the most monumental plays in the history of sport. That swing extended the "curse" one more year and topped off one of the best nights of my life. Your knee injury in a pick-up basketball game opened the door for A-Rod, and even after this offseason, I can't hold it against you.

In 50 years, will we still look at that parabola into the left field seats as the cresendo of the Yankees vs. Red Sox Rivalry?

How could it get more momentous? That homer left the bat of a guy who had been inserted earlier as a pinch runner. It was the 11th inning of a Game 7.

Bucky Dent's dinger was in the 7th inning of a play-in game. When the Red Sox struck back in '04, it was the 2nd inning and the rest of the game felt like a foregone conclusion. For something more dramatic to occur would take a script less realistic than Rookie of the Year.

[h/t Shysterball]

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Number of Days Until Spring Training: Aaron Boone (#19)

Uh, remember this?


WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!?!?!

Remember when the Yankees were invincible and the Red Sox were just a bunch of gagging choke artists trying to suck three dicks at once?

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!?!?!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnnnn

/regains composure

The night Aaron Boone singlehandedly caused a record 326 heart attacks and 114 suicides the the greater Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I was attending Bentley College, in Waltham. My college tenure (2002-2006) coincided with some of the fiercest skirmishes in the history of the Yankees vs. Red Sox version of the Hundred Years War.

We were sophomores and happened to be living in a dorm populated by almost all seniors because my freshman year roommate won the 2nd pick in the housing lottery. My roommate Kevin and I got together with a few other Yankees fans (Kristen, Katie, Allissa, you out there?) and watched it in our room.

When the Red Sox were winning 4-1 in the top of the seventh, a few Boston loving, lobstah cracking, Storrow Drive driving, Kelly's Roast Beef loving (btw there is no fucking way you "created the orignial roast beef sandwich"), Jim Koch blowing, Boston Stranglin', Reveeah Beach walking (America's first public beach, huh? THEY WERE ALL PUBLIC WHEN THE FUCKING NATIVE AMERICANS LIVED HERE YOU RACIST OPRESSORS), yellow rain slicker wearing, NESN watching, chowdah gulping, Bernie and Phyl's shopping, Tia's on the Waterfront sweating, Tequila Rain dancing, Who's On First patrons who also happened to be motherfucking giant shiteating, fuckfaced fish mongers from fackin' Sawgus, Walpole, Reading, Taunton or some other godforsaken shithole, thought it would be a good idea to bang on everyone's doors and scream unintelligible shit.

Sorry, I lost it again for a second there.

It was before the ubiquity of the DVR and pretty much everyone on campus was watching the game at the exact same time. If you weren't tuned in, you probably still had a pretty good idea of what was going on, just by the collective audible reactions echoing throughout the dorms. It was fucking electric, and I can't imagine a baseball game ever getting to that place again.

The Red Sox have obviously since smartened up and became the Yankees pimp in recent years, so I guess there could technically be an epic playoff rematch, but I highly doubt it's going to come down to an 11th inning, Game 7, walk-off home run by a guy who never slugged .500 over a full season.

When it happened, everyone in the room went from deadly stoic to deliriously ecstatic in one swing of the bat. Being that most of the student body is from New England, we were one of the few rooms going absolutely insane, literally jumping around like a bunch of four year olds on a trampoline for the first time.

Because of that Perfect Storm, the aforementioned Matt Damon idolizing, NKOTB fawning, dock workers ended up eating a giant bag of shit for their premature celebration while the other Wellesley living, Nantucket vacationing, Tea Party having, Charles River trail running, Jordan's Furniture investing, Volvo driving, Phillips Exeter grads cried into the J. Crew sweaters draped over their shoulders and about 200,000 pink Sox hats got put back in the closet until the next October.

Whatever Sox fans, you won in 2004, con-fucking-gradulations, but Johnny Damon's 2nd inning grand slam could never hold a candle to Aaron-Fackin-Boone. Admit it. You were still worried until that last out was recorded. You will always be our collective bitches. Why don't you have a couple of glasses of Jameson and go for a drive?

For fuck's sake, can the season start already? Shovel off the Zeusdamn fields. I'll play!


Did I mention I hate Boston?

[Ed. Note: I could never have come up with all these Boston stereotypes by myself, and thus enlisted pretty much everyone I know that spend some time out there, including my sister, Joe, Kevin, Will and Cliff]