It's OK to hate the Yankees
From The Chicago Sun-Times
By Jay Mariotti
October 3, 2002

NEW YORK--A rendition of "God Bless America'' still brings chills, much like the fans in their "FDNY'' caps and a grim mention by public-address man Bob Sheppard of "an outreach program for families still affected by Sept. 11.'' But as life relates to the team on the field, a strong sense of normalcy has returned.

Remove all muzzles, America. It's safe to hate the Yankees again.

Last autumn's compassion has become this autumn's renewed contempt. Just as every visit to New York grows more ordinary, every trip downtown less surreal, the incredible expanding payroll of George Steinbrenner--$135million and counting--brings out the old vomit bags. This is a postseason that finds hearts beating, even in Cubdom, for a team like the tragedy-battered Cardinals. Or the Twins, who foiled Bud Selig's evil contraction plot to reach October. Or the Athletics, a small-market machine constructed by a big-brained general manager.

Or, better, the no-name Anaheim Angels, an after-school special that Disney can't sell but still emerged late Wednesday night as our national team--on the very basis of beating the Yankees 8-6 and tying their American League divisional series at one game apiece. With impressive resolve, the Angels not only rallied from the dumps of their Game 1 collapse, but didn't let a blown 4-0 lead in Game 2 faze them. Though lacking magical pinstripes, they were the ones who produced the late rally, using successive home runs by Garret Anderson and Troy Glaus to regain the lead off the El Duque Formerly Known As Orlando Hernandez, then intimidating the Yankees in their own house when snarling reliever Troy Percival drilled Alfonso Soriano on the left shoulder blade.

From there, the Yankees went quietly, bringing brief hope to the masses that they still could be vulnerable. Despite a stunning series of comebacks in their current era, half the seats of the fabled stadium were left empty in the bottom of the ninth by spoiled fans rushing to the exits. Even the breaks went against Yankee karma, with a called third strike on Derek Jeter--with the bases loaded and two out in the eighth--closer to Hackensack than home plate.

"I always feel like we're going to win,'' manager Joe Torre said in the wee hours, after another four-hour, 11-minute marathon that no school-age kids saw. "This magical place makes me feel that way. But they're a scrappy ballclub. They battle. It's going to be a hell of a series.''

"I'm not going to say it's not big getting a win here,'' Anderson said.

It was a night that brought hope, though hollow, that the Yankees still could be vulnerable in their rebuilt mode of more offense and weaker defense. A big factor could be Percival, who fumed in the bullpen when manager Mike Scioscia opted for set-up man Brendan Donnelly with one out in the eighth, but quieted the Yankees in the ninth. I'd like to tell you it's an omen, that the Yankees will stumble and fall for a second straight year.

But that would be a wishful lie.

It's not that there isn't plenty to admire about the Yankees, including their ridiculously predictable penchant for laughing at late-inning deficits and winning games in their final few at-bats.

We also can't help but look straight up the middle, the heart of any club, and see homegrown franchise players aligned like stars in the sky as a tribute to superior scouting: Game 1 hero Bernie Williams, perpetual Mr. October Jeter and new rage Soriano. Yet where the Yankees tick us off, as always, is with an arrogance that engulfs their existence and assumes no one else exists or matters.

It's annoying enough that they were positioned for prime-time television the first two nights on Fox, while intriguing matchups such as the A's-Twins, Cardinals-Diamondbacks and Braves-Barry Bonds were relegated to something called the ABC Family Channel, which sounds like a fine station for "Dr. Phil,'' seeing how most Americans either don't receive it or haven't heard of it. But what's really galling is how the Yankees were talking so boldly after their dramatic Tuesday night victory. Having played only one game of a divisional series in a very long month, they spoke of their famous pinstripes as some sort of charmed, invincible force destined for a 27th world championship.

The centerpiece of the love-in was Jason Giambi, who signed for $120 million and already is dominating playoff TV with New York-styled Nike commercials. He started the eighth-inning rally with a game-tying single, then rattled off some postgame comments that reeked of the competitive imbalance that continues to dog baseball. He didn't mean harm, but every Yankees basher seethed with his every syllable.

"When you put on this uniform, you're expected to win. I did what I was brought here to do,'' Giambi said. "I told [coach] Lee Mazzilli when I was at first, 'Thank God I'm in this dugout and not the other one.' I've been in that spot saying, 'Oh, [bleep], here they go again.' It's unbelievable. It's like clockwork. You say it can't be magic, but the pinstripes find a way.''

Said Jeter: "We're trying to make history with this group.''

History? How about putting away the Halos first? The pinstripes are woven, of course, into a pair of trousers worn by men who make monstrous sums. In the past, I've defended Steinbrenner at times. He has hired savvy baseball people who know how to spot and breed awesome talent. He also has been smart enough to maximize the business advantages of being in a huge market, then reinvesting the necessary profits into the baseball product. If you're a Yankees fan, you love the guy. If you're a Cubs or White Sox fan, you think you despise him, but you really should examine your own owners--the financially bloated Tribune Co. for not having a higher payroll, the Sox for letting attendance free fall and not understanding the importance of public relations.

Yet Steinbrenner went too far this season when he added Raul Mondesi and Jeff Weaver, pushing the payroll to the outer limits. King George finally has done the impossible: He has made me feel sorry for the middle- and small-market owners who cry poor to hide behind their own failings.

Meanwhile, the Yankees chirp. "It's almost humorous to look back on how we win some of these ballgames,'' said Mike Mussina, he of the rich contract.

"You don't want to be arrogant,'' reliever Mike Stanton said, "but there is a pretty good chance we're not going to go quietly.''

See. Even when they try not to be arrogant, they are.

Response from Brandon Copple
October 2002

I generally don't like Jay Marriotti's columns because they're predictable and fail to rise above the obvious. But he hit this one right on the barrel of the bat. This is a great sports column for two reasons (and three sub-reasons):

1. It makes a good point, to wit: Fuck the Yankees
2. It recognizes and addresses the subtlies of the scenario, including the following:
a. The Yankees are a great ballclub that play with heart and guts
b. The heart of the team is homegrown (save the pitching staff), not just purchased at outrageous prices in the free agent bazaar
c. It's not a simple big-market/small-market issue, as any pathetic Chicago sports fan can tell you
d. You can concede the above points and still hate the Yankees as arrogant, greedy, rich assholes.

(Brandon Copple is a volunteer staff writer for 2 Walls Webzine)