Ames Progressive

Despite total immersion in Yankee lore over the past month, with frequent phone calls and e-mails to fellow baseball aficionados who respect the game like no other set of fans, I fully realize that a majority of sports enthusiasts gloated as the Indians bumped George Steinbrenner’s Billion Dollar Babies in the first round of the playoffs.

The Boss’s untimely and counterproductive tactic to threaten manager Joe Torre’s job in the midst of a playoff series exemplifies the Yankee way of running an organization, leading outsiders to wonder how anyone could cheer for a team with such a callous commander in charge. The die-hards in Beantown dwell in Red Sox Nation, but the Yankee dictator has built a regime so powerful and merciless that fans unite in what is known as the “Evil Empire.”

Steinbrenner gained notoriety outside the sports community when Seinfeld co-creator Larry David imitated the domineering entrepreneur in various episodes of the show. The impression poked fun at the Boss in a playful manner. The Simpsons indirectly mocked Steinbrenner in the form of Monty Burns – a stereotypical, omnipotent boss who devalues the worth of his employees. The Simpsons’s diabolical character presumably allows the American public to grasp the insincerity that lurks in the souls of corporate bosses.

Steinbrenner purchased the club as a majority shareholder in 1973 after earning millions in a shipbuilding company in Ohio. The Pinstripes had racked up pennants with household names like Ruth, Gehrig, and Mantle. Greatness may breed jealousy, but greed can create sheer hatred, and that is exactly what Steinbrenner has accomplished since taking over the Yankees, meriting contemptible parody from such pundits as ESPN’s Jim Caple, who wrote The Devil Wears Pinstripes.

Oddly enough, I recently sprang up a conversation with a barber in Iowa who claimed he rooted for the Yankees during the ’60s but changed allegiance to the Twins after Steinbrenner acquired the team. With monopoly nothing more than the name of a board game and capitalism as foreign a concept as puberty, I similarly adopted the Yankees as my team during my childhood years because of their professionalism. The Mets disbanded their title team from ’86 in the early ’90s with half-brained trades and replaced such lovable icons as Lenny “Nails” Dykstra and Gary Carter with aging, over-priced vets like Bobby Bonilla and Eddie Murray. The boys from the Bronx improved with each season around that time, finally breaking through in ’96 with a title due to shrewd moves and a burgeoning farm system that included Derek Jeter, Andy Pettitte, and Mariano Rivera. That club overcame two embarrassing losses at the Stadium to begin the World Series and brought Mr. Steinbrenner his first title in 18 years.

My beloved “heroes” approached each at bat as though it held as much importance as any other. They supplied verve and discipline with each game. Some may accuse me of heresy for ditching my Queens allegiance and jumping on the bandwagon, but the Yankees’ unselfish mentality shook up my world at the time.

Even at a naïve age, I sensed that Steinbrenner placed marketability in front of loyalty. He finally delivered with his P.T. Barnum tactics in ’99 when he shipped David Wells to Toronto for Roger Clemens. Wells had pitched a perfect game during the previous season and was the third best pitcher on possibly the best team of my generation. Clemens, however, lived in a different stratosphere than most players due to his Hall of Fame numbers and Texas-sized aura on the mound. And that’s where the rouse begins. Over the past eight years I have remained faithful to the Yankees through the barrage of loathing. The claims of unethical shopping, of rigging the league through overspending, of extracting all that is decent and pristine about the game with outlandish purchasing, all chip at my understanding of ethics. I know many people, mainly Mets and Red Sox fans, hate me and my brethren, because in an individualistic society the unfortunate either wait patiently for the privileged to fall or they take immediate action. People build intolerance toward irredeemable qualities.

Clemens commenced the new Yankee way, and Steinbrenner began treating the off-season as an auction in which stocky salaries enticed almost everyone. But if The Rocket merely opened the door for the possibility of inflating the payroll to twice the size of Australia’s gross national product, then the decision to save Alex Rodriguez from another season of walloping home runs for a Rangers team satisfied with last-place finishes, surely guaranteed the reality of fielding a team with Forbes-like credentials.

The metamorphosis creates a dilemma. To abandon my love of the Yankees requires intense self-reflection. Yet, always a staunch opponent of the drawbacks of a society that promotes egocentric values without factoring in the health of every single person, I could easily cite the Yankees’ methods as the reason for my non-partisan interest in baseball. But for at least four personal reasons, I cannot dismiss the Yankee juggernaut as an inhumane machine feasting on the weaknesses of inferior opponents.

Guys like Jeter and Pettitte remain on the team, reminding me of the club with which I was enamored at a time when female companionship seemed burdensome.

As much as A-Rod hauls in during a year, the guy wholeheartedly plays the game with enthusiasm and shows, at least on the field, vulnerability that confirms the fact that he is just asking for what the market will pay.

The sites and sounds of Yankee Stadium strike deep in my sports collective memory and nothing will ever eradicate my association of celebration with watching the Yankees win three of four World Series at the end of the century.

Finally, Clemens arrived in ’99 but did not have a strong season. Looking back, those title teams were based on everyone contributing. In the midst of the McGwire/Sosa home run race in ’98, the Yankees team-oriented style of ball failed to gain the headlines but did succeed in coasting to a championship. The change in rosters over the years has produced no titles and three consecutive defeats in the first round.

All Yankee subliminal corrupting aside, I dread any baseball conversation with a unabashed Yankee-hater. I’m getting tired of playing the role of Newman. Behind these cold, calculating eyes lives a fan steeped in tradition, yearning for camaraderie and the unexpected from his team. Bash all you want, but when the season’s over we turn out the lights just like everyone else. And that sudden feeling of defeat stings through the winter.