For 100 years, the New York Yankees have been part of hundreds of historical milestones and legendary memories. Tonight, they can add one more fantastic achievement to their resume: The single most memorable and shameful choke of any team in major league baseball history.
The words degrading, embarrassing, humiliating and sickening are not powerful enough to characterize the drubbing that was handed to the so-called "best team in baseball" these past 4 days--and this night's complete and utter clock-cleaning was just an exclamation point.
Unlike last year, there was no drama to this deciding game. It was apparent quite quickly that Kevin Brown was utter feces, showing us all why he should never be given the chance to pick up a baseball again. The Red Sox mercilessly pounded him as if it were pre-game batting practice, and before you could even sit down to turn on the tube, his night was over. Enter Javier Vasquez, who within 5 milliseconds of taking the mound, offers up a beachball to Johnny Damon that puts the Sox up 6-0.
6-0? Yes. But, don't I recall something about these Yankees being able to "come back" so many times during the regular season? Their so-called "grittiness" and "heart" and "never say die" attitude? Surely, they would be able to slowly pick away, and make this a ball game--even if they hadn't been able to the last several nights.
Think again. The Yankees' multi-million dollar sham of a lineup again did their best imitation of the living dead: swinging at everything, showing no heart or life, and basically embarrising themselves at the plate. By the 6th inning, Red Sox pitcher Derek Lowe looked like Sandy Koufax, and at that point it was fairly clear that this game was completely out of reach. Where was the mighty Shefflied? And the Torrid Matsui? What about the patient Posada? And what, pray tell, became of the billion dollar man Alex Rodriguez? Were they even in the lineup? Or were they missing along with the Yankee pride and heart?
By midnight, the game was over. The men in pinstripes stood idly by as the hairy minions of evil jumped for joy in their own ballpark, knowing that they had not only beaten their nemesis, but done so in the most embarrasing and shameful way possible. The Yankees trudged off the field as lifeless as they had taken it: No heart. No ability. No self-respect. And no sympathy from anyone.
Tonight, Satan has the last laugh. He sits now, comfortably in his velvet robe with his ascot tie, savoring a glass of warm brandy and a Cuban cigar. His wretched smile curls upwards revealing the shiny grin of arrogance he has now reclaimed. For you see, Satan is one step away from conquering the so-called "curse" that has plagued his team since 1918, and he feels he is unstoppable.
And why not? The Yankees couldn't stop him. But then again, they didn't even bother to try.
