Nothing For Now

Boo!

I'm not much of a Halloween person, so this day was much like any other for me. Except for the occasional Playboy bunny, Zorro, or Yakuza walking around campus (don't ask), everything was pretty routine. Considering how...umm...liberal my school is, it was sometimes hard to tell if the outfits were actually costumes, but that just added to the fun.

So I skipped the screening of The Ring and the Halloween Dance, and spent the night with my fellow non-celebrators, eating Chinese food and talking about basketball. No homework, no exams, just some much-needed relaxation.

I guess I do like Halloween.

The Key to Eternal Contentment

Happiness is the end of a 2-hour Political Science exam. I can't feel two of the fingers on my left hand and I have a funny blister on my palm from gripping my pen like it had peronally insulted me, but I'm finished. Now, I just need some food, The Producers soundtrack, and my handy dandy headphones, and my night will be complete.

***

And now, a word from our sponsors:

This entry, and the happiness motivating it, is made possible by Amazon's miraculous Search Inside the Book function, which saved me at least two hours of flipping through The Divided Welfare State for relevant information, and coffee. Lots of coffee.

Evil Things

Ugh. I'm currently hunched over my computer, attempting to type while my stomach attempts to digest itself from the inside out. Or at least, that's how I feel, thanks to the wonders of dining hall chicken. That stuff is positively foul, but I've never gotten sick from it before. Ah, well. First time for everything, right?

Now I'm going to curl up in a ball on the floor for a while.

The End

Well, that's the end of that. Baseball season is over, and the Florida Marlins won the World Series. Somehow, though, I can't bring myself to be sad. I'm disappointed, yes, but not genuinely grief-stricken. I'm not even particularly angry. The only thing that really rankles me about this World Series is that Jeff Weaver got involved...but I'll get back to that little debacle later.

I've been following the Yankees fanatically since March, from the hype and hope of Spring Training to the grind of the regular season to the thrills of October. I've been reading, listening to, or watching something baseball-related just about every day for 8 months now. I really, really wanted the Yankees to win the World Series. So why can't I even work up a good temper tantrum now that they've lost to the Marlins, of all teams?

Maybe the fact that it was the Marlins was part of it. Other than a low-grade contempt for Jeffrey Loria, the owner and Selig crony so foul he makes George Steinbrenner look like a good guy, I don't really feel anything for the team from Florida. It's hard to get really emotional about a team with so little backstory, tradition, or personality. The Marlins are just- the Marlins. They aren't the lovable Cubs or Twinkies, the Beane-a-riffic A's, or even the Braves, who we can always count on for postseason disappointment. Most of all, the Marlins aren't the Red Sox, and that's what killed this World Series for me.

The ALCS thrilled the heck out of me- but it was also draining. I mean, we're talking a Yankees-Red Sox series with two brawls, two Pedro-Roger duels, and an 11th-inning home run in Game 7- by Aaron Boone, of all people- to end it. By the time I was done hopping up and down in sheer glee at the victory, I was exhausted. All the excitement, all the emotions I had been storing up during the season for special use in October, were gone. I was finished.

So if my slightly lackluster cheering was what brought the Yankees down, I'm sorry. If my lack of grief over the lack of a championship makes me a bad fan, so be it. The ALCS was my World Series, and I kind of wish the season had ended right there.

But, since the season most assuredly didn't end with The Lesser Boone's miraculous shot, I've had to hold off on final thoughts until today. The 2003 Yankees will probably be seen by some as a disappointment- they were a team constructed to win a championship, and they didn't. In my opinion, though, they did very well for themselves, especially considering all the turmoil they went through this season. They suffered injuries to Jason Giambi, Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, and Mariano Rivera, bickering between the Tampa and New York offices, endless poking and prodding by their beloved owner, and unsteady or disappointing performances by Boone, Alfonso Soriano, Hideki Matsui, Jose Contreras, and the whole bullpen. The only consistent bright spot was the starting pitching of the Big Four- Roger Clemens, Mike Mussina, David Wells, and Andy Pettitte all had very good seasons despite being consistently screwed over by the defense behind them and the bullpen following them. And yet, even with all the controversy and worry, the 2003 Yankees managed to win 101 games and have the best record in the league. In other words, they were a great team.

So, to finish my thoughts on the strange season of 2003, I have a few parting words to the main players:

To Joe Torre: Here's hoping you get to finish out your contract and stay for one more year. If, however, you get fired or resign, thank you for an amazing managerial run. You alone have managed to tame the wrath of George and bring some semblance of sanity to Yankeeland for a while. Your steadiness and ability to handle the players, the aforementioned George, and the slightly insane New York media will be missed.

To Aaron Boone: I still don't like you, but thank you for an absolutely spectaular postseason moment. Please remember how to hit next season- I know you have it in you, somewhere.

To Alfonso Soriano: I'm one of your biggest fans, but if you don't do some serious work on your strike zone judgement in the offseason I'm going to be pissed. You're 25 years old- it's time to stop wasting your talent.

To David Wells: On the day before your World Series start, you bragged that you got along for 20 years in the big leagues without working out. Next thing you know, you had to leave after one inning with a bad back. Coincidence? I think not.

To Jeff Weaver: I really don't like you, but I won't hold you responsible for that debacle in Game 4- the blame lies squarely on Torre's shoulders. You should have been cheering on your teammates, doing jumping jacks, cleaning the bullpen bathroom- anything but actually pitching. Grrr.

To Jason Giambi and Bernie Williams: I hope your knees get better. You're needed.

To Jeffrey Loria: Hey, who needs to deal with the devil when you've got Bud Selig, right?

And finally, to Roger Clemens: Congratulations on an incredible career, and a very credible final start, though it probably didn't end the way you'd hoped. Good luck getting that Olympic gold medal.

So...that's it. After 179 games, the Yankees' season is over.

How many days until spring training?

Woah

That's been about the extent of my thought processes for the past few hours. I mean, Boone? Aaron Frickin' Boone? But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me backtrack a bit.

Game 7 of the ALCS was absolutely amazing. I'm sorry I couldn't come up with anything better to describe it, but it's 4:30 in the morning and I've been hopping up and down celebrating ever since that last home run landed in the seats. The great Roger-Pedro pitching duel never materialized, but seemingly all of the Yankees' staff combined forces to hold off the Red Sox, keep the game close, and give the team a chance to rally.

I can't overstate the importance of Mike Mussina in this game. Mariano Rivera absolutely deserved his MVP award, and his 3-inning performance in this game was the stuff of legend, but none of it would have been possible if Mussina hadn't acted as stopper in the middle innings. Joe Torre elected to remove Clemens after he gave up 4 runs in 3+ innings of work, but was left with a nasty situation- two men on, no one out. Who did he call? None other than the aforementioned Moose, who calmly got a strikeout and a double play to put out the fire, then pitched two more scoreless innings.

In my opinion, the game was decided by two managerial moves- one by Joe Torre, and one by Grady Little. I already mentioned the one by Torre- his quick hook with Clemens and his fearlessness in getting the best possible pitcher (outside of Rivera) in there right away changed the tone of the game from a Red Sox romp to a tense pitcher's duel. It was just another case of Torre playing his cards just right.

Grady Little's decision to leave Pedro on the hill in the eighth, however, will no doubt cost him his job. Pedro was visibly flagging, but he asked Little to keep him in and the manager assented. I feel bad for Grady in this situation- Pedro had pitched a great game, and he's Boston's ace. I guess Little was subscribing to the "go down with your best" theory of managing, but he forgot something rather important- his bullpen was excellent, too.

Anyway, that move by Grady proved to be the one that finally turned the game in the Yankees' favor. They tied the game in the eighth and went to the spectacular Rivera for the next three innings, but then things started to get worrisome again.

I don't trust the Yankee bullpen. As far as I'm concerned, it's Mariano or bust, and evidently Joe feels the same way. So when the Maginificent Mo finished his third inning of work, I started to panic. The only pitchers left in the bullpen were Gabe White (unreliable), Jose Contreras (unpredictable), and Jeff Weaver (*whimper*).

And the hitters due up in the bottom of the 11th weren't much better. First up: Aaron Boone, or, as Larry Mankhen so aptly called him, the king of suck. (Or the suckiest of sucks, but it depended on the context, really.) Next: Karim Garcia, slayer of groundskeepers, whose main contribution in the postseason was getting hit by a Pedro Martinez pitch in Game 3. And finally, Alfonso Soriano, who already had a golden sombrero (4 strikeouts) to his name. To top it all off, this bunch had to face Tim Wakefield and his Knuckleball of Doom, which had stymied the Yankees throughout the series.

So imagine my surprise when Boone hit the first pitch of the inning- and it carried. And carried. And carried. And landed in the left field seats.

Let's just say I've been floating ever since, and I'm not coming down. I can't even imagine how Boone feels. Congratulations, Aaron, you've made up for a half-season of suckiness with one swing of the bat. Feels good, doesn't it? October will do that to you. The Red Sox and their fans now have one more reason to see autumn as the season of woe, but you, Aaron, have see the other side of this month- it can also be the season of redemption. Congratulations.

My Mistake

A few weeks ago, my college informed me that I would not receive my grades at the end of the semester unless I gave them my cholesterol level. Of course, I laughed at this. What, were they afraid that a skinny 18-year-old was going to drop dead of a heart attack in the middle of class? How silly, I thought. Until today.

Game 7 of the ALCS. Yankees vs. Red Sox. Roger Clemens vs. Pedro Martinez. Winner goes to the World Series. Oh. My. Lord. I haven't gotten my cholesterol levels back yet, but I certainly hope they're healthy. Because otherwise that heart attack is only a few hours away from happening.

A commonly held viewpoint says that Yankee fans are insufferably arrogant, believing quite firmly that their team's pinstriped aura is enough to overcome any obstacle. Especially in the postseason, and most especially against the Red Sox. I am not that Yankee fan. In fact, every time I try thinking about tonight's game for more than 20 seconds at a time my palms start sweating too much for me to type. It's Roger vs. Pedro, for heaven's sake. After Game 3's fireworks, how can I not be nervous?

No, there is no destiny, even when the teams involved are the fabulously successful Yankees and always-just-short Red Sox. There are only two incredible starting pitchers and the eighteen hitters supporting them. Games aren't won and lost with curses and mystique; they're played with gloves and bats and cleats and helmets. Ted Williams and the Babe have no say in the outcome of tonight's contest, and I'm okay with that. Manny, Bernie, Nomar, and Sori suit me just fine.

Now I just need some antacids.

Detrimental to One's Health

The Yankees-Red Sox ALCS starts tonight. Wait, let me repeat that: The Yankees-Red Sox ALCS starts tonight. Division rivalry? Who cares! Thanks to the wonders of the wild card, the season series against the Sox means just about nothing now.

But hey, that's okay. Yankees vs. Red Sox. New York vs. Boston. Giant Ego vs. Immense Inferiority Complex. It's going to be exciting. Every insane Boston fan in my dorm will hate me by tomorrow, but it's going to be exciting. I'll probably end up fainting, clawing my eyes out, or being reduced to a quivering pile of nerves- but it'll be exciting. Yeah. Can't wait.

Now where did those tranquilizers go...?

***

The always-witty Jim Bouton has a fun perspective on the upcoming series. If you haven't read Ball Four yet, shame on you. Especially if you read my first blog entry.

A Slight Distraction

I would be writing about how happy I am that the Yankees won the Division Series with an 8-1 ass-kicking, but there seems to be a slight distraction. What could it be?

Oh, right. I'm starving. Yom Kippur is that much harder when you still have to go to class- at least in high school we had vacation on the High Holy Days. Oh, well...only 6 or so hours to go. *stomach growls loudly*

Update: 8:30 pm

Edit: Lyrics courtesy ofOliver

Mystique and Aura, Together Again

That's right, folks, everyone's favorite strippers are once again performing at Yankee Stadium, as evidenced by the Yankees 4-1 victory in Game 2 of the ALDS.

Andy Pettitte pitched magnificently, Alfonso Soriano drove the offense (again), and Jason Giambi redeemed himself in the eyes of the fickle Yankee nation.

You'd think I'd be happy about all this, and I am, but there's just one fly in the ointment, and that fly is ER Girl. Don't ask me her name; she's just ER Girl, who's purpose in life is to ruin the television viewing of everyone else in the dorm. ER Girl reserved the only TV in the building for every episode of her precious show, and she keeps popping up at the most opportune times to take advantage of it. Democratic Presidential debate? Here comes ER girl. Playoff game tied in the fifth? Here comes ER girl, to take away the TV and force me to watch stupid little dots on my computer screen and wait for half a minute while the page refreshes before I find out if a ball in play is a hit. Curse you, ER Girl, for tainting the only playoff game I've gotten to watch on TV since Game 7 of the 2001 World Series. (And wasn't that a delightful experience.)

*Takes deep, calming breath*

OK. I'm good now. Roger Clemens is up in the Metrodome tomorrow- I'm crossing my fingers, legs, and toes for good luck.

Falling

Autumn has finally hit our little corner of the country. After the death-by-boiling I experienced in the first few weeks of school, and the pleasant weather after that, I've finally discovered that wearing a T-shirt outside in the morning just isn't going to cut it anymore. But while sweatshirts and jackets have become standard gear around campus, the leaves have barely begun to turn. I can't wait until they do- it's going to be beautiful.

Today was just a normal day. Nothing special happened- I went to my Islamic history class and watered my plant in the morning, then hung around reading in the afternoon. In the evening, I ran around like a maniac trying to get from an Aikido class in town to a required screening of Amistad in the middle of campus.

When I came back from the movie, I found half the dorm in the lounge, watching the Red Sox and the A's battle it out. It was one of those games where I kinda wished both teams would lose, but I didn't think that would win me any points with the crowd. So I went back upstairs to my room, and that's where I am now.

Huh. How boring. But boring is okay sometimes, especially since most of the points of interest in my life of late have involved all-nighters and evil, evil essays. So, here's to a boring day and an early bedtime. I hope I have days like this more often.