Monday, May 19, 2003
Guest Column
As we count down to the first game of the season between the Yankees and Red Sox, Baseball Writing is posting its first guest column. Here is a piece describing what it was like to be young and root for the Yankees of the late-80s/early 90s.
"A Long, Long Time Ago..."
by Mike Scarfo
"...I can still remember how that music used to make me smile..." And so goes the lyrical brillance of a song that is as much about nostalgia as it as about musical ghosts. It's funny how when you start to think about something that makes you smile, you often find yourself in a world where memories seem fresh and vital again. On this bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, I've been thinking about certain things on the baseball diamond, in particular, that have made me smile. Oh, those were the days...
"...I can still remember..." how watching every pitch of a Yankee game would strike a special feeling inside my stomach. The heroes of my childhood, players with names like Donnie Baseball, Big Dave and Rags, seemed like the greatest guys on the face of the earth. How could these mere mortals play a game for salaries as astronomical as ONE MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR??!! Believe me, at 10 and 12 years old, "one million dollars" sounded like a lot of money. What kid that grew up in the Northeast didn't pretend to be a member of the greatest franchise ever at some point? They wore those bold, striking pinstripes that represented tradition, honor and glory of days gone by. And they played in a home so significant that it was simply referred to as "The Stadium." I never realized how special a time that really was.
Those Yankee teams of the 80s were the team I followed in my formative years as a fan of the game. Although they didn't capture a World Series championship, it was an intriguing time in the lore of the New York Yankees. Consistently, the Yanks would be a good team that gave everything they had out on the field...well, we'll forget about Rickey Henderson for a moment... But still, baseball was fun to watch, it seemed fun to play, and the game may have never been as special in my life as it was then.
"...I can still remember..." how those scrappy, hustling teams of the late 80s turned into a sad, pathetic shadow of a team by the time the 90s began. They were managed by men named Stump, Dallas and Bucky, and did things as hard to believe as lose a game by four runs in which their pitcher hadn't given up a hit. They were not a good team; they were not even an average team, but you never thought that the game didn't mean anything to them. As loss after loss compiled, I felt the game itself was still something to be cherished. Fundamentals remained important, and the goal was still the same: to win as a team. The talent simply was not there, but I never questioned their effort. It's amazing how I almost miss the heart of that team. If nothing else, they cared, and I loved them for it.
But as with every bad stretch in sports, the light was soon to be found at the end of the tunnel.
"...I can still remember..." how the dismal mess of a weed that began the decade started to slowly bloom into a championship-caliber team. A switch hitting kid named Bernie was now manning the position held by immortals who wore the numbers 5 and 7, and began adding to their legacy. The brilliant career of an aging first baseman was coming to a close, and his desire to win became more evident in every dive for a ground ball, twitch of the wrists on a check swing, and in the stretch to nip a fast runner trying to bunt. A man named Buck captained the ship and made me proud to be a Yankee fan. I was enjoying the game as much as I ever had.
As baseball began a new era with the departure from the two-division format into three divisions with a Wild Card, so too did the Yankees begin a new era. Was it fitting that the New York Yankees were the initial AL Wild Card winner in 1995? Absolutely. The team, who left every drip of sweat on the field until their extra inning loss of a playoff game in the Northwest, earned as much of my respect as any team has. They were a "wild" card in every sense of the term because no fan knew what was going to follow... What did happen the following season was more magical than any rabbit that Kreskin could pull out of a hat.
"...I can still remember..." how 1996 seemed like the greatest year in the history of baseball to me. The New York Yankees won their first World Series title since I had been following the team. A manager that nobody had ever thought could muster anything, put together a season that was perfect in every sense of the word. The starting pitchers had to go no further than 6 innings to nearly guarantee a victory, as we saw Superman develop from a middle reliever with nothing but a cutting fastball. After two extremely forgettable home games in the Fall Classic, a group of guys in the Bronx gutted out four wins against the defending champion Atlanta Braves. I truly believe that this was the pinnacle of my joy as a baseball fan.
"...but in the streets the children screamed..."
The rest of the team's run through the 1990s and into the first decade of this century, never seemed as sweet to me as the taste of that first fruit. I became less in awe of a team that used to represent everything positive to me. They had provided my childhood heroes, and had risen, over the course of nearly a decade, from a 100-loss team to World Champions. They were now a group of seemingly hired guns, lured by dollars as much as anything else. Somewhat were even downright unlikeable. Wade Boggs? Roger Clemens? Jose Canseco? How could these guys, players who once wore the jerseys of the opposition, leach onto the brilliance and magic that once was? The victories continued to compile, as did the championships, but they began to lose the heart and interest of this fan. I didn't realize that the powers-that-be that run the Yankees would soon make my team nothing more than a bandwagon for every aging veteran to jump upon.
Today, I'm faced with the prospect of rooting for a team with a 900 zillion dollar payroll that can't field a ball if their life depended upon it. I realize I still love the uniform, but truly do not like the men occupying the sleeves. Of course, there are exceptions: Derek Jeter and my personal favorite, #51. But the "times they have changed," and I feel like the answer is "blowin' in the wind."
My question: Where have the heroes of my childhood gone? How is it that they have been replaced by overpriced guns-for-hire who don't seem to honor the field they play upon? I'm left to wonder what those intangible elements, like integrity, and the basic fundamentals of the game mean to these players.
Today, as I watched a man named John Thomson lead the Texas Rangers to their first ever sweep of the Bombers in the Bronx, the Kid, who perfectly represents today's athlete, kicked a sure-fire ground out to let in a Texas run. The over-priced and over-tattooed "savior" from Oakland remains mired in his second consecutive slump to start a season. Where is the heart? Why don't I love these guys like I used to? I don't know...I just don't know. But I do know that I am sad, as my memories are all I have to bond me to a time that was special to me. For this group will never bring the joy that I once had, no matter how much they win.
".....so bye bye Miss American Pie.......drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry.....and them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye.....singing this will be the day that I die." Yes, this will be the day that I die.
Mike Scarfo is a lifelong Yankee fan, but is a baseball fan as much as anything. His all-time favorite player: Dave Winfield.
As we count down to the first game of the season between the Yankees and Red Sox, Baseball Writing is posting its first guest column. Here is a piece describing what it was like to be young and root for the Yankees of the late-80s/early 90s.
"A Long, Long Time Ago..."
by Mike Scarfo
"...I can still remember how that music used to make me smile..." And so goes the lyrical brillance of a song that is as much about nostalgia as it as about musical ghosts. It's funny how when you start to think about something that makes you smile, you often find yourself in a world where memories seem fresh and vital again. On this bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, I've been thinking about certain things on the baseball diamond, in particular, that have made me smile. Oh, those were the days...
"...I can still remember..." how watching every pitch of a Yankee game would strike a special feeling inside my stomach. The heroes of my childhood, players with names like Donnie Baseball, Big Dave and Rags, seemed like the greatest guys on the face of the earth. How could these mere mortals play a game for salaries as astronomical as ONE MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR??!! Believe me, at 10 and 12 years old, "one million dollars" sounded like a lot of money. What kid that grew up in the Northeast didn't pretend to be a member of the greatest franchise ever at some point? They wore those bold, striking pinstripes that represented tradition, honor and glory of days gone by. And they played in a home so significant that it was simply referred to as "The Stadium." I never realized how special a time that really was.
Those Yankee teams of the 80s were the team I followed in my formative years as a fan of the game. Although they didn't capture a World Series championship, it was an intriguing time in the lore of the New York Yankees. Consistently, the Yanks would be a good team that gave everything they had out on the field...well, we'll forget about Rickey Henderson for a moment... But still, baseball was fun to watch, it seemed fun to play, and the game may have never been as special in my life as it was then.
"...I can still remember..." how those scrappy, hustling teams of the late 80s turned into a sad, pathetic shadow of a team by the time the 90s began. They were managed by men named Stump, Dallas and Bucky, and did things as hard to believe as lose a game by four runs in which their pitcher hadn't given up a hit. They were not a good team; they were not even an average team, but you never thought that the game didn't mean anything to them. As loss after loss compiled, I felt the game itself was still something to be cherished. Fundamentals remained important, and the goal was still the same: to win as a team. The talent simply was not there, but I never questioned their effort. It's amazing how I almost miss the heart of that team. If nothing else, they cared, and I loved them for it.
But as with every bad stretch in sports, the light was soon to be found at the end of the tunnel.
"...I can still remember..." how the dismal mess of a weed that began the decade started to slowly bloom into a championship-caliber team. A switch hitting kid named Bernie was now manning the position held by immortals who wore the numbers 5 and 7, and began adding to their legacy. The brilliant career of an aging first baseman was coming to a close, and his desire to win became more evident in every dive for a ground ball, twitch of the wrists on a check swing, and in the stretch to nip a fast runner trying to bunt. A man named Buck captained the ship and made me proud to be a Yankee fan. I was enjoying the game as much as I ever had.
As baseball began a new era with the departure from the two-division format into three divisions with a Wild Card, so too did the Yankees begin a new era. Was it fitting that the New York Yankees were the initial AL Wild Card winner in 1995? Absolutely. The team, who left every drip of sweat on the field until their extra inning loss of a playoff game in the Northwest, earned as much of my respect as any team has. They were a "wild" card in every sense of the term because no fan knew what was going to follow... What did happen the following season was more magical than any rabbit that Kreskin could pull out of a hat.
"...I can still remember..." how 1996 seemed like the greatest year in the history of baseball to me. The New York Yankees won their first World Series title since I had been following the team. A manager that nobody had ever thought could muster anything, put together a season that was perfect in every sense of the word. The starting pitchers had to go no further than 6 innings to nearly guarantee a victory, as we saw Superman develop from a middle reliever with nothing but a cutting fastball. After two extremely forgettable home games in the Fall Classic, a group of guys in the Bronx gutted out four wins against the defending champion Atlanta Braves. I truly believe that this was the pinnacle of my joy as a baseball fan.
"...but in the streets the children screamed..."
The rest of the team's run through the 1990s and into the first decade of this century, never seemed as sweet to me as the taste of that first fruit. I became less in awe of a team that used to represent everything positive to me. They had provided my childhood heroes, and had risen, over the course of nearly a decade, from a 100-loss team to World Champions. They were now a group of seemingly hired guns, lured by dollars as much as anything else. Somewhat were even downright unlikeable. Wade Boggs? Roger Clemens? Jose Canseco? How could these guys, players who once wore the jerseys of the opposition, leach onto the brilliance and magic that once was? The victories continued to compile, as did the championships, but they began to lose the heart and interest of this fan. I didn't realize that the powers-that-be that run the Yankees would soon make my team nothing more than a bandwagon for every aging veteran to jump upon.
Today, I'm faced with the prospect of rooting for a team with a 900 zillion dollar payroll that can't field a ball if their life depended upon it. I realize I still love the uniform, but truly do not like the men occupying the sleeves. Of course, there are exceptions: Derek Jeter and my personal favorite, #51. But the "times they have changed," and I feel like the answer is "blowin' in the wind."
My question: Where have the heroes of my childhood gone? How is it that they have been replaced by overpriced guns-for-hire who don't seem to honor the field they play upon? I'm left to wonder what those intangible elements, like integrity, and the basic fundamentals of the game mean to these players.
Today, as I watched a man named John Thomson lead the Texas Rangers to their first ever sweep of the Bombers in the Bronx, the Kid, who perfectly represents today's athlete, kicked a sure-fire ground out to let in a Texas run. The over-priced and over-tattooed "savior" from Oakland remains mired in his second consecutive slump to start a season. Where is the heart? Why don't I love these guys like I used to? I don't know...I just don't know. But I do know that I am sad, as my memories are all I have to bond me to a time that was special to me. For this group will never bring the joy that I once had, no matter how much they win.
".....so bye bye Miss American Pie.......drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry.....and them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye.....singing this will be the day that I die." Yes, this will be the day that I die.
Mike Scarfo is a lifelong Yankee fan, but is a baseball fan as much as anything. His all-time favorite player: Dave Winfield.
