By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
In a year full of pained semi-admissions of pharmacological tomfoolery, fans of Major League Baseball also heard this testimony: "Therapy is an incredible thing, and you might get to know someone you didn't even know was in there." This was Alex Rodriguez, Yankee third baseman, MVP shoo-in, and the highest-paid player in baseball, publicly extolling the therapeutic intervention that enabled him to conquer performance anxiety. As a result, he batted .321 with a league-leading 48 home runs and 130 RBIs, guiding the Bronx Bombers to their 27th . . . well, not quite.
The Yankees nearly collapsed under the weight of unprecedented scrutiny during the most agonizingand thus excitingseason of manager Joe Torre's 10-year reign. Stumbling out of the gates with an 11-19 record, the most expensive baseball club ever assembled$203 million, all toldhad turned into an underdog. Replacing injured cash cows with upstart rookies, battling a parade of negative press and passive-aggressive bullying from owner George Steinbrenner, the Yankees rallied to win their division on the penultimate day of the season. All year, media outlets offered amateur psychological inquiries into the Boss's volatile hero experiment. "There are six shrinks on the mound right now," noted Fox's Tim McCarver during a midgame calm-downRandy Johnson infield conference, a week before this band of aging mortals succumbed, poetically, to the ascending Angels.
Psychoanalysts could argue that many athletes unconsciously dread success. Some superstars equate superiority with greed and narcissism. After a monster season, A-Rod (A-Choke?) could barely hit a pitch in the five-game playoff series against the Angels. (His mother told reporters that Alex's performance was hindered by the recent death of an uncle who acted as his surrogate father.) But to these eyes, the 2005 Yankees wanted the crown. They resembled a well-fortified mythical beast that promised and strived for immortality, but inevitably gave in to bodily limitations. Even on the highest throne in the world, man sits on his arse.
Why do nonNew Yorkers, myself included, cheer so emphatically for a team we expect to succeed? Why do Democrats? Aren't the Yankees the sporting analogue of doodle dandy U.S. imperialism, spending intimidating sums on colonizing the game's greatest players, launching preemptive strikes on small-market teams with potential Weapons of Red Sox Destruction? In a summer of second-place soul-searching, Ernest Becker's Pulitzer Prizewinning, post-Freudian psychoanalysis primer The Denial of Death provided me an answer to this dilemma and every dilemma. Best known, perhaps, as the butt of a joke in Annie Hall, this 1973 text universally reduces human anxiety to a single overarching fear, encapsulated in the title.
Because he fears death, man, per Becker, "must desperately justify himself as an object of primary value in the universe; he must stand out, be a hero, make the biggest possible contribution to world life, show that he counts more than anything or anyone else." Cheering for the Yankees is an investment in a seemingly foolproof hero myth. (Conversely, cheering for the Chicago Cubs is an annual acknowledgment of mortality, and a textbook case of Rankian neurosis: "With the truth, one cannot live.") To root for the Yankees is, simply put, to deny death. And because we deny death, we are all Yankees.
Does this season's early playoff exit mark the death of this dynasty? Probably. But if you want to continue the causa sui project, to fight off mortality neurosis by tranquilizing yourself with trivialities and hero myths (and yes, this is what sports is about), here are three reasons why I might be wrong:
1 Comeback Kid: The true pride of the Yankees rests on the notion that bodily decay does not existor rather, that it can be hidden from view. How else to explain the expensive acquisitions and subsequent demotions of Kevin Brown and Tony Womack, years past their prime, both scaling new heights of ineffectuality?
But then there's Jason Giambi. Starting the season in Womackian fashion (announcers cautiously invoked a "depression" diagnosis) after a winter of allegations and "maybe I did and maybe I didn't"s, the former MVP was asked to take a minor-league vacation by Yankee execs eager to sweep decay under the rug. He refuseda veteran's prerogativeand re-emerged. Extra batting practice with Don Mattingly and a 24-hour looped screening of Rockys I through V molded Giambi into the fiercest, sweatiest lefty slugger the Yankees had owned in years. Pharmaceutical means be damned. Giambi denies death on his own terms.
On a personal level, Giambi reaffirmed my faith in the grand illusion. To liberally quote the bible on existential sports fandom, Frederick Exley's 1968 semi-autobio A Fan's Notes: Giambi, "when I heard the city cheer him, came after a time to represent to me the possible, had sustained for me the illusion that I could escape the bleak anonymity of life. . . . He may be the only fame I'll ever have!"
2 Small Ball: Steinbrenner's win-or-win business model remains both infamous and politically incorrect. Trade away young prospects for older, established superstars. Seek home run power, not relief pitching. And yet, some of the brightest stars in the 2005 Yankee lineupRobinson Cano, Shawn Chacon, Bubba Crosby, Aaron Smallarrived fresh off the boat from AAA Columbus (or worse, the Colorado Rockies' pitching rotation), chewing up less than one percent of the team payroll combined.