Reflections from a fan of the Evil Empire

Most fans look ahead on opening day, with anticipation and relish. I’m no different, I suppose. Now early in my second half-century rooting for the Yankees, I can think of a few intriguing questions about this season. How are the Yankees going to squeeze seven legitimate starting pitchers into a five-man rotation, for instance, and will Joba Chamberlain pitch this year after mangling his ankle in a trampoline accident? (A flabbergasting event. I mean, has any professional athlete ever been so badly hurt playing with a 5-year-old?)

Really, though, most of my baseball thoughts are in the other direction, back rather than forward. I’m sure it’s partly a function of age, the prerogative of a geezer to bore young people with tales of the olden days: “You think the game Cliff Lee pitched against the Yankees in the opener of the 2009 World Series was a gem? You shoulda seen Koufax in ’63. Struck out 15.” I still have a vivid memory of an overmatched pinch-hitter, Harry Bright, whiffing for the final out. I was 9, and I remember the game as my introduction to the sense of disheartening inevitability that a fan of any team in any sport feels when it becomes clear that the opponent is unassailably superior. Sure enough, the Yanks were swept.

Anyway, I’m old enough to feel paternal about the current team’s gallant old stars. Having watched Derek Jeter grow not just into an accomplished veteran ballplayer, but also a charming, well-spoken adult, I’m proud of the young fella. The year Mariano Rivera joined the Yanks, I turned precisely the age he is now.

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