Unlike Yesteryear, They Beat You 90 Feet at a Time

It was one of the great World Series games of all time. But I have a confession to make.

You know, there’s an old adage: “If you shoot at a king, make sure you kill him.”

The Atlanta Braves forgot that Wednesday night.

So did I.

Let me set the scene for you: It was a middle inning. The Braves were sailing along with a six-run lead. The Yankees were futile--two scratch hits.

I had seen enough. Computer in hand, I started my story in the best traditions of a Yankee-phobe. It read like this:

“Wait a minute! Time out. What’s going on here?!

“Someone’s trying to pull a fast one here! Who’s trying to kid whom here?! Enough already!

“I mean, these are the New York Yankees?! This bunch of banjos?!

“Gimme a break! If these are the New York Yankees, I’m Pope John.

“Can I tell you something? Come closer. These guys bunted! That’s right. Gave up a couple of at-bats to move a runner up.

“You think the real Yankees ever bunted? Are you kidding? How can you bunt the ball into the center-field seats? The real Yankees weren’t interested in playing for one run. The real Yankees got ‘em in clusters. Three-run homers were their idea of moving the runner up.

“Real men don’t bunt. That was the Yankee approach. Better to strike out like a man.

“Yankees bunting! Yankees hitting-behind-the-runner and all that jazz?

“Picture Babe Ruth bunting, can you? Giddouddahere! Ruth’d be ashamed. You think you need a 52-ounce bat to bunt?

“Bunt?! Gehrig would frown. Reggie Jackson would ask the manager, ‘Are you kidding?’ DiMaggio would look embarrassed. Maris wouldn’t know how. Mantle knew how, but they wouldn’t let him.

“No, these guys are impostors. Real Yankees are all 6 or 7 feet tall, strong as truck stop coffee and not interested in pecking you to death a run at a time. They left that for the other teams and then they threw a seven-run inning at them. Remember, they won World Series games 18-4, 16-3 and the like. They had you for lunch.

“The real Yankees used to have this thing where they tantalized you. They went along a lot of innings and, just when you thought you had the game in the hangar, they produced what the sportswriters used to call ‘5 o’clock lightning.’ It was a frightening rally where the balls suddenly soared into orbit breaking windows in the apartment houses all over the Bronx while runners crossed the plate like relay teams. Giving rise to the title ‘Bronx Bombers.’

“It was called ‘5 o’clock lightning’ because, in those blessed years of day baseball, that’s the hour when it would occur.”

Well, I had no sooner written those deathless words, I had no sooner buried the Yankees in a blanket of derisive prose than the sixth inning broke upon us.

It started innocently enough. Derek Jeter pumped a single to left. Bernie Williams walked. Cecil Fielder smashed a ball to right field which caught the outfielder weighing an impossible shoestring catch. He couldn’t make it. The ball bounded behind him. Two runs. Fielder took second. Charlie Hayes drove him in.

Unimpressive. But not 5 o’clock lightning.

We dissolve now to the eighth inning. Atlanta ace Mark Wohlers, he of the 98-mph fastball, is on the hill. Two one-base hits and reserve catcher Jim Leyritz is at bat. He takes a few pitches, looks ineffective.

Then, he socks the ball high and deep over the left-field fence to tie the score, 6-6.

OK, 12 o’clock lightning.

Then, the 10th inning. First two Yankee batters go quietly. The relief pitcher loses his compass. He walks Jeter. Then, he intentionally walks Bernie Williams. Then, he intentionally walks Cecil Fielder! This moves a go-ahead run to third.

That’s what the old Yankees used to do to you. Get you to figure a walk was smart. One base is better than three runs.

It wasn’t. With the bases deliberately loaded, pitcher Avery walked in the lead run. He may have walked in the world championship.

Then, a sub first baseman butchered a chance on a third-out bloop to first base. Error. Another run. Yankees, 8-6.

You see? Yankees are Yankees. Don’t ever count ‘em out. They are the Rasputins of baseball. Just when you think rigor mortis is setting in, here they come again. Never turn your back on them. They’re like those bad characters in suspense movies. The good guy seems to have slain them and he is busy kissing the girl when, all of a sudden, the “corpse” starts to sit up and reach for the gun.

I don’t know about the Atlanta Braves but, from now on, they can bunt all they want. The Yankees are still the Yankees. Check their pulse before you start gloating. Whether it’s Babe Ruth or Cecil Fielder. Mickey Mantle or Mickey Mouse. When they get those pinstripes on, they’re a tough kill.