My Game: When Baseball Became Romantic
Baseball season is almost here, and with it, On The Couch Sports presents My Game, a series highlighting a moment that helped define our baseball fandom.
Born in 1990, I was blessed to be raised a Yankees fan just as “The Core Four” were enjoying their prime. Being able to witness the careers of Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada, and Andy Pettitte is something I’ll forever cherish. They provided me with the absolute best possible baseball memories and idols, and I still marvel at the fact that they all played together in the minors, and all made their MLB debuts during the ’95 season. That just doesn’t happen anymore (unless you’re the Cubs).
With four World Series rings in five years (and five total in their careers with the Yankees), you’d think that my defining moment in baseball came during one of those seasons.
You’d be wrong.
My game occurred on October 13, 2001 in the ALDS between the Yanks and the Oakland Athletics. The Yankees trailed 2–1 in the best-of-five series, and were playing in an elimination game on the road in Oakland. Leading 1–0 in the 7th with two outs and Jeremy Giambi on first, Terrance Long ripped a Mike Mussina pitch down the first base line. Off the bat, there was little doubt that Giambi was going to come around to score and knot up the game at 1–1.
Let’s take a step back. At the time, I was 11-years-old and loving Little League life. At that age, you practice situational baseball over and over again. The proper play is drilled into your mind repeatedly until it becomes second nature. You go over exactly what to do in certain circumstances, where you should be positioned on each play, and equally important — how to cut the ball off from the outfield.
Little League was everything; it was all I knew. I went over situational baseball in my head at night. I threw against a pitch-back until I couldn’t lift my arm anymore. I played in as many leagues and games as I could. I soon had an extensive knowledge of the game, even for an 11-year-old, and could start piecing together the outcome of plays before they resolved.
BACK TO MY GAME: Watching this play progress, my 11-year-old-self wholeheartedly believed Giambi was going to score, the A’s were going to tie the game, take the momentum, and eliminate my beloved Yankees.
As the ball rattled around in the right field corner, Giambi was already on his way to third base. Shane Spencer, the Yankees right fielder at the time, fielded the ball and threw it as hard as he could towards the infield. Unfortunately, his throw sailed over not one, but two cut-offs in the double-cut relay from right.
But that’s when something happened — something that I hadn’t thought possible at the time and something I haven’t seen since. You see, the beauty of watching baseball is that you have to calculate so many different things simultaneously in order to get the full picture of the diamond.
Let’s take this play for example. With two outs, Giambi was running on contact. Off the bat, you had to estimate how much time it would take for Spencer to reach the ball in the deep right corner. You watch Spencer get to the ball and throw it in — you take a glance at the cut-off to check on position while tracking Giambi rounding third base. You watch as the third base coach sees the errant throw and sends Giambi home. In that moment, you realize there’s no doubt Giambi was going to be safe.
But he wasn’t.
Derek Jeter, witnessing the play unfold with the rest of us, saw the errant throw and leaped into action. He ran towards the first base line, corralled the overthrow, and redirected it to Posada at home with the flip of the wrist. Giambi, not sliding because his calculations were consistent with that of every other baseball fan, was tagged out at the plate in a bang-bang play.
And thus, “The Flip” was born.
That kind of play had never happened, and, to be frank, wasn’t even supposed to happen, as Jeter had no business being in that area during the relay from the outfield (he’s supposed to be covering second base). The Flip, however, awakened something inside of baseball fans everywhere…the thought that despite all of your calculations and training, this game can still surprise you.
In the words of the Oakland A’s General Manager Billy Beane himself, “It’s hard not to be romantic about baseball.”
