With the Yankees in action against the Pirates at the very same time that Team USA was facing elimination against Puerto Rico, I felt compelled to follow both games and, as a result, developed a severe case of split personality.
Part of me was my usual Yankee-centric self, caring only about the game at George M. Steinbrenner Field. Why shouldn’t I? There was a lot at stake.
Like would CC rebound from his awful outing?
Would Mo throw strikes in his spring training debut?
Would Posada be able to catch without his arm falling off?
There were more plot twists than on this.
Luckily, all was well in Yankeeville as the Bombers beat the Pirates 9-2.
CC went four solid innings, only giving up a run while striking out seven. Sweet.
Mo threw a 1-2-3 inning, striking out two. Really sweet.
Jorge’s arm didn’t fall off, and he seemed happy about that.
With the victory sealed, I turned my attention to the goings-on in Miami. As I’ve said before, I’m not a big fan of the WBC. I think the tournament should be played in December or January, when it wouldn’t conflict with spring training and would provide welcome entertainment for those of us who are starving for baseball at that time of year. But whatever. Team USA was down to their last out in the bottom of the ninth, about to be booted out of the tourney. Up to the plate stepped David Wright.
He may be a Met, but I was rooting for him to do something, anything, to keep Team USA’s hopes alive, even if he does stick out his tongue when he swings the bat.
I yelled at the TV. “WRIGHT, GET A HIT!”
And he did. He went down and got a pitch that was out of the strike zone and golfed it into right for a walk-off single. Game over. Group hug. Everybody pile on.
I yelled at the TV again. “JETER, DON’T JUMP INTO THE PILE OR YOU MIGHT STRAIN AN OBLIQUE!”
Yes, my split personality defaulted right back to the Yankees, and my main concern was my Captain.
I yelled at the TV some more. “JETER, IF YOU WANT TO HUG PLAYERS SO BADLY, HUG OTHER YANKEES WHEN YOU WIN THE WORLD SERIES THIS FALL!”
My husband walked into the room and asked who I was talking to.
“David Wright and Derek Jeter,” I said with a shrug, as if it was obvious.
He rolled his eyes. “I guess I should worry when you start telling me these guys talk back.”
I didn’t dare mention that in my twisted imagination they already do. And I certainly didn’t tell him about the strange thing I did on a basketball court the other day. Take a look, but please keep it to yourself.