NEW YORK, N.Y., October 16, 2005 — Darn. What a Gyp! It’s almost six days now, the Almighty seems to have recovered, seeing as the sun has returned to New York, and so I’m thinking it’s about time I do the same. I’d like to say the turn in the weather has shaken me out of my lethargy and alerted me to how lucky this Yankee fan’s life has been, but that would be giving me credit for a maturity I possess in extremely short supply.

I’m lucky enough to live within a couple of miles of Ryetown Beach and Rye Playland, in Westchester County, just 20 miles or so north of The House That Ruth Built. Until October 15 this fact had made the bleak and wet skies even more intolerable, but Saturday morning broke with a hint of golden sun among the clouds, and by early afternoon the clear skies had driven the offending clouds from view. The boardwalk that spans the county and the city parks along a lower ark of the western shore of Long Island Sound stretches perhaps a half mile, maybe more, but it’s a pleasant mile-or-more roundtrip walk. Not exactly triathlon or Iron Man competition levels you understand, but it “keeps me in the game.”

Another thing Rye has is some of the classic rides in the history of the amusement park, including a version of a Merry-Go-Round from 1928 that approaches speeds of 30 mph. The park is sealed off in October, but on nice days they do open a small arcade on the boardwalk. After bypassing it Saturday, I succumbed to its allure today, and I gravitated to the back left corner like a homing pigeon carrying invasion plans.

And there it was, probably the first baseball game of any kind I played in my life. No visible plate attached to “Bat-A-Ball” has any indication of its age or date of origination, but the not exactly mind-numbing special effects have quickened my pulse for more years than I care to codify in writing. A coin-activated arm makes 15 timed revolutions, each releasing a metal ball that then rolls down a groove toward the player. The only mode of play is to squeeze a handle that causes a wooden bat situated before the groove to swing and recoil. The action is mechanical; the bat swings via the squeeze whether a ball is in play or not (though only the most bored youth ever can stand to swing it to no purpose for long). No uppercuts. No swinging down for the line drive action of a Paul O’Neill or Robison Cano. The (hopefully) struck ball travels as a line drive (again hopefully, all grounders are outs) where it will strike the far facade. If the ball hits at a certain velocity and angle above one of four slots, it drops in and rewards the player with a single, double, triple, or home run.

Over the several decades since first sight I have never performed well at this game. I invariably start swinging with abandon and impatience several times once I feel gypped by a liner that smacks hard only to bounce back and roll to an unproductive end through the green painted outfield surface that slopes away. One finds similar examples of the coin-operated game on line from 1947, and 1951; my first try came in Rockaway Park some (?) years afterward. But on this 2005 day, I figuratively choke up a bit, partially engaging the bat and holding it almost over the painted plate. I hit most and score a few, even though the machine sometimes forgets that I have a man on base when I manage what would be an rbi hit even if the officious Joe West and the sadly short-on-detail Doug Eddings were scoring.

Flush with unrestricted juvenile glee, and mellow about the runs stolen, I strode back to the car in a reflective mood. The fun was tempered by the decades it had taken me to grasp such a simple lesson. But Danny the adolescent could accept life lessons with a game won, or at least well played, and Dan the adult emerged ready to confront his position vis a vis the sport six days after his 2005 season has come to a close.

The 1927, 1936, 1961, 1998 seasons notwithstanding, none of these years are perfect, and even the troubled 2005 season had some glorious moments. A flawless season is never the phrase one could apply to the 1978 comeback, for instance, but did Yankee fans ever bask in a more glorious postseason? We’ve won some, though not in a while in the Torre years, but the season that 2005 reminds me of most was 1995, where the Yankees, Angels, and Mariners played must games for a month apiece, and all won far more often than they lost. The in-a-hole-early 2005 Yankees played inspired ball down the stretch, and they fought their way to the division title and the playoffs against the Red Sox, the A’s, the Angels, and the Indians, with most putting up quite a fight until the last games.

The ALDS was probably lost when the Yanks took one day off from their crisp play in Game Two in Anaheim, after taking Game One with veteran Mike Mussina outpitching fireballer Bartolo Colon. Young Chien-Ming Wang gave the Yanks the consistent grounders they craved, but three were muffed, and a huge defensive play by Chone Figgins blunted the Bombers’ best chance. Few realized the gravity of the loss until Randy Johnson was pounded early in perhaps the ugliest day in Yankee Stadium since Opening Day in 1996, but the Pinstripers pulled off a gutsy win vs. an almost unhittable John Lackey and the Anaheim pen in Game Four.

So what happened Monday night? The adult in me can tell you that the Yanks got a huge break when Colon had to leave early with an injury, that a once-in-a-season missed sign flattened a rally, that a fluke outfield collision cost us the game, that Joe West stole a great chance, that the Yanks just couldn’t get the big hit when they needed it. I could assure you that Mussina pitched well enough to win yet again, that Joe was right to trust Moose even if the bloops delivered a contrary result, that Randy Johnson personified star ballplayers for more than 100 years when he dominated innings after failing miserably the time he appeared before.

But it’s not explanations like that snapped this Yankee fan out of it today. It was the 10-year-old boy who picked this ball from the wet outfield grass and returned it to the infield while cursing his bad luck and fate. What a gyp! Matsui’s shot should have been a double, and Robbie ran right down the chalk. No fair! Either Bubba or Shef could have gloved that ball in Yankee Stadium. Give me a break! Bernie not only would have swung on the hit and run, the ensuing line drive would have gotten that big rally going.

The adult presses in to stress that the season’s not over, that Anaheim really should beat the Chisox now that they have beaten us. That Houston should win for Andy and Roger, even if St. Louis is a wonderful baseball town. That the AL should win the Series every year, and maybe Shoeless Joe can have some peace and rest if the Palehose move 1917 and 1919 down a few pegs on the big baseball timeline in the sky.

It’s all true, but beside the point really. Adults are weighing in ad nauseam about where the team heads now. Who goes, with Pitching Coach and one-time Yankee starter Mel Stottlemyre already on his way? Who stays? Is George’s micro-managing and owning helpful or hurtful? Who prevails in the Bronx bunch/Tampa Mafia tug of war? As the braintrust (d?)evolves, to whom do we say “Good-bye”? Will the Canos and the Wangs dominate the ’06 roster; do they meld well with the multi-talented vets?

Hey, it’s less than 36 hours since the sun appeared. I’ve got time. Did I tell you I plated three runs in “Bat-A-Ball”? The mope is gone, and the sneer is back.

“Wait til next year!” You’ll see.

BTW,TYW

YANKEE BASEBALL!!!