Bronx, N.Y., August 7, 2002 — Yes, I think it is. We have just returned the favor to Kansas City on a pair of 6-2 games, and moments ago, in as thrilling an in-season non-Yankee (specifically, anyway) highlight as I have ever seen, Terrence Long robbed Manny of a three-run, game-winning bomb. I feel for the Red Sox and their fans, 34,000 of which must have been devastated by the near miss almost into Fenway’s low-walled right-centerfield bullpen.

Fans of all stripes were delirious with the big lead the Sox grabbed on the Yanks in May, but the Yankees and the schedule maker are home to roost, as we play the fading Royals for three and they get the A’s. And I know we get the A’s next, but the Royals are heading elsewhere; the Central-leading Twins head to Fenway this weekend.

Only the hardest-core Red Sox rooter is focused on the Bronx these days. The Angels lead them by one and a half in the Wild Card, and the A’s have virtually tied them. There is a great pitching duel in the Bronx tomorrow as new staff ace Andy (but watch out for Roger!) takes on Paul Byrd, but we are playing to extend a nice lead. Meanwhile, the Barry Zito/Derek Lowe battle in Fenway will pit two teams playing for their playoff lives. Two years ago on August 8, Zito threw a great game in the Bronx, and left leading us 3-2 (Luis Sojo’s hit and run single to right in his first game after we rescued him from Pittsburg set up the first Yankee run, by the way). Isringhausen came on to start the ninth and get the save, but two pitches later Justice and Bernie had both gone yard, a bleacher creature had Bernie’s blast in his soda cup and victory was ours. I feel for the Sox fans, but I wish Barry a better outcome tomorrow.

The Yanks, meanwhile, just finished playing in great weather in California, and then started the short homestand on a gorgeous Tuesday night. The first two games of the series featured superb Yankee starters with huge question marks. We’ve split the games, and the verdict on the two pitchers. While the Moose search goes on, the Rocket soared in the Bronx sky once again, finally getting victory No. 289. Buddies Jorge and Derek went yard, and 40,000 were treated to a wonderful night in the Stadium.

I unfortunately chose Tuesday night to attend, and even though the offense sputtered (making yet another unfamiliar starter seem Cy Young-like), Mussina struggled (yet again) and I was forced to leave early because of an airport commitment, it was a spectacular night in the South Bronx. Freddy the Fan greeted the faithful with his two-sided, multi-colored sign (Good Road Trip/Yankees Can Do/Better at Home/ in green, blue and red on one side; Fans, It’s Back/To Work Again/Cheer Yankees!/ in green, red and blue on the reverse). Freddy seems to be as devoid of nuance and shading as humanly possible at times, but I am intrigued that the color scheme had the “Yankees” line in blue on both sides.

During the bottom of first the sun gleamed along the top of the outfield facade; by the second, the windows in one of the apartment buildings beyond River Ave. gleamed and glimmered brightly. The setting sun created multiple shades of pink embedded in the dark undersides of the puffy cloudbanks drifting east as the sun set west. The steady, dry breezes caressed the pennants strung along the outfield facade with a motion that was less vigorous than “whipping” would indicate, but with a decidedly stronger action than “rustling” implies. Across from me there were “K” counters along the Tier’s facing in sections 9 and 15, and a patch of lime green shirts were grouped in the highest reaches of the upper reserved seats in section 3. But the 500-pound gorilla of the visual display that confronted me in the stands was the assemblage of literally hundreds of white T-shirted World Youth Leader Union fans that almost filled Upper Reserved Section 11. (They were a spirited group on the one hand, but eager “wave” participants on the other, I’m sorry to say.)

The game was essentially lost during the 38-pitch struggle Moose had in the third, where the Royals divided their five hits between, first, two long (seven- and eight-pitch), and then three short (three, then two, then four tosses) at bats. But what was even more eerie was the “Close Encounter” battle enjoined between the fans and foul balls. It started well as the fifth pitch (and second foul) to Chuck, batting second in the frame, reached the first row of Tier section 19, and stayed up there. But four pitches later a line drive into Row E of Box 620 (50 feet or so to my right) caromed off a step and all the way down below, to the usual smattering of “boo”s. Seven pitches later a fan in the second row of Box 612 deflected another ball over the rail with his fingers. Following a ball, Beltran smacked the very next pitch against the Section 16 Tier facade down the third baseline. It was reachable by the Row A fans, but once again it landed in the money boxes below. Eight pitches later the fishnet people over the screen behind the plate blew another foul. Thankfully Tucker put an end to an inning that was uglier than any box score will tell you, when he was thrown out stealing to end the madness.

Also worthy of note: Our one offensive high point might not have been. Raul Mondesi detected a crack while inspecting his bat before coming to the plate in the sixth. He casually hoisted the light-wooded baton over the dugout to a kid behind, and strode to the plate with an entirely different sort, constructed of black, or dark, wood. Five pitches later he went yard. “Isn’t it good? Norwegian wood,” I thought, and hoped the rest of the Yanks would try the same. But, as confessed earlier, I had to head for the airport. I had stayed unwisely long, so I did not check my phone until I had rushed to and started my car in the parking lot. Then I discovered the arriving flight would be an hour-plus late. I hurried back to the Stadium, but no dice. I saw the final out on YES in the bowling alley bar on River, and despondently strode out the door.

And then as I dragged my sad frame out through the clothing concession people into the sidewalk traffic, I made way for three little boys heading in the direction from which I had come. The third boy, perhaps eight years old, looked up at me, shook his head, and said, “Don’t worry mister. The Yankees will get ’em tomorrow night!”

Boy, that kid is good!

BTW,TYW

YANKEE BASEBALL!!!