Derek Jeter Begins His Long Goodbye

Now that I am a man I think like a man, and follow sports like a man. Long ago I left behind the childhood wonder that went along with winding my way up the ramps and escalators of the old Stadium with two of my older brothers. We had left the bright late spring sunlight to enter into the Stadium's dark corridors, made claustrophobic by the crush of the crowd flowing in a chaotic swirl. Inside I took in the smells of roasting peanuts, beer, cigars, cigarettes and an over used men's room, the aromas, smells and stench all mingling in the air. Once at our level we looked for our section. As we walked through the darkness I peeked up the ramps, the sunshine breaking through, back lighting the fans milling around like something out of Rafael's Deliverance of St. Peter. All I could see was the top of the upper deck and the clear blue skies. We arrived at our section, went up the narrow tunnel that lead us back into sunlight. It was like standing on a cliff, the grand stands seemed so steep. fighting my natural fear of heights, I was overwhelmed by the green of the field, the brown of the clay diamond, the blue of the seats and the massiveness of the stadium. I had seen it a hundred times on TV, but here I was. By the time I was ten I clearly understood that what I saw on television wasn't reality. But this was real, and it was spectacular. And it was my heart that beat with wonder, my mind was racing to catch up.

But now I am a man, and baseball is about free agents, syringes, urinalysis and suspensions. Statistics are the measure of the player, and managers carry three inch binders of data (how the utility infielder hits against left handed Laplanders on Tuesday's after the trade deadline in odd years when the Democrats control the House). We don't believe there's such things as clutch, choke and hustle. It's all about OBP, WAR, WHIP, pitch counts and lefty righty match ups; just the things that capture a boy's imagination. So I follow still, but without the wonder.

Then yesterday Derek Jeter announced his retirement at the end of this season. I was again a boy, this time sad that a player that exemplified clutch, hustle and defied choking was soon to patrol the clay no more.

This day was bound to come. All athletic careers end too soon, and as adults we knew that Derek Jeter's was on borrowed time. The human body can only take so much wear and tear, even in a non contact sport like baseball, and his recent injuries over the last few seasons have only gotten more and more difficult to comeback from as he's gotten older. So our adult minds told us he can't go on much longer, or that maybe be should have walked away already. The adult says it's time to get younger, especially at shortstop. The adult says it's strictly business.

But when the news started to flash across the Internet I felt like a kid again, unabel to comprehend that people get old and can't do today what they were once able to. And Jeter made you believe he would play forever. Unlike Mariano River who hinted for years before announcing his retirement that he was ready to walk away at any time, Jeter always acted like he was going to patrol the middle infield at Yankee Stadium for another ten seasons. He had been injured before, and the line was always the same; Of course I'm coming back from this. No doubt I'll play shortstop (I dare you to try and run someone else out there). And of course I'll play at the same level as when I came up to the Big Team for good in 1996. So while our adult heads told us the calendar and medical realities made such claims practically impossible, our hearts still beat the rhythms of youthful wonder, wanting to believe that Derek Jeter, and we by extension, were never going to wake from this glorious dream that his career's been.

For Yankee fans Derek Jeter has always been more than the sum of his stats and fantasy points. He came along at a time when the Yankees were the baseball version of Jerry Jones' Cowboys; a franchise making a lot of noise but living on their past glory, never coming close to winning it all, with a front office that didn't seem to have a clue. The Yankees of the eighties to early nineties were a mess. GM Gene "Stick" Michael was the mastermind who brought pride back to a tired franchise. Jeter was one piece of a big puzzle Stick was putting together, but in a particular way he embodied the hustle and commitment to excellence New York fans were starving for since Thurman Munson died (another player whose value couldn't be calculated on a spreadsheet). In his prime he was never considered the best player in the Majors, he never hit the most homers, he never even won a regular season MVP. But he was the leader of Joe Tore's Yankees before he became the Captain. He hit home runs when they made a difference and was the MVP when games mattered the most; in October. He did it all with respect for the game and a desire to win that defies mathematical formulas, but comes from the heart.

I'll have more to write as the Farewell Tour unfolds. For now, for at least this season, I'll remember to put my adult mind on a shelf as I watch the Captain say his goodbyes. Because baseball careers are short, as is life it self. If we get caught up in the techno-jargon of bloodless statistics we miss the poetry of hustle and clutch. If we get distracted by the sideshows of PED's and lawsuits we too quickly forget the wonder of green grass, brown clay and warm days in the grandstands with your brothers.