The New York Yankees got whooped on Saturday. They got their asses kicked. They were beaten, flattened, crushed, and trampled. Plus they lost. Playing in the brand new 1.5 billion dollar Yankee Stadium, where really good seats cost close to $3,000 for a SINGLE GAME (and God knows what a corporate box goes for), the mighty Yankees were clobbered by the Cleveland Indians 22 to 4. This was especially fun because my dear departed dad David W. Barry grew up in Cleveland. Many years ago when dad was near death’s door and his mind was slipping a little, I was sitting at his bedside watching a debate between President Ronald Reagan and the Democratic presidential nominee Walter Mondale. When the debate ended, I asked dad who he thought had won. “The Cleveland Indians,” he replied, completely seriously, which was a big tip off that his consciousness was no longer in 1984 with the rest of us.
But I digress. The point is, the Yankees got their tickets punched this weekend, and I think most of the country’s baseball fans celebrate that event. Now, I grew up not far from the old Yankee Stadium and I love New York. I used to be a Yankee fan. I liked the majestic history: Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Berra, and all the other greats. But after I left New York I gradually came to see the Yankees for what they are—a bunch of overpaid people in pinstripes suits using any means necessary to defeat the little guy, sort of like the villains in a John Grisham novel. So, let’s all join together and send George Steinbrenner a nice loud Bronx cheer. One, two, three . . .