Keidel: September Song For Mr. November
By Jason Keidel
What does it take to win in New York?
New Yorkers have the right to ask. Burn the back of the baseball cards before you enter, as your stats west of the Hudson are rarely precursors once you bite the Big Apple, a town that too often makes mice of men.
When we answer the question, we emerge with less of a physical portrait than a character profile. After scrambling for adjectives we simply point to the Bronx and say, "Just look at Jeter."
We can't say exactly why Derek Jeter made it seem so easy. We only know that he did. Perhaps it's because he played every game with the grace of a legend but the grit of a Little Leaguer. No matter how many million-dollar checks he cashed, he still felt a debt to the team and the fans.
You have his stance down pat: the way he peels and wraps the Velcro straps on his gloves, the way he raises his right arm toward the ump as he digs in, as though balancing a butterfly on his wrist. He was the prodigy and the progeny of fine parents. He quickly and quietly rose from kid to king of New York, baseball's version of Captain America.
But, sadly, we've learned that all futures are finite. At 36, Derek Jeter is the oldest starting shortstop in baseball, and suddenly playing like it.
This year stirs the truth that nature is an affliction with no cure. It tells you, sadly, that someone else will play shortstop for the New York Yankees very soon.
It happens to all of us, even if it's exponentially less public. It's the first gray hair you find while shaving; the first time in the shower you must lean forward to find your toes; that flight of subway stairs that now renders you winded; the first time a teen calls you "sir" and then innocently prods you about the "old days."
He was the shortstop chic who seemed far too clutch to lose a game to Father Time. Jeter still runs hard. He can control that. Jeter can't run nearly as fast. He can't control that. As Jeter's hairline inches back into his cap, he reminds us that autumn reaches every head, that all our heroes are human.
"You can't put a price on leadership!" you say. Actually, you can, particularly if your leader is batting .261 – an alarming 53 points below his career average (.314), with the second-worst on-base percentage (.328) in the starting lineup. He's banged into 20 double plays, many of them he would have beaten five years ago. We see a fraction of his balletic defense: the ball in the hole he used to spear, leap, twirl, and toss to first. And he's making over $22 million this year, a fair price for a leading man but not a leadoff hitter.
Imagine being the one who has to cut him. It's like telling The Duke he can't make movies, as pleasant as telling your kid that there's no Santa Claus. And just as John Wayne was never the best actor around, Derek Jeter was never the best baseball player on the planet. But he was the preeminent Yankee, winning over a third of the fourteen World Series played during his career. And while the haters roll their eyes at the campy designations reserved for players in pinstripes, there is resonance to being an icon in the Bronx.
Babe Ruth was released, and the Yankees won 23 more championships. Jackie Robinson was traded to the Giants. Appalling, yes, but proof that in this universe all stars and All-Stars die.
Whenever it happens, Brian Cashman will be the fitting face across the desk when Jeter gets the news. Cashman, with the big, sad eyes of someone who hasn't smiled in a decade, grew up a Yankee. And he'll have to tell the exemplar of Yankee Pride that he's no longer that kid from Kalamazoo.
Jeter will be the last to know. They always are. What makes a divine athlete sublime is his ability to delude himself. The sprained ankle is fine. The broken hand is only a hairline fracture. I don't need a day off. Put some ice on it. Put some heat on it.
His contract expires this year. And if the Yankees, blinded by nostalgia, offer Jeter a blank check and open contract, they will be doing the team and its fans a disservice. Soon Joe Girardi will have to hide Jeter in the bottom of the lineup, find a place in the outfield that feeds his middle-age knees. And while being Derek Jeter gets him a pass this year, you're unlikely to feel the same sentiment if he hits .250 next year.
If you're 25 years old, Jeter is all you've known, the dynastic symbol of your childhood. But someone once your age once wondered how life could continue after Ruth, forgetting about a guy named Gehrig, who was followed by DiMaggio, who was followed by Mantle. My pals and I were reared on the Bronx Zoo, nursed by "Reggie" candy bars and memories of three homers on three pitches from three pitchers.
The year I turned eleven I watched in horror as Larry Holmes assaulted my hero, Muhammad Ali. Savage, smug, and inarticulate as ever, Holmes told my television screen that he always knew he could beat Ali, so proud of pummeling a geriatric. It was the first time I ever really wanted to hurt someone. Jeter has none of these problems, doesn't need to fight Trevor Berbick in the Bahamas for cash, or pose in d-Con commercials to pay for his myriad wives and the young lives they produced.
No doubt the Yankees will offer a de facto legacy contract, an ornate slap on the rear for bringing us great cheer. He deserves it, as long as he's willing to take a pay cut. If he remains the quintessential team player he'll take what playing time is prudently given, then fade in the aged elegance of his single-digit uniformed predecessors.
How do you replace Derek Jeter? You don't. A kid will start at short someday, roaming a sacred spot in the infield, and you will eventually forget. The old salt will keep the throne warm until someone else is ready.
Resist your impulse to feel sorry for Derek Jeter. He took the 15 minutes Andy Warhol allotted and stretched it to 15 years, banking over $200 million in the process. His wits, wallet, and presence assure him a most colorful sunset. Someday you'll realize that it's not Derek Jeter you miss but rather what he represents – your adolescence, a time when you thought good times were eternal.
Feel free to email me: Jakster1@mac.com
