Why This Year's Yankee Loss Is Worse Than 2004

The official time of death for the 2012 New York Yankees was yesterday at 7:27 pm, although anyone who knows anything about baseball could tell they'd been on life support since just after midnight on Sunday. Less than ninety minutes after Raul Ibanez tied a playoff game (again) in the bottom of the ninth (again), the Bronx came to a screeching halt as Derek Jeter - the leader, the captain, the heart-and-soul of his team - was carried off the field by his manager.

Jeter broke his ankle and would be out for the remainder of the 2012 postseason... but it didn't matter. The games from that point on were a mere formality. As sure as I was we were going to win the World Series when Ibanez homered, I was equally sure we'd get swept four games to none when Jeter was carried off.

Unfortunately I was right.

In my 35 years on this planet, the Yanks have won the World Series a whopping seven times - which means they've been eliminated, one way or another, 28 times. Of those 28 times, the 2004 loss to the Boston Red Sox obviously stands-out as the most famous (since it resulted in a trivia question: "What is the only team in MLB history to lose a 7-game series after starting 3-0?"); but I'm ready to argue that from a fan's standpoint, the Yankees' loss in this 2012 series was worse. Here are five reasons why:

1. The 2012 Yankees were a much better team than the 2004 Yankees. Think about it: Mark Texeira vs. John Olerud? Robinson Cano vs. Miguel Cairo? CC Sabathia vs. Jon Lieber? David Robertson vs. Esteban f'n Loaiza? Yes, that team had Bernie Williams and Jorge Posada - but on the whole, the 2012 team was and is significantly better than the 2004 team.

2. The 2004 Red Sox were significantly better than the 2012 Tigers. Again with the match-ups: David Ortiz vs. Delmon Young, Manny Ramirez vs. Andy Dirks, Orlando Cabrera vs. Jhonny Peralta... and while I admit Justin Verlander is comparable to Pedro Martinez, the rest of the 2012 Tigers' pitching doesn't hold a candle to Curt Schilling, Derek Lowe or Keith Foulke.

3. The 2012 Yankees wasted the one thing the 2004 Yankees never had: good postseason pitching. Every manager knows that regardless of how you got into the postseason, the key to winning the postseason is pitching - pure and simple. All season long this Yankee team has had question marks around its rotation and its bullpen. We trade for Michael Pineda and he goes out for the season. We have the best closer in baseball history in Mariano Rivera and he goes down for the season. "Big Game" Andy Pettitte spends most of the second half of the season pitching simulated games... and even our ace Sabathia has two stints on the DL. Our hitting carried us into the playoffs, but everyone wondered what would happen on the mound... and our guys responded with one of the most impressive postseason pitching performances I've ever seen (for a group of guys with so much uncertainty). The Yanks lost the 2004 ALCS because Kevin Brown sucked. So did Lieber, Mussina, Javy Vazquez and (God help us) Tom Gordon. It was awful pitching and they deserved to lose. But this year, CC, Kuroda, Pettitte, Hughes, Soriano, Robertson and the others pitched their hearts out... and lost.

4. The 2012 Yankees' offensive had what can only be described as a monumental collapse.There are actually few words I can use to explain what happened to the Yankee bats. Its as if the wood was magically cursed by some evil sprite to gradually stop working after the 162nd game of the season. (Seriously: that's about as plausible as any other explanation out there.) I really have never seen anything like it. In 2004, the Yanks averages 12 hits a game in the ALCS. In 2012? 5.5! Five and a half hits per game from a team that's known for its offensive prowess. It was as if everyone (with the exception of Ichiro) simply shut down. A-Rod (1 for 9) gets the most negative press, but what about the others: Cano (1 for 18), Martin (2 for 14), Texeira (3 for 15) and the granddaddy of them all Curtis Granderson (a whopping 0 for 11 with 7 strikeouts). How many times were Yankee fans looking at a runner on third base with less than two outs saying "a fly ball... just hit a fly ball" - only to have the next two batters either pop-up to the catcher or dribble one right into the first baseman's glove? It was sad... and pathetic.

5. The 2012 Yankees lost their leader... and with him, their heart. I could certainly make the argument that had Cano and Texeira done their job in the bottom of the 11th inning, Jeter never would have had to go out in the field to play the top of the 12th. But he did, he got hurt and it was over. From where we were sitting in Section 233, it was obvious something was wrong the minute he hit the ground; what we weren't prepared for, though, was the worst. If the Stadium felt like a rock concert when Ibanez homered, it felt like a funeral parlor after Jeter was helped off the field. In an instant the aura had changed - from the grandstand to the men's room, it was obvious that the game, the series and the season were over. It wasn't that us fans gave up... it was simply that our hearts were broken.

The counter-argument to all of this, of course, is that losing to the Detroit Tigers can never possibly be as bad as losing to the Boston Red Sox. Such reasoning, however, is falsely predicated on the notion that Yankee Universe hates Red Sox Nation with the same passion for which Red Sox Nation hates Yankee Universe. The whole "Curse of the Bambino" thing was always a bigger deal for Boston than it was for New York; and while losing that 2004 ALCS was by no means the highlight of my career in Yankee (fan) pinstripes, it was a lot easier to swallow than this year's debacle.

Dump A-Rod, dump Granderson, dump Swisher. Pitchers and catchers report in 119 days... I can't wait!

My Dad

For more than 38 years my father has been an educator. He started as a teacher, spent the bulk of his career as an elementary school principal, was promoted to Assistant Superintendent and eventually became Superintendent of Schools in the city where he (and I) grew-up. On June 30th, my dad will retire - marking the end of an era in the New Britain school district.

My Dad after throwing out the first pitch at the NB Rock Cats.

This past Wednesday night, my dad was feted at what can only be described as one of the largest retirement dinners I have ever even heard of, let alone attended. More than a dozen speakers touted my father's accomplishments and presented him with tokens of appreciation before my brother and I finally had the honor of introducing him. Here in its entirety is what I had to say:


There are more than 500 people here in this room tonight – and that is, in and of itself, both a tribute to my father and a representation of the vast cross-section that is his life. Family and friends… students and administrators… colleagues and business leaders… coaches, players, politicians… and teachers.

My father was and is - first and foremost - a teacher… a time-honored profession that transcends the history of civilized society. The acquiring of knowledge and dissemination of that knowledge is a skill - a gift – that generation upon generation of human beings have venerated not for its wealth or prestige, but for the very simple fact that it sustains our future. Teachers ensure that society advances; that it continues to propagate and prosper… for centuries and centuries to come. 

My father is a great teacher… and for all of you who know him, you won’t be surprised to learn that in my 34 years of being his son, he’s taught me a lot.

And for all of you who know him, you also won’t be surprised to learn that in 34 years of being his son, there are also several skills I’ve acquired that he ostensibly did NOT teach me: like sheetrocking… and plumbing. Installing an electrical outlet… or tiling a kitchen floor. Pretty much anything involving a hammer, nails, a drill… in fact he doesn’t even own a drill.

Every year I hike through a tree farm with my wife and kids and chop down a Christmas tree with my own two hands… NOT a skill I learned from my father.

Driving a car? Lord knows he tried… but that too was NOT something I learned from my father. And negotiating the price of a car? Definitely not something I learned from my father.

Fishing, painting, singing, playing cards? I can do all of them… with absolutely zero thanks to my father.

But obviously when I started thinking about what to say here tonight, it did dawn on me just how many things – how many important things – in my everyday life that my father the teacher did in fact teach me.

He taught me how to shave; and how to tie a tie… two skills without which I’d undoubtedly be unemployed.

He taught me how to read… a skill I not only use every day in my job, but more importantly every night when I put my kids to bed.

He taught me about baseball… a game that’s rarely ever over; that’s always possible to win. A game designed to make you fail, bounce back, fail again… and emerge stronger, more focused and more resilient than ever.

He taught me how to keep score in baseball… a skill that earned me all-conference honors at New Britain High my senior year; and he taught me how to be a coach… something I get to do with my son and his friends a couple of nights a week.

And while Joe Dimaggio famously thanked the Good Lord for making him Yankee, I always thank my father for making me a Yankee fan.

My dad the teacher taught me how to teach… something I’ve been doing at Central and the community colleges for almost ten years now. He taught me how it’s about patience and understanding… and always remembering that the ultimate purpose is to get your students to think.

He taught me about politics… how it’s not about celebrity or even a person; but rather a process – a powerful mechanism – that we all can use to help make our community, our country and our world a better place.

I make my living through politics – and though I don’t often say it: it was my father who first got me involved. In 1984, I was 7 years old – and my dad took me down to Democratic headquarters to work for Walter Mondale and an incumbent Congressman named William Ratchford. We stamped postcards, passed out buttons, ran numbers on Election Day… and of course we got trounced. Being only seven, I was devastated, but my dad taught me how to hope for the future and manage defeat… a skill that came in quite handy four years later when he took me to see Michael Dukakis speak in Waterbury – and he too got trounced.

When I was 11, he took me to a local candidate forum sponsored by a group of New Britain school parents. He was supporting some guy named DeFronzo who had never held office before and had virtually no chance of knocking off the city’s longest serving mayor… that one, of course, we won (go figure). And we won a lot more than we lost over the years, but the message was always the same: be active. Challenge the system. Stand up for what you believe in. My father taught me that win or lose, we have an obligation to inspire, to be a part of the process - to bring people together and work for the type of society in which we all want to live.

My dad taught me how to be a leader… a professional… part of an organization. And he taught me how to be passionate about my job… how life is too short to waste by not doing something you absolutely love. How there are good days and bad days… but no matter what: at the end of the day, you’ve got to have feeling for what you’re doing.

My father taught me to remember where I came from… to take pride in the fact that I’m the grandson of a factory worker and the grandson of a carpenter… and that were it not for my grandparents and their insistence that their children be educated, neither he nor my mother nor my brother nor I would be standing before you today.

My father taught and continues to teach me every day how to be a son-in-law… and of course: a son.

He has taught and continues to teach me every day how to be a brother… and a brother-in-law… and a cousin… and an uncle.

I watch his relationship with my mom – the woman he has loved and adored since their days at New Britain High. His partner, his companion… his confidant, his best friend… And I know that he’s taught me how to be a husband.

But in the final analysis – and above all else – the single most important thing I’ve learned – and continue to learn – from my father… is how to be a father. It’s been almost ten years since I first looked at that white stick with the little blue plus sign and knew that my life had changed forever. First came Alex and Maddie… and then my little Katie… and then Kevin and Libby. Are they overwhelming at times? Sure… and it helped that my dad was always there for the big things: when they were born, when they were baptized… when they were in the Emergency Room (which by my count I believe at least four of the five have been at some point). But in a way he’s also there every minute of every day… as I navigate my own ups and downs of fatherhood with my own children. Whether it’s helping them with their homework, or taking them on vacation, or talking them through a bad day at school or a rough outing on the pitcher’s mound… or answering their millions of questions about everything ranging from: who built me?... to what’s it like up in Heaven?... to why haven’t the Houston Astros ever won the World Series?

At every turn, at every step of the way, my first point of reference is always to think back to me and Nick – two little kids growing up – and ask: what did Dad do? What would Dad do? And just like any good, free-thinking student: sometimes I follow my teacher’s lessons, and sometime I don’t. Sometimes I have to try and fail on my own before I can see that he’s right… and sometimes he’s even taught me so well that I can admit that he’s wrong.

That’s the beauty of fatherhood… and the beauty of teaching. And in the end, they’re both what he knows best.

It’s my pleasure, my privilege, my honor to introduce the guy my grandparents named Ron… the guy that people call Ronnie and Jake… Mr. J… Coach Ron, Uncle Ron… Grandpa…

And the guy I still just call Dad.    

September 11, 2001

It may sound corny, cliché and wholly unoriginal, but September 11, 2001 started out just like any other day.

I rolled out of bed. I took a shower. I got dressed for work.

My wife and I were still technically newlyweds; no morning chaos, no children screaming for pancakes or Pop Tarts. She left for work before I did, which was typical given that she was financially supporting us (a truth I forget all too often these days). I had just finished grad school and was working as a lowly intern for the next town over. Though the pay wasn’t great, my commute was minuscule, thus giving me plenty of time to eat my cereal and read my morning paper.

The Yanks had just swept a three-game series from the Red Sox.

New York City Mayor Rudolph Giuliani’s approval rating had hit a new low.

The Musketeers (a movie I can’t recall for the life of me) won the weekend box office.

It was my best friend’s birthday.

Driving to work, there was some news about a plane hitting the World Trade Center, but it was more of a curiosity than a matter of national security; something briefly mentioned between the local traffic and the previous night’s sports scores. So I parked my car in the Town Hall lot, I grabbed my leather man-purse-thing and I shut my car door… and as if triggered by some divine intervention, I looked up.

The sky over tiny little Plainville, Connecticut was beautiful.

A beautiful, clear blue. Not a single cloud; not even the faintest hint of lifted fog or stale airplane exhaust. It was like an animated cartoon, or one of those drawings my kids did in Kindergarten: just a light blue mass and a perfect yellow sun.

Admittedly, I’m not one to notice things like that. I’m too concrete. I have a hard time seeing the natural beauty in the things I take for granted like the sun and the stars and the trees and the birds chirping. But in that moment, as I stood there in the parking lot, holding my leather work bag, ready for another day on the job, I actually said to myself: wow – what a beautiful day.

Minutes later I was upstairs in our conference room watching smoke bellow from one of the two World Trade Center towers. Anchors and experts were speculating on the air about what had happened: maybe the pilot fell asleep, or there was a tragic mechanical malfunction or something wrong with the air traffic controller.

Then, on live TV, we watched as a second plane emerged from the right side of the screen and hit the second tower.

In an instant, it didn’t matter how many games the Yanks had won or how many millions of dollars some silly movie took in on Saturday night. In an instant, I forgot that it was my best friend’s birthday or that The West Wing was supposed to sweep the upcoming Emmy’s. In an instant, I didn’t care that I had to cut the lawn or pay the electric bill or buy more peanut M&M’s for the office.

In an instant, my perfect blue sky was tarnished forever.

Someday one of my kids is going to ask me about 9/11 - about what happened and where I was and who I was with and what I saw. They’ll ask the same way I asked my parents about the Kennedy Assassination, the same way they asked their parents about Pearl Harbor.

And when they do I’ll tell them: “it started out just like any other day.”