As of this writing, a dozen days into October, half
a dozen years since our devastating introduction
to COVID-19, fans in 29 Major League cities are
groaning as the Kings of Flatbush – excuse me,
the Darlings of L.A. – approach the possibility of
winning three straight World Series Titles. Lovers
of those other teams are grumbling about the size
of the Dodgers’ payroll compared to their teams’.
They shout at the lack of fair play when one team
can spend enough cash to attract and hold on to
a collection of stars such as Ohtani, Yamamoto,
Skubal, Freeman, Betts, Diaz, Glasnow, and Snell.
“Break them up!”, shout hapless fans from those
other ML teams – and I want to join them (I
really do) but I can’t – not honestly. It would be
hypocritical. You see, the same charges were aimed
at Del Webb and Dan Topping of the Yanks in mid-
Twentieth Century and I laughed with pre-free
agency glee because my Bronx Bombers held
tight-grip contracts for Di Maggio, Mantle, Ford,
Berra and used their deep pockets to attract
others every year (Slaughter, Mize, Hopp) to
support them. Now I understand how
rooters of the other teams felt year after year …
so how can I become one of the others now in
the face of Dodger dominance? Sadly but
honestly, decades later, I rest my case.
Post Script: It is now three days since my
grown-up confession, my mature concession,
and praise be to the Lord of Baseball — that
would be the Commissioner — the billion-
dollar Dodgers have been swept by the Brew
Crew, so all that cash didn’t buy a straight trio
of championships – but I have not wasted my
time; I have cleansed my seven-decade
conscience, the load has dissipated, and
an obscenely high payroll is not the villain. An underdog
smlall-market economy will hoist the flag this year and
the Scrooge McDuck Dodgers will return to their cash
register of a fortune cookie to try to locate where they
went wrong while the Yanks, both pre-free agency (1949-53)
and post-free agency (1998-2000), stand tall as winners of
at least three consecutive world titles, proving that there
is something in the Bronx drinking water that tastes quite
sweet. You’ve heard of the Breakfast of Champions, right?
It’s time to acknowledge, without guilt, the Liquid of Victory.
Sorry, L. A. fanatics. My guilt is gone and yours is non-
extant.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME