Brain in a Bat

It's hard to teach an intro to philosophy class without doing Descartes' search for the foundations of knowledge, which has him doubting everything including even the existence of the world outside his own mind, which he does by hypothesising an 'evil genius' who is manipulating his perceptions and tricking him into thinking the external world exists, but even if this skeptical scenario were so, the search ends happily because Descartes finally cannot doubt that he is in fact doubting, and as he's there to do all this doubting, and doubting is a species of thinking, he must, therefore, exist... but this semester I'm managing to pull it off. It's off the syllabus!

Why? If for no other reason, I'm sick of telling people its like The Matrix.

Or so I thought. Because now with no outlet for my 'what's really real?' shpiel, and because Thursday was an off-day, you're stuck with the following.

I sometimes play an antiquated baseball video game- High Heat Baseball 2004. Curt Schilling on the D'backs on the cover. I own no X station or whatever the kids use to simulate reality these days. No, it's a PC game. Apparently, these are virtually obsolete. The company that makes High Heat- 3DO- no longer exists (but did it ever really? Ooooh. Think about that.) And because no upgrade is available, I still use an old sputtering operating system because I'm afraid an upgrade will be incompatible with the game.

But that's neither here nor there. Which of course leaves it nowhere to be, which is to say, it doesn't exist. Or does it really? (See, I just have to get this stuff out of my system somehow.)

Anywho, the 2004 High Heat game has a 2003 roster (but being the active GM that I am, I've made a few tweaks.) So "I'm" the Sox, naturally, and I'm down 4-1 in the top of the 9th to Cleveland, Mark Wohlers of all people on the mound (I thought he was long gone by '03 too.) 2 down. Things look grim. But Varitek, in the number 7 slot, gets on. I'd long since traded Nomar because he kept popping up, and watching his feet move around in the box was distracting, so I picked up Jose Vizcaino to play short. He normally bats 8th. But Billy Mueller is on the DL, so I've moved up Vizcaino to the 2 slot- he's hitting a robust .320- and I've called up Shea Hillenbrand from his banishment to AAA to play third and bat 8th. But now in the 9th, and because he's an f-word, I pinch hit with Jeremy Giambi, who promptly slams a triple off the center field fence, 4-2. Next up is Timlin in the pitcher's spot- yeah, in this alternate reality, there's no DH- so I send up Trot to pinch hit- both these lefties were on the bench, by the way, as Sabathia started for the Tribe. And Trot laces a double off Wohlers. Still two out, tying run on second, the lineup turns over for Damon, who singles to right to tie the game! I ended up winning in extras, Scott Williamson coming in for the save.

When philosophers update Descartes' thought-experiment about the evil genius who tricks the mind into believing in the reality of the simulacrum external world, they talk of a mad neuroscientist keeping a brain in a vat, stimulating it with electrodes to simulate an external world that doesn't really exist. (Or does it? No.) These examples are terrifying, for, among other reasons, they stipulate an utter lack of control; one is held captive to the whims of some omnipotent and unknowable force, and any sense of control over one's life is entirely illusory.

But when do I have more control? When I watch a "real" Sox game on TV, or when I can manipulate the video game Sox on my computer? And doesn't that control make it "more real"?

No. It doesn't.

Thanks for reading. Maybe next semester I'll put Descartes back on the syllabus, and you won't have to suffer through this again.

Also, when I lose to the Yankees in the video game, I get absolutely furious. It takes me awhile afterwards to calm down. Doesn't the strength of my emotion make it real, as in "I just know it to be true in my heart'?

No. It doesn't.

Logical Fallacy of the Week: Says Me

It won't be until the next generation of Sox fans that the Schopenhauerian pessimism and anxiety that comprised the Sox fan identity before '04 will really be cured.

But as a positive, self-affirming, Stuart Smalley step in the here and now, to combat the scars, I'm simply going to assert that the Sox will win the division, sweep Chicago in the ALDS, beat Anaheim in 6 in the ALCS, and then win another world series title against whoever that quadruple A league throws to us lions.

And I'm going to go all zealot on this one. I'm going to say providing evidence and argument in favor of this conclusion is to concede and sew seeds of secular humanist doubt, and that real faith is just saying something and deciding it's true. Yup, I'm committing the fallacy of assertion here- that I say it, I say, is an argument for its truth.

Of course there are reasons for doubt. The Sox only scored 3 runs against Tampa's, what, number 4 starter? The pen's put the 'argh' in 'inconsistent' all year, and obviously the coin has landed heads for Anaheim in our recent head to head.

But I won't put my critical period pre-rings pre- everyday sellout psychology as a basis for worrying about the future; I'll emphasize Lester's nastiness, his season high 9 ks, his beautiful sequences, like getting a called strike two on a backdoor curve in the 2nd to Navarro, and then dropping the slider in the inside dirt, inducing a meager half swing that died and went to limbo, or a fastball for a called strike on the inside corner to Baldelli leading off the 5th, followed by a cutter further in on the hands, off the plate and on Baldelli, chopping him down as he hacked, and then freezing Rhode Island's Own on a paint job, 93 mph outside corner at the knees.

Yeah, all that instead of the 1-0 fastball Lester grooved to Pena with 2 on and 1 out, as the tying run in the 6th, that Pena just got under and skied to center, or that Perez' scorcher to lead off the 8th was caught at short, that Zobrist missed a dong by about the length of the word 'dong' two batters later, and that Pena's double that knocked Lester out of the game bounced into the stands, saving a run, or that Francona doesn't trust Okacarmen in tight spots and had Lester start the 8th already having thrown 105 pitches, ultimately tossing 119 before going to Papelbon.

No, all that con stuff is for ol' timey Sox fans, and that pro and con stuff in general is for rational people. Funk dat. I don't care about bases of inferences, only bases and outs. Sox all the way. Woo. I believe it, therefore its true.

So there.

Manny Existing Manny

Time doesn't flow the same way for all parties concerned. Fans are fans for life. Businessmen have careers that span generations. But ballplayers can only be ballplayers for a very short period of time.

After the age of 32, every second of every day sees a ballplayer dwindle and decay, and become less and less himself. Not so for the other parties. Businessmen perhaps become more savvy in middle age. Fans become more experienced, have longer memories. They grow into their skins, develop their identities over the years.

Not ballplayers. They just get shittier and shittier until they can't be ballplayers anymore, at an age where other professions are just getting started. And then there's a whole lot of life left.

They can't all go into broadcasting; too many already do.

Some ballplayers are lucky and develop other careers, and form new identities for themselves. Others live off their name, selling white wall tires or family friendly restaurants.

But every player knows their window is short, their skills are ephemeral, and what and who they are will die long before they do.

Manny may or may not know, believe, or agree with any of this. But it's in the back of my mind anytime I feel the urge to blame a player for wanting to be paid whatever he can get for the superhero talents he knows aren't long for this world, before he turns into Clark Kent forever. And it's in the back of my mind when I try to figure out who to side with in a dispute- the rare baseball talent who we pay to see, and whose life expectancy is just about up, or the front office business men, who I don't pay to see, and who can go on being front office business men for 50 more years (in Theo's case, at least), or me, who will keep on watching the games and going about my business.

That's not to say that Manny is absolved; by all accounts, Manny was a Grade A asshole. I'm not denying that. But I don't doubt that there's at least a half-truth in one of Manny's statements, because the Front Office probably did make Nomar and Pedro and Manny all feel one particular way, and whether it was intentional or not is immaterial. I suspect they were all made to feel that they no longer were who they had always thought they were.

Nobody wants to feel replaceable. Interchangeable. Everybody wants to feel unique. I bet guys like Pedro, Nomar and Manny have spent a good part of their lives feeling unique, and deservedly so, because they have been blessed with talent that millions of people would do unspeakable things for. Who they were, why they were loved, why they were the gods of Yawkey Way, was to be found in the arm, the legs, the hands, and the subtle harmonies only they could play.

Of course, superstars age, their skills wither. But to them, from their own point of view, they're still the same unique divinity they've always been, ever since that first scout raved about their tools or wheels or gun at their 13th birthday. But that age of 32 or so rolls around, and that OPS or ERA starts to regress to the mean, and suddenly, these guys are one thing they've never been. Replaceable. They can be substituted; after their prime, the front office can find someone else to put up those same numbers they will. The person goes, the numbers stay the same. Oh right. And the salary shrinks. Profits go up.

That's fine, that's business. But I don't blame the players for wanting "respect", or "mental peace", as Manny put it, which they always say they want instead of money, though of course they want the money. But they don't even need to be shrewd in their investments with the money they already have in order to stay rich for life. No, the money is a symbol. A symbol of being desired. A symbol of being that guy that everyone wants, and pays, to see. That's respect to them- respecting them as The Man they are. The money says that they're wanted, to a quantifiable degree that much more than everyone else. What they want is to still be treated like the stars they were, not thrown out and replaced for an cheaper model. Manny will have mental peace when he's desired the way Manny Ramirez should be desired. And Manny's now getting that. The Dodgers are raving about the Hall of Fame slugger they acquired. Manny can strut into Joe Torre's locker room and Be what he's always Been: Manny.

You can call it 'ego', and it probably is. But the sense of 'self' applies as much as 'conceit'. This is all they've been, this is all they know. All that lies ahead is decay and death. Yes, for all of us too, unfortunately- you heard it here first- but the rest of us still have a narrative, and not just the epilogue that a former ballplayer has. Sure, people will always want their autograph, and they'll always eat for free in the local joints, but any player will tell you, it's not the same. They're never really themselves ever again.

Do you know what the moral of Field of Dreams is? Heaven is where you get to be yourself. (spoiler alert.) Shoeless Joe gets to be a ballplayer again. Doc Graham gets his the one major league plate appearance, the one he should have had. And then, because he really was a doctor, not a ballplayer ('Son, if I'd never gotten to be a doctor, that would have been a tragedy'), he gets to be that again too. Terrence Mann, after years of public silence, gets to be a writer again- he promises to give a full account of what it's like out in the corn field. Ray Kinsella and his estranged father get to be an American Boy and his Dad, by having a game of catch.

But that's Hollywood. Ballplayers can never again be themselves. When Manny learned that he wasn't going to get the 4 year $100 million dollar contract extension that the great Manny Ramirez deserved, he shut down. Undoubtedly, Manny's response was immature and hurtful to those that knew him, and he let his teammates down, and he disappointed fans who cheered for him and paid to see him be himself.

But nonetheless, I find it hard to be mad at Manny. I love baseball, and I know The Game and The Team are bigger than Manny, and Manny didn't do right by The Game, or The Team. I don't condone his actions, but The Game and The Team are idealizations, not real people. They don't have to stare death in the face before they reach middle age. They go on. Ideals are forever, Plato taught us.

Yes, Manny needs to 'grow up.' He should learn to leave an identity behind, and learn to face one reality that he agreed to- his contract to finish out this year- and one he didn't- that who we are must change. He's blameworthy for the first, but not the second, of course. And I can't help suspect that behind the inflammatory statements and the knees and the jogging to first and the wanting his option to be picked up when the team has no reason to do so because he's a Hall of Famer worth $20 million which everyone should recognize NOW, dammit, is the idea that the only self Manny has ever known is dissolving, and that Manny won't be being Manny for very much longer.

Yankees Suck; Metaphysics, not Physics or Subjectivity

Everyone knows the Yankees Suck. Some people think saying it is rude, or stupid, or old hat. But it's true.

Today, another boring article claiming that people shouldn't state what they know to be true oozed from the Globe, and great reaction here and here.

What I enjoy most about the fact that the Yankees Suck is that it is a metaphysical fact, and not a physical fact. You see, as a philosopher, I worry that there are few distinctly philosophical facts that go over and above scientific or physical facts. And this- the Yankees Sucking- is one of them.

That is, obviously the Yankees don't suck in the physical sense; they're good at baseball. (Usually.) No, they suck in the metaphysical sense.

They really do, but we have to be careful about the reduction-to-taste interpretation. For example, in a blog linked to above, Red Sox Chick wrote "'Yankees Suck' is shortened version of 'Good God I hate the Yankees and their obnoxious fans and big-mouthed owner' or some other similar phrase."

But I don't like this interpretation because it changes a statement about the Yankees to a statement about a Sox fan. And that changes everything.

To say beauty is in the eye of the beholder is to remove the beauty from the object, and put it in the subject. When philosophers want to deny that there are moral facts or moral truths in the universe, they attempt to reduce statements like 'torture is wrong'- putatively about a state of affairs in the world- to 'I disapprove of torture' or 'boo torture!', which now only express sentiments of the person making the statement, and leave the rest of the universe alone.

The real problem with this is that it makes feelings arbitrary; if the painting isn't actually beautiful, then the perception of it as beautiful can't be entirely due to the properties of the painting. If torture isn't actually wrong, that you feel it to be wrong comes from you, and not from it, and perhaps it's only because of your faulty wiring or arbitrary upbringing that you feel the way you do.

And as a result, those feelings can't be true. If the wrongness isn't in the torture, then it's not true that torture is wrong, though it may be true that you don't like torture. Instead, the only way to guarantee the truth of the perception of beauty or wrongness is to have that property reside in the object of that perception or feeling.

So I don't prefer to think that the Yankees have only a bunch of physical properties pertaining to their baseball-playing abilities, and I generate, on my own, feelings of antipathy that another observer, observing the same physical properties, wouldn't have if he were from New York or were himself sucky. No, I prefer to think of the Yankees actually sucking, as a metaphysical truth about them, not merely as an expression of my own arbitrary tastes and dispositions

The Yankees actually have the property of suckiness, and if you do hate the Yankees, you have that feeling in addition to the suckiness the Yankees actually have.

The Yankees Suck, in a metaphysical sense, and there are philosophical facts distinct from physical scientific facts.

Hooray!

What is it Like to be a Bat...sketball Player?

From the Archive: June 18, 2008

Reporters ask dumb questions. And it is especially dumb to ask athletes what something feels like. 'What does top of the world feel like, Kevin,?' she says to a newly championed Kevin Garnett.

I don't even know what this means. Does she want to know what being on top of the world feels similar to? If so, and say, for example, it feels similar to having sex and eating ice cream and being commended for a job well done, do we then have to ask what that is similar to? Either this never ends, in which case its a stupid question, or else it ends with the feeling being similar to something we're unfamiliar with, in which case it's pointless to ask, or it ends with something that we're already familiar with, in which case we're not interested. After all, the question only seems appropriate to ask because one assumes that being on top of the world is unique, a sui generis nature that none of us will ever experience, and that even many elite athletes never experience. But of course if this rare moment is unique, then we can't possibly understand what it is like by comparing it to something else, which makes it a stupid question (q.e.d.)

But the question could just mean 'can you describe the feeling of being on top of the world'. And of course he can't. What is he, a poet? Only a brilliant writer can get someone to feel things that he actually hasn't done- eating ice cream and hearing about it are two different things- and only through the gift of wordsmithing, perhaps, can an audience get a taste of the real feelings involved. And athletes, from what I gather, do autographs, not monographs.

Though maybe KG should have responded to "whats on top of the world feel like?" with "that's real fucking original. I've been getting 'how's the weather up there?' since I was 7 years old."

2007 World Series: A matter of course

From the Archive: 10/27/07

[2007 World Series Game 2: Sox vs. Rockies]

Ok, some baseball trivia.

Question: Who aren't Okajima and Papelbon?

Answer: Bob Stanley and Calvin Schiraldi.

Oki came on with a one run lead, two men on, one out. It didn't even occur to me that he'd let those runners in. Aside from that hiccup in September, when he was as tired as a Conan monologue (what has he done for me lately?), Oki has just been astoundingly good. He stranded both inherited runners, and went 2 1/3 hitless scoreless, with 4 K's.

What’s happened to the Red Sox? Or me, for that matter? I’ve watched the playoffs with a sort of calm assurance that the superiority of the Red Sox would manifest itself. No panic. No fear. What an odd phenomenon. I mean, very little in this world of ours suggests that justice is an organizing principle. Yet I seem to assume that a Sox victory is inevitable, and that this is Good and Right. I feel this in a visceral sort of way, as a natural state, like how I feel comfortable in pajamas.

The following isn't off topic- you know why I don't like Kenneth Branaugh's version of Shakespeare’s Henry V? Because he's yelling the whole time. I guess this is supposed to show us that he means it, but really it makes it seem like Branaugh's Henry V is trying to convince himself of the truth of his own words, as if its not simply self-evident that he should be there, in France, staking his claim to the various dukedoms owed him though his royal lineage. Yelling and making a scene suggests he doesn't really deserve it. He is definitely not acting like he's been there before. In a word, what he's not is he's not regal. Henry V is supposed to be regal. Being regal is knowing that one deserves one's crown; a true king doesn't need to prove it all the time with yelling and beheadings. (I liked the BBC version of Henry v. and if you haven't seen the HBO/BBC 'Rome' series, the actor who plays Julius Caesar (the pagan J.C.)- That’s regal.)

The Red Sox act like they've been there before. There’s a calm, equanimity, a knowledge that they deserve to be there, and that they will triumph, without bluster and strain. Yes, there's sweat. But its Kevin Youkilis sweat of determination, not Calvin Schiraldi sweat of fear. There’s a Papelbon O-face, not a Derek Lowe face.

In this series, the patient sox hitters are positively regal, and do not deign to condescend. Pitches out of the strike zone are beneath them. (Yes, I went there.) Such meager offerings are an insult to our person; they offer, we refuse. We wait for what is pleasing to our royal person, and then deliver (posthaste) a crushing blow.

That sort of thing rubs off on the fan, or at least on me. I just don’t' feel nervous. Yes, I felt indignant a number of times during the Cleveland series, when physics and luck went against us; that's the thing about luck- its always out of character (as in the difference between essence and accident). and I’ll admit to losing my cool and screaming real real loud (and completely freaking out Rebecca) when, after the Lugo error on the pop up in game 7, with Lofton at third as the tying run, and Blake hit the grounder to Lowell, and I jumped off the couch, yelling, with ascending volume, 'turn it, turn it, turn it', and then thundered FUCK YEAH! Upon their so doing.

But other than that, we've been here before. We’re in our element. I can calmly watch the game, knowing that victory, not collapse, and not randomness, is inevitable. There’s no panic. There’s no 1918 bullshit that calls our character into question. We ascended to the throne through trying circumstances in '04, yes with the help of the wild card, but by now, our legitimacy is unquestioned (I’m tempted to pun on our closer and say its granted by papal bull, but I won't.) so with 9 wins down, we can look forward to games three and four, and say (with apologies) 'twice more unto the breach, dear friends, twice more'... then the day is ours.

Also, on the Boston dirt dogs sight, re: the Ellsbury stolen base which won everybody a free taco, it said 'tacoby bellsbury.' that's funny.

Also also, Josh Fogg sucks.

I won't remember that unwritten rule; I should write that down.

From the Archive: May 31, 2007
[Re: A-Rod's yell disrupts catching a popup]

I don't know how many of you, if any, watch the games on mlb dot com. but in lieu of commercials, they play a single promo for 'dick's sporting goods' at every inning break. the commercial consists of various fans in different team merchandise saying what its all about. a group of Sox fans, in their defective accents, say 'its about nevah giving up', to which a single Sox fan, a hip looking twenty something, adds 'nevah evah.'

while that is obnoxious, and is making me want to pull out my remaining hairs, the yankee fan in the promo is equally annoying. he's your friendly neighborhood wiseguy, who stares menacingly at the camera, and says, slowly, letting each word, and the latent threat they contain, sink in- 'its about doing.. what it takes.. to win."

this suggests, of course, that nothing, and certainly no code of ethics, will stand in the way of achieving the ultimate goal- the victory.

I do not mean to suggest that this is characteristic of the yankee fan, or of anyone, for that matter, except the marketers at dick's. frankly, I don't care if even that's true.

but I think my brother makes a good point, (even though my dad would call him a 'monist' for it- don't' worry about what that means), and I think it amounts to agreeing with the dicks wiseguy.

an important question to answer is whether there should be such a thing as unwritten rules at all. In response, I would ask: what's the harm in writing them? To say they should (and by 'should' I mean 'should') remain unwritten is, as far as I can tell, to desire some transcendent notion of ethics and honor in place of the rule of law.

why would one wish this? In a scenario where ethics, virtue, duty, and honor are norms rather than rules, there is no external check on one acting honorably or virtuously; there is just one's internal sense of it, and one owns subjective wish to act this way. but precisely for this reason, it can be skirted by those who do not have that wish, and what is worse, as a consequence, it is not enforced equitably, but instead is something that happens only whenever someone feels like it.

some may yell 'hah', or 'mine', if the desire arises, and some may not. steroids may be dishonorable, but not illegal (or treated as illegal by the relevant powers), and so some people do it, and some don't, in which case there arises inequality of opportunity for achievement- that is to say, unfairness.

it is cultures that define honor and other such values and virtues. but even in a 'clubhouse culture' that may act as a unifying force, human ballplayers come from different cultures, some were taught right from wrong, others weren't. but this shouldn't matter, precisely because when they are all playing baseball they play by the same rules.

one might say that an unwritten code is self-legislating, and does carry consequence's, and that a clubhouse culture provides all the enforcement one needs; a-rod, for example, will be beaned, and a player who slides dirty into second will see his teammate receive the same treatment. But this is just eye-for-an-eye vengeance, and not a legal penalty. why leave the enforcement of unwritten rules- and vengeance- to chance, or to culture, or to a teammate who may or may not like you and care about sticking up for you? (sometimes mike mussina forgets to throw inside, for example.) why leave up to culture and chance what can be codified, and then enforced equitably? if an act is considered something worthy of punishment, as my brother micah suggests, then what does it hurt to make it a rule which guarantees a penalty ? I dont know what soccer flopping is, but if its anything like soccer, i'm sure its bad (sorry. I had to go there.)

look. in iraq right now, what one has, among other things, are a bunch of cultures each trying to impose their values and their dubious and dangerously destructive notions of honor on each other, in lieu in living in a society ruled by law. I think a little law, and respect for fair and equal treatment, would go a long way.

is the goal of the sport to act honorably, or to win? i'm concerned that in much of the ahem, developing, ahem, pre-civilized world, the point of living is for one's culture to enjoy some cockamamie notion of honor and pride, (and so everything that any other country or culture does in its own interest becomes some sort of humiliation)

but the point of playing baseball games is not to bring honor to your team or your family or your ancestors, but to win. if honor happen as a result of winning, that's fine. but that's a consequence of the ends, not the end itself. if a ballplayer shouldn't do something, then make a law against it, and have it count against winning.

also, because its getting late in the day, I won't write my Nietzschean/ Spenglerian counterpoint to this dilly. suffice it to say that those teuton philosophers wouldn't agree. they like supermen who are above the law, who are thereby able to craft a new ethics and culture as they go, and who consider an abundance of legislation as stultifying and antithetical to the vital spirit that distinguishes the worthy and strong from the weak herd.

for them, law is the death of culture. I guess I just put a positive spin on that.

2004 ALCS Finale: Everything Was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt

From the Archive:

October 22, 2004: Accounts and Experiences of the ALCS; Sox win Series 4-3, advance to World Series for first time since 1986 (“Everything was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt”)

It was an absolute joy to read the New York papers this morning. Saturated with phrases such as 'most humiliating loss ever,' 'colossal collapse,' 'choke artists,' permanent stain on the Yankee record', 'curse reversed with reverse sweep,' boy, was that ever satisfying.

There’s so much to talk about I don't even know where to begin. So I think I’ll just talk about the whole thing.

I stayed up all night last night. I had to teach at 8 this morning, and there was no way I was sleeping. I took the subway home from Brooklyn, and talked smack about the Yankees with the various sox fans I met on the train. Loud.

I got home and devoured every article online I could, I watched the highlights over and over. I want this shit burned into my memory, I want every sight and stat and fact and feeling indelibly marked in my mind.

So on no sleep, I wander on down to jimbo's hamburger palace at 6 this morning, and spent a wonderfully pleasant hour, casually eating french fries and bacon, drinking coffee, with my hands on a fresh new copy of the day's New York post. As usual, I’m the only white guy in the place, and along with my bacon, french fries and sadistic pleasure in the humiliation of the Yankees, I get to listen in to some great stories about Negro league baseball and owing money to bookies, the hot topics with the senior citizen crowd at jimbos.

I caught the subway to queens, giddy with grease and greatness. New York is beautifully quiet in the morning, all the more so when you like where you're going and everyone else is miserable, and the Yankees just lost and you can even see a frown on the buildings, collapsing on the weight of their shackled, impotent pride.

I got to class early, because I hadn't done the reading that I was supposed to lecture on. Thursdays class goes for 2 hours and 15 minutes, and I spent that whole time talking about James and Sartre on freedom. I think I did a good job, considering I don't really know about them and I hadn't really done the reading.

At one point, I asked something of the class, and got a response 'because the Yankees lost.' a couple of students with whom I’ve talked about baseball (in the context, initially, of metaphysical continuity- what makes something the same over time is interestingly illustrated by turnover on baseball teams), and they didn't know I was a sox fan. I couldn't contain my grin, laughing at these teenage Hispanic kids from the Bronx and queens. So I stop talking about Sartre and existential despair, because, frankly, I think that's one thing I don't have to worry about on this morning, and I told them they don't want to know where I grew up, because that might sidetrack the lecture. 'You’re not from Boston, are you professor?' they asked aghast, the first glimmer that perhaps I was indoctrinating and not teaching, planting evil seeds in their malleable little heads. 'Oh yes,' I responded, grinning like a Cheshire cat on nitrous. 'You’re not just a bandwagon fan?' a student named Carlos Gonzalez asked, still hoping that it just couldn't be, and that a weak moral character in regards to allegiance would be better than a strong devotion to evil, to which I responded, while a Ms. Lopez waited patiently to ask a question about Sartre, 'you name the year, I’ll give you the starting lineup... so when Sartre says 'existence precedes essence, the view that he is attacking is...'

What fun. What fun.

But let's go back a bit in our journey, for as we know, it wasn't all kibbles n bits.

I attended game 1. About the 6th inning, I remarked, 'y'know, I think the highlight of this game was when Damon struck out leading off.' this was my first day back to the stadium since Grady’s choice, and I couldn't make a peep. Mussina’s throwing a fucking perfect game, and if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, schilling's fucking toasting Christopher reeve out on the mound.
But as the sox got their first hit, and then their first run, and then varitek hit the dong to make it 8-5, I started to stand, then yell, then represent. That’s when the peanuts came a'flyin. To indicate my disregard to such an onslaught, I turned around and made sarcastic boo hoo motions, rubbing my eyes and acting as if they hurt. Then I’d turn back towards the field and give everyone behind me the finger. Well, two of them.

So, of course, more peanuts.

A peanut got caught in my collar, so I picked up it up and did my best Damon-throwing impression back at them, effeminately throwing the peanut about 2 feet, and then giving them the finger.

Ire was raised.

And so about this time, Ortiz hits a triple to make it 8-7. I scream as loud as I can, 'MVP, MVP!!', to which the carefully worded and logically impeccable response, 'shut the fuck up you Boston faggot' was delivered. More peanuts. etc. I, of course, turned around, (and remember, this is in the tier of Yankee stadium, where people are towering above you) and screamed up at everyone "MVP, MVP!", even louder than before.

So, of course, Rivera comes in, and Millar pops out. And that's when smack, right in the back of the head, a full beer. I’m drenched. Some of the falloff gets a Yankee fan in front of me, who had requested earlier that they stop throwing peanuts. He, unbeknownst to me at the moment, leaves his seat to go get the cops. Knownst to me was that I turned around, and in a rage, yelled 'who the fuck threw that?' and when no one answered, I screamed, at maximal ire, 'you fucking pussies! You throw beer at me when my back is turned, and now you're not man enough to admit who threw it?! You’re a bunch of fucking pussies, all of you, a bunch of pussies!' Not knowing the culprit, I made eye contact with as many suspects as I could, all of whom were bigger than me, and I called them pussies, and gestured for them to come down and fight.

You know why they didn't? Because they're pussies. And that's a good thing. You know why I smelled worse than usual? I was covered in beer.

And I had so many zingers lined up. Earlier, before operation peanut turned into a genuine beer conflict, someone had yelled at me, when I turned around, 'nice hair.' so I retorted 'nice job'. I had so many directions I wanted to go if they took the bait. 'I can tell by looking at you that you hate your job.' or, if they had asked me what I did I was going to say 'it doesn’t matter, we're not hiring janitors.' And after launching the 7 dollar beer, I wanted to say, 'I hope your food stamps pay for that,' or, 'you've wasted all that money, now I’ll have to pay your mom extra to clean my toilets.'

Going to Yankee stadium is no fun. I’ve now been there 3 times, 3 alcs games vs. the sox. Games 2 and 7 last year, game 1 this year. You know, it's no fun.

God, I wish I was there last night.

Game 2 simply sucked. I don't know if I can ever forgive Pedro for that daddy comment. Whatever infinitesimal leverage we have when arguing with Yankees fans was completely ripped away when he said that. And to hear them ridicule our hall of famer like that was a stab in the heart. The fact that I paraded around the streets of Brooklyn chanting 'who's your daddy' last night, at the top of my voice, did do something to assuage that. At the time, however, that was a mere daydream.

Game 3 sure seemed like a must win at the time. All day long, I was doing great work. In my spare time, I’ve been working on this paper that's not for class, but I’m hoping is my first published paper. Its up to about 50 pages, and I think its good. I was having great insights, making great progress, feeling really good about myself, and then 8 o’clock rolls around. Time to get my heart stepped on and kicked in the balls. Fantastic. I’m supposed to stop my brain in the middle of its actualization and revert to primitive tribal emotions, only to be destroyed and humiliated? 19-8? Are you fucking kidding me?

As a result, I guess I kind of bailed. I admit it. It just didn't seem fair that I should stop all this great progress I was making, work that was uniquely my own, and emotionally submit to a situation over which I had no control. I had to block it out, I just had to.

So I watched game 4 under my blanket with the sound off. Not hearing the silence of fenway, not hearing Joe Buck call another Yankee hit, somehow made it less real. I don't know if this is because of the auditory associations I have with Yankee stadium, or because with the sound off it just looks like another game, without the postseason roar of communal lust. I wasn't going to let them steal another night of brain from me, so I tried to comfort myself by reading a treatise on the unreality of matter during the game, naturally, in order to convince myself that this wasn't real, and it didn't matter. Although I picked up a few more expository moves, the self-delusion proved stronger yet again. It was real, and it mattered. Oh, it mattered.

The contingencies were felt. In game 1, I believe, we had the tying runs on base, with Bill Mueller up. He hit a ball sharply up the middle, and Rivera made the stab and started the 1-6-3 DP, game over. This time, game 4, Roberts steals, and Mueller again hits it up the middle, this time just by the frantic grab of Rivera. Tie game. And we won that one.

Game 5 I actually had to miss some of. I had a class presentation to do. So I watched the beginning of the game at a bar by school, ducked out with the score 2-1 us, gave my presentation, spontaneously snapped off a remarkably witty and biting zinger at the expense of the most influential philosopher of this generation, who is a prof at my school, and bolted out of class, and back to the bar.

We’re down 4-2, now in the 7th. A bunch of asshole corporos are being idiots and talking shit, not knowing who's pitching or what positions various players play, yet feeling superior and deserving nonetheless. After a sox strikeout, they yell 'sit down', and pump their fists. So finally, when senor October comes through yet again, in the 14th, we start screaming and I yell 'sit down' in the direction of those stupid motherfuckers. One of them, dressed in his corporo gear, starts towards me, screaming drunkenly that they were going to kick our asses, that we're a bunch of losers, that the red sox suck, that Boston sucks. So I cut in and say 'yeah, I know, and I suck too, I really suck. Your job is better than mine, you have a nicer shirt than I do.' he's taken off guard, and noticing that I’m wearing a turtleneck and a (not-baseball) cap, says 'well, you have a cap, and. you're a beatnik!' I laugh, and yell, 'you're a suit!' so he yells that the Yankees are better, and so I say, 'c'mon, suit, market it at me. Hey, it's human resources calling... you suck!' I wanted to say 'don't fight, you'll lose your 401K', but he's busy being restrained by his friends, and I’m trying to figure out whether I should dodge or punch first. I remained content to chant "MVP" for senor October.

What is there to say about game 6? Words cannot express how amazing schilling was. Although I will note that before they reversed the a-rod cheated call, I thought I was going to vomit. It would have been tying run on second, 1 out, with Sheffield and Matsui coming up. Not that those fuckers actually could hit when it counted.

A-rod is a cheater and a choker, a 25 million dollar player whose teams get better when he leaves, and worse when he arrives. Fuck that motherfucker.

Which of course brings us to last night.

The Sox had runners on 1st and second, and the hitter chopped one foul up the third base line. A-rod made the play, and in case it was fair, went to tag third- but rather than stepping on the bag, he hit it with his glove. I yelled "why don't you knock the bag away, you fucking cheater!"

The sox actually did it. I’m still looking for the Yankees, because they didn't even show up to game 7. They didn't even make a game of it. It was over in the second inning.

We spilled out onto the streets, chanting 'Yankees suck', because now it’s true, and 'who's your daddy'. Dismayed and lost Yankee fans looked at us pathetically, although a couple thought to yell. 'Go back to Boston', which was met with the gleeful rejoinder 'oh, we'll go back to Boston... for the world series!'

As we're parading down the street, chanting 'who's your daddy?', and 'go play golf!', and getting cheers from apartment windows and honks from motorists, a girl comes running up to us, flailing violently, kicked drew in the balls and punched me in the face. She’s a spoiled bitch like the rest of them. I laughed at her. It was funny, after all.

Will someone make a t-shirt: 'I went to Yankee stadium and all I got was this a.l. pennant'?

And to cap it off, as I was stepping out the door of the bar to go home, I turned back in and screamed 'Yankees suck, Yankees suck!' everyone joined in, naturally, and I walked out of the bar, with that brand new truth ringing in my ears.

I’m not going to try and describe the feelings. I think we all experienced joy and vindication and pride and, well, everything good. We suffered, we earned, we accomplished, we didn't choke, and we humiliated the Yankees. We showed them what its like. The rivalry is forever changed. We’ve wiped away all those 26 rings, because something happened that's never happened in baseball history, a choke that even the red sox never managed, and it was the Yankees, collapsing in unprecedented and remarkable fashion, at the hands of the red sox. They can 1918 us all they want, but they can never, never undo what happened this year.

Who’s your fucking daddy now, you stupid motherfuckers! We went into your house and pissed on your rug, and their ain't nothin you can do about it. Who’s the red sox now? How do you like it?

Ahh, sweet, sweet victory. Unexpected, impossible, miraculous, gritty, amazing victory.

All the insults, the yelling, the abuse, the fights, the having to risk my neck with all these drunk idiots to stick up for my team, the constant looking out of the corner of my eye for projectiles and fists, I don't like this stuff. I try to glam it up in my storytelling, but I wish they would all fuck off. And now they will. We win. They lose.

I want to buy t-shirts. T-shirts commemorate. And now Yankee fans can go commiserate.

Oh yeah, and fuck themselves.

2003 ALCS Game 7- Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

From the Archive: October 17, 2003:

[After Game 7 ALCS v. Yankees; Sox lose series 4-3, after blowing a 5-2 lead in the 8th inning, and eventually losing in the 11th on an Aaron Boone home run.]

Well, things don't always go as planned. Or in some cases, things are planned to go the way you don't want.

But you know, I'm lucky. Because for 7 1/3 innings, I owned that fucking place. Yankee stadium. Or at least the vicinity around the top tier, section B, row N, seat number 9. For 7 1/3, I got to see the look on those stupid fucking Yankees' fans faces. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I abused them. And they couldn't do anything.

Sure, I was hit in the head and drenched with a few beers. Yes, I was pegged with a bunch of peanuts. But none of those assholes could even own up. After Pedro breezed through another inning, and having grown tired of the mocking "we want Pedro" chant, I switched it up to "throw more beer!, throw more beer!". Did anyone do so? No. Of course not. Because the Yankee fans are cowards. I don't know who threw those beers. But they knew who I was. I was the guy who for 7 1/3 innings owned that fucking place. I was the one with the balls to put myself on the line, because I've suffered, and I was earning that victory.

Every time Soriano waved at another pitch, I hollered "overrated" over and over again. Jeter whiffs "hey, nice cut, Mr. November." Giambi pops out; "you need the deodorant ads, because you stink!" After starting another "lets go red sox" chant, an infuriated Sopranos looking Yankee fan offered for me to come down and fight him. I've never so casually nodded no and given the finger at the same time. His buddy did a nice job of restraining him. I don't know what stopped the other bunch of guys who offered to fight me. Probably being pussies, I guess.

My throat is sore, and my head hurts, and there is beer in my hair and clothes. But for 7 1/3, it was euphoric. There was nothing better. I was in their house pissing on their rug and they just had to shut the fuck up.

And yes, I did notice that we lost. But if we had won, it wouldn't have lasted forever. Maybe the Yankees would have won next year. This way it didn't last a year, but for those 7 1/3 innings, I was the winner. They were the losers. I stood up at Yankee stadium and yelled at the top of my lungs for 2 hours. I told Roger to get his fat ass in a rocking chair, and for Bernie to join him. I told Bernie that it was odd that he could be both washed up, and stink (although few got that one.) I got to call the Yankee fans sore losers, and the fucking pussies wouldn't even admit who threw beer and peanuts. (I guess when you drop out of school in 9th grade you miss out on the spitball phase.)

The damn Yankees fans don't suffer. They don't earn what they get, and they don't deserve it. So I made goddam fucking sure that they suffered as much as possible. In the end, we didn't win, but I'm used to that. We never win. But I knew that for those 7 1/3 innings, all those suckers who paid all that money to be at the game, well, I was making their lives a living fucking hell. I made damn sure that every Yankee fan within earshot, and boy do I have a loud voice, was regretting that they got off their fat asses in the first place to come to that game.

I'm sure by now they've forgotten all about me. But I won't forget the look on their faces. The anger. The rage, all directed at me, the guy who was getting what he earned, but what those assholes thought was theirs for no fucking reason at all. So fuck them. I know that I ruined their fucking night, at least for a couple of hours. And sure, I can get a kick out of responding to "Pedro sucks" chants with "he makes 17 million dollars. So what does that make you?", but it doesn't normally affect anyone. But tonight, for those 7 1/3, those fucking Yankee fans, well, they truly sucked.

So for those of you who weren't there, I'm sorry that you couldn't experience at least the fleeting sensation of triumph in the midst of all those stupid fuckers. But frankly, I don't want to tell you about what it was like leaving the stadium, or pushing through a crowd to find the subway, and all that. This I could have done without.

But that's all a bad dream. The reality, well, were those 7 1/3 innings, when the Red Sox were champions, and I was there.

Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.