Hip-Hip-JORGE! Hip-Hip-JORGE! is a chant that literally made me sick.
Jorge Posada, one of the corner stones of the Yankees dynasty, is a player that I couldn’t fucking stand and it’s all because of one incident that happened many years ago…
Cue the wavy, here comes a flashback, screen effect and echo on “years ago, years ago, years agooooooo…..”
Myself and three friends ventured into the Bronx to attend the home opener for the Yankees 2004 season. We arrive at the box office at 9am, for a 1pm game, full of excitement, joy, adrenaline and at least three, possibly four, sausage and egg biscuits from McDonalds. With money in hand we are bestowed with a treat that I could have never imagined. The seats we purchased were behind the left field wall where we could view the game through a plexiglass window. We were essentially playing left field, which would’ve been considerably better than Hideki Matsui who was starting that day.
After a close encounter with the law, I decided to sell my friends ticket in front of a cop, the gates finally opened and we made our way to our seats. For an 18 year old $70 was a lot of money to spend on tickets so actually arriving at our seats was almost orgasmic and most certainly lead to a few high fives, which was really the only form of joy any of us could muster up without looking like virgins, we still did.
Batting practice took place, we walked around monument park and as the other unprivileged fans left our area we laughed as if these were the seats we owned. In our minds that area was ours and no pesants were allowed to be there with us, except of course the other ticket holders – a security guard refused to kick them out, the $5 bribe didn’t work.
Suddenly everyone in our area started to look around and started to stand in excitement. “Pft, I’m 18 I’ve seen it all”, I thought, “I’m not standing up with these other schmucks”. Then the National Anthem started, I looked like the only asshole in the area who didn’t like America and the green track jacket I was wearing that day didn’t help me blend in with the other fans who wore the appropriate white and/or navy blue.
After everyone settled back down I noticed that the doors leading on to the field were open which spiked my curiosity as to why. Again the people started to shift and get excited and this time I wasn’t going to be a fool, but how wrong I was.
Out of no where the whole scene became a slow motion event. As I looked back Jorge Posada, starting Catcher for the New York Yankees, the man who, a few months earlier, hit a double off Pedro Martinez that knocked him out of the game and helped pave an improbably comeback, came out of the bullpen and started to make his way toward the open doors leading to the outfield. For an unknown reason I found myself alone next to the guardrail, placed there because of jerkoffs such as myself, looking back at everyone not understanding why no one was doing exactly what I was.
And here comes the moment that solidified my hatred for Posada. Not the production drops in the second half of the season, not the strike outs on breaking balls in the dirt, not the fact that the guy could turn an easy triple into an out at first base and not even the seemingly 8,000 double plays he grounded into the year prior.
As Posada makes his way toward me I extend my hand, as this is the only form of expression and gratitude I could come up with. This, in my mind, is the ultimate compliment, extending my short, stubby, probably sweaty hand in front of a Yankee who has already solidified himself among the all time Yankee greats. As I reach out to my maximum capacity Jorge walks right by me. He walked right fucking by me. Not a nod, not a wave and especially not slapping my hand in the most primitive form of communication humans still have from our ancestors Adam and Eve, they were monkeys right?
I felt ashamed, embarrassed and hurt. So hurt that I put a 5 year curse on the Yankees that lead to two Red Sox championships and none for them until the 2009 season and they needed a new ballpark to shake that curse. Posada was now my enemy number one. A legend who played for the team I adore the most and was involved in every single play during the games he was in action and someone who caught for some of the most prolific pitchers in the history of Major League Baseball, was now the biggest asshole in the world to me.
He was forever banished from my heart. Every double play he hit into was followed by a smug “of course” and every home run he hit I proclaimed “he got lucky”. He would never have any good feelings projected toward him from me, it was certain. I knew that if I ever saw him in person I would turn my back on him and he would know that I fucking hated him and it would tear him apart. I truly believed that, I realized after a few visits to the shrink that he wouldn’t know I existed if I stood right in front of him which lead to me hating him even more.
As fate would have it my girlfriend was being courted for a potential job with an events planner who specialized in fund raising. What was her big account? The Jorge Posada Foundation. Here is my chance to tell this asshole to his face that he was, in fact, an asshole.
As the event ended there he stood in his designer jeans and cashmere sweater, what a prick. He didn’t even have bowling shoes on, oh I forgot to mention it was a bowling event. The crowd of autograph hoarding, celebrity ass kissers finally dispersed and here was my chance to tell Posada how I felt. That’s right, during he own fucking event I was going to destroy him with this story.
I made my way toward him extending my hand – yeah, he’ll remember me I thought to myself – and all of the sudden I felt a hand receive mine bring me in and place an arm around me and say, “smile for the camera”.
Holy shit! My plan has been foiled! He took my picture and like the totally spineless person and starfucker I am I caved and smiled! Not only that but I told people that all has been forgotten! What has become of me?! And worst of all I showed off the picture to others bragging smugly that it happened. I am a shell of my former self and, worst of all, I never did tell Posada that he was a dick because, when all is said and done, he probably just didn’t see me standing at the guard rail that day and even if he did, fuck it, he’s a really nice guy.