from the New York Daily News
Monday, August 17, 1998
By Lisa Olson
There is nothing Ruthian about these Yankees, and still they are bigger than life, approaching mythical proportions with all the gusto of a man who once lived on a diet of pig's knuckles.
Only those were chocolate chip cookies making their way from locker to locker in Babe Ruth's old clubhouse yesterday. His specter might have been lurking in the Stadium's right-field rafters, coaxing home runs into the stands, but the only true sign of the Bambino was the sweaty cap David Wells reluctantly agreed to put out to pasture.
"Time to retire the old thing," Wells said to Graeme Lloyd after the Yankees beat the Texas Rangers, 6-5, at the Stadium. In the morning, Wells had used white chalk to stencil Babe's No. 3 on the back of the cap, and now the hallowed number was melting into the fabric. He cradled it in his hands lovingly, delicately.
"Get that thing away from me, mate. It stinks," replied Lloyd. Wells looked shocked, as if Lloyd had just told him Barry Manilow rocked over Metallica. He hated to admit it, but maybe it really was time to give up the ghost.
Because on this sacred date in history, a date all fans have embedded in their brains, the true spirit of the Yankees shone through. Yes, it was Madonna's 40th birthday. And who better to embody the team spirit than that noted songstress aficionado, Derek Jeter?
"How about Jeter? Guys who have played here and been there don't remember a righthander hitting the ball in the upper deck like that," said manager Joe Torre, still marveling at the shot Jeter sent into the place players call "the upper tank," that barely reachable sweet spot in the third tier of the right-field stands.
The dinger came in the first inning, a two-run homer off Texas starter Esteban Loaiza that even the Sultan of Swat surely would have stopped to admire. But Jeter, growing more powerful by the day, zipped around the bases, probably because he was afraid he might leave his tongue behind.
"Wow," he said as he ran into the dugout, still stunned. "Wow."
There wasn't much more to say, about his bomb or this club. Jeter would go 3-for-5, a triple short of hitting for the cycle, and make the defensive play that stranded three Rangers on base with the score knotted at 5 in the ninth. There is nothing Ruthian about this matinee idol/shortstop, either, except for the fact that he owns New York the way the Babe once did.
Bernie Williams is the anti-Ruth, soft-spoken, modest, his only peccadillo being a penchant for the guitar. When the Red Sox wouldn't cave into the Babe's big money demands back in 1919, he left for New York. Okay, his request for a whopping $15,000 per season wasn't exactly the sum Williams will command as a free agent in a few months. Still, Torre was as impressed with Williams' demeanor as he was with Williams' game-winning homer in the ninth yesterday.
"I've never been involved, especially when dealing with New York, with the lack of carping and trying to posture yourself or whatever," he said of Williams. "He just plays the game."
The home run off Xavier Hernandez, his first game-winner since he hit one off Randy Myers in Game 1 of the ALCS in 1996, was breathtaking, but it wasn't Ruthian, eh, Derek?
"How many home runs does Bernie have?" replied Jeter. He didn't have to know the answer was 18 before quipping, "He's got a long way to go before he's Babe Ruth."
Scott Brosius will never be mistaken for Brooks Robinson, but there were moments against the Rangers when Yankee fans had to make sure that vision at third really was Brosius, backhanding line drives like the Golden Glover he was supposed to be when the Yanks traded for him.
"Scotty, he's the one who kept the team in the ballgame," said Wells. "I was getting my butt kicked out there. He saved me with those plays."
His pitches up and location off, Wells gave up 10 hits in six innings and later did everything but apologize to the Babe's altar for besmirching his memory on this, the 50th anniversary of Ruth's death. Sometimes it seems as if the Babe's soul is rambling around in Boomer's body, but there is no reason to call in Shirley MacLaine. The Babe has not been reincarnated, not that these Yankees would need him.
"He's with us always in spirit, anyway," said Wells, fitting a brand new cap into his travel bag.
And so the Yanks hit the road with a perfectly symmetrical 90-30 record, a .750 winning percentage that only the 1906 Chicago Cubs and '44 Cardinals knew at this point in the season. There is nothing Ruthian about this team, unless you count the way they keep pounding 'em out.
