The Final Showdown -- Games 6 and 7 of the 2001 World Series
Game 6
Derek Jeter's View
I couldn't believe it. Down fifteen to nothing. After winning those three games in New York, I felt invincible. This was like a slap in the face. Once again, we had gotten too arrogant. Damn these Diamondbacks, and their fans. This just wasn't another rivalry thing; they hated us. For reasons beyond my understanding.We had missed so many easy outs tonight, I thought as I sat on the bench. I had missed so many easy outs. My mind was
somewhere else...and we all paid for it. I felt like it was all my fault. Then, Torre had pulled me, along with Jorge and Tino. Another slap. We all felt like we were useless. And to think, we didn't get any runs until our replacements had come in for us. What a horrible night. You know how you get that feeling in the pit of your stomach when you know something bad is
going to happen? I have had that feeling since we won Game 5. Normally, after winning a game like that, I'd be excited, celebrating with a night on the town. Living it up. But, no, as soon as that game was over I had done the necessary interviews and gone directly home to my apartment. I had sat down on the couch, staring blankly at the television screen that kept
replaying Brosius's homerun, and Knoblauch sliding home. I saw myself, waving Chuck home, leaping into the air when he was called safe, hugging him, smiling like a moron. I am a moron. How could all of that just gone so far down hill in so little time?I knew we had already lost tonight when the D'Backs scored a run in the first inning. The first goddamn inning. That feeling in the pit of my stomach had spread, encompassing my whole body. I was scared. There have been times where I was nervous before, but tonight? I was scared. In between batters, I'd glance around Bank One Ballpark, hoping to catch a single glance of a Yankees fan. There weren't many. Giuliani was there. That made me feel a little better. God! How stupid we were to think we could just go down to Arizona and beat them in Game 6. When Bellinger struck out in the top of the ninth, I froze. I felt as if I'd been shoved out into the streets of New York in December, naked. I felt naked. I felt like the whole world was laughing at the team, but especially at me. I sat staring at the thousands of faces in the crowd, and they were cheering for the Diamondbacks, not for us. I sat still for a moment, numb. Suddenly, I was filled with a hate. I hated the other team, their fans, this
stupid ballpark, this city, this state. Even for a very, very brief moment, I hated the game of baseball. But that feeling died quickly enough. We still had one game to go and baseball was my life. I could never fully hate it. Oh, there were moments I despised, sure enough, but it would always be my first love. I hated my life that night. I felt it was all my fault that we had lost. Then, when they started playing "New York, New York" in the ballpark, I felt that hatred rise again. They were rubbing salt in our wounds. I felt salt in the corners of my eyes.The team had come back to the dugout, and we all silently exchanged glances with one another. We all looked horrible, and
depressed. Silence was a theme in the locker room as well. We were all embarassed and didn't want to even think about what had just occurred. We showered, got dressed, then went outside and Chuck and I caught a taxi together. The only sound the whole ride was Chuck telling the driver where to go. I sat silent, moping, silently raging in my head. Replaying all the balls I could've--should've caught. I paid the driver as we climbed out of the taxi and we went up to our floor of the hotel. The silence in the elevator was suffocating. Knobby started to say something a few times, but stopped himself. I could only imagine what he would say to me..."Hey, man, I know how you feel, we shoulda had 'em"..."Man, you really messed up
tonight--but so did I"..."You're the worst player in the world! How the hell did you get to play for the Yankees?!" Okay, he wouldn't have said that last one, but I was saying to it myself. We got off the elevator and walked to our rooms, right next to each other. I was fumbling with my key. For some reason, my vision was blurred. "Derek?" Chuck asked quietly, looking
over at me. I was shaking like a leaf. "You okay?""Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I lied, wishing he'd go away, but at the same time wishing he'd stay. We used to be best friends, but since his move to left field I felt as if we'd grown apart. We didn't talk as much, or spend as much time together. He came toward me and carefully put his arms around me, hugging me. I sighed deeply, wrapping my arms around his shoulders...So short he was! It must've been awkward for him to lay his head on my chest but he did. It was then I realized then we hadn't grown apart, we were as close as ever before. We just connected with each other. This hug was exactly what I needed. I had been numb since I left the stadium. The hug didn't really make me feel better...but it made me feel again. The horrible numbness of defeat was drifting away while
I was in his arms. If only other guys could have what Chuck and I have."It's okay, DJ. We still have one more to go," he soothed, gently rubbing my back. His voice still had a tiny trace of Texas twang to it, and I grinned a little when I noticed it. He pulled away from the hug, making me feel a little empty. "We'll get 'em tomorrow night, right?" he asked, unlocking his door. I nodded, unable to speak. My emotions were swirling around in me like a tornado. "Get some sleep, relax," he said, taking a step into his room. "Goodnight," he said, closing the door behind him."Night," I mumbled, looking at his door for a while. I didn't want to bother him, but I needed to thank him for calming me. Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow. Wiping away the tears that had welled, but not spilt over, I opened my door and entered my room, turning on a few lights. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. "Gotta keep those teeth white, man.
Girls love that smile," Jorge had joked to me once. I grinned into the mirror when I was done, but the smile looked so fake.What was to become of the all-mighty Yankees? We had gotten to used to being in the World Series, even after just those four years that we felt it was our job to do this season after season. If we lost tomorrow night, I don't know what I'd do. I stared into the eyes of my reflection, noticing they were a just a little red. Don't cry, I told myself. Men don't cry. But they don't usually hug one another, do they? I debated against myself. I'd done this so many times before, I didn't even think it was odd anymore. "We will win the game tomorrow," I whispered to myself, watching my lips move. That feeling in the pit of my stomach had shrunk greatly, but it was still there, like a lead weight pulling me down. Suddenly, I slapped my own face. It stung. "Suck it up, Jeter," I commanded. "You MUST win tomorrow. If you don't you're a dead man." What a pep talk I gave my reflection. I shook my head, turned off the light, and went back to the bedroom. I stripped down to my boxers and climbed under the covers, staring at the white ceiling. Only then did the full weight of the night sink in. I rolled over on my
stomach and started to viciously punch my pillow. Eventually, all my frustration was replaced by exhaustion and I lay back in my usual sleeping position, repeating over and over in my mind that "Yankees will win the World Series, Yankees will win the World Series," until I fell into a discontented sleep.
Chuck Knoblauch's View
More lousy at-bats. Once again, I didn't get a single hit. And Jeter thought he did bad. He's only been like this for a little. Try having your whole season go by like that, only once in a while getting a hit. Game 5, the winning run? Yeah, that was me, but only because of a very lucky hit on my part, a good hit by Scott, and Alfonso's hit to right. I was really damn lucky that Diamondbacks catcher dropped the ball, or I would've been out. Like so many times before.Tonight...I don't even wanna think about tonight. Derek's breakdown in the hallway scared me. If he could fall apart, what would happen to the rest of us? I was just as upset and angry as he was, but he seemed to think the whole loss was on his shoulders. Poor kid. I closed my eyes for a long moment, taking deep breath after deep breath. I need sleep. I stripped down completely (nothing like silky hotel sheets against your skin). I tossed and turned for what seemed like forever. Let's see what's on TV...Ah, SpongeBob Squarepants. What a great little cartoon. I felt like Patrick at this particular moment...Able to
put up a false front of knowing what do to and what was going on, but I knew, deep down, that this wasn't going well.Tomorrow was the moment of truth. The last game of the 2001 season, the last game of the 2001 World Series. How I had gotten here was beyond me. I seriously could not understand it. After being literally scared shitless that the Yanks would
trade me in July, after sitting out almost all of August...And now here I was again, in the World Series, and playing in some of it, too! Spencer was slowly but surely taking my job from me, though. The fans knew it and I knew it. Well, Yankees fans, anyway. I'm not too sure I have so many fans left. I flicked the TV to ESPN and saw more of the crushing defeat. How freaking humiliating. We looked like amateurs out there tonight. Damn Diamondbacks. The footage depressed me even further. I quickly turned the television off, and flung the remote across the room, glad to hear it smack loudly againt the wall. The lyrics to a certain Limp Bizkit song started running through my head: "It's just one of those days when you don't wanna wake up/everything is fucked, everybody sucks/you don't really know why, but you wanna justify ripping someone's head off." That's what I felt like right now, but I shoved those feelings deep inside. I needed to keep that rage stored for tomorrow. Needed to use it to wail that little white ball that was now the center of my life out of the ball park. Needed it to win the game. I ran a hand over my chin, feeling a bit more than just stubble. Needed to shave.A sudden calm came over me. We had struggled and pulled through in worse times than these. I had. Derek had. We all had. Tomorrow night, at 7:30, when the D'Backs took the field, we'd go and win ourselves another game. Or maybe not. I didn't
care as much anymore. For me to make it to the World Series was a great feat in and of itself. I had been kicked off second by Soriano, and more and more often out of left field by Spencer. Both great players, but...those were my positions. Looks like my new spot will be center bench. Oh, God, I'm getting turned into a Luis Sojo.No, no, focus, I told myself. Center everything on the game. You've got to think about the game, the game, the game. Tomorrow.I finally fell asleep but nightmares plagued me. There was that recurring one that disturbed my sleep every night. I was up to bat, and every pitch the pitcher gave me was the perfect hit. Homerun material. I would swing but always I was too slow. I'd start to swing long before the ball even got near me, but it was like I was in water. I was so slow. Strikes one, two, three, I was out. Everyone booed me. They hated me. Even Derek. I couldn't stand that look of agony and hatred in his eyes. He'd glare at me, and the boos would grow louder. The fans looked like they were twenty feet tall. They all towered over, their eyes glowing red. I'd swing my bat at them, but that obviously didn't scare them. A sudden beam of light. Torre. "It's okay, Chuck. We still got a few innings left." Thank the Lord. Then, bottom of the ninth, two outs, a runner on
third, full count. We were down by one run. Please, God, I would pray as I stepped into the box. Please just let me get a hit. Randy Johnson on the mound. He was too tall. I was too short. The wind-up, the pitch...Oh, God. I'd close my eyes, swing. Hear the crack of the bat, open my eyes, see it sailing over the heads of Johnson, the second baseman, heading for the wall. Please, please, please, I'd plead silently, walking toward first base, never taking my eyes off the ball. It was going to clear the wall. But, no, the center fielder climbed the wall, barely caught it in his glove. But he caught it. I fell to my knees. I had
lost the World Series. Chuck Knoblauch, international loser. Torre came out of the dugout. I thought he'd comfort me. But no, he ripped up my contract. "You'll never play baseball again," he whispered cruelly. The cheering of the Diamondbacks fans deafened me. I lay, sobbing in the fetal position on first base until everyone had gone. I was left alone. No one had stayed behind to comfort me. I looked up. Derek had stayed. But he wasn't there to help me. His green eyes accused me. He shook his head from side to side, then walked away into the darkness.I woke up gasping for breath. Again, that dream had come. If it came down to what had happened in my dream tomorrow night, I'd probably do the same thing. Screw it up for everyone. Let down the team, the city. All the fans. I couldn't deal with that kind of pressure. I would have to, though, wouldn't I? If it came down to that, I'd have to. I got up out of bed to get a drink of water. The clock said 4:28. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Definitely need to shave. I drank my
water, flicked of the light, and groped through the darkness back to my bed. We'll win tomorrow, I told myself, not really believing it. And if we don't, at least we'll go down trying.
Game 7
Derek Jeter's View
Oh, God. Why did Torre put me in the number one spot? I knew I'd mess up, and I did. I struck out. What a way to start
the final game of the World Series. Butterflies in my stomach. I sat down on the bench, dejected. How could I play so badly? What was wrong with me? I looked up. Paul got a hit! Yes, a double! Wait...why was he going for third? I jumped up, screaming for him. So close...but out. I sighed. What a way to start the final game of the World Series. Paulie came into the
dugout, chuckling to himself. I bumped fists with him. "Brave, man. You are brave." He smiled at me. I couldn't believe this would be his last game--my last game with him. I was playing this game for Paul, not for me, not for the team, or the fans, not for the coaches or the managers or the owner. This was all for O'Neill. I sincerely hoped that we would win this game
for him.I looked at the crowd. I hated those stupid white pompoms. I pulled my glove and headed for the field. A few uneventful innings later, I was back on the field. That feeling in the pit of my stomach was back in full force. Then...the Diamondbacks scored a run. Bottom of the sixth. Why? No! We needed to win this! Finally, three outs. Our turn to bat. Don't strike out, don't strike out, I commanded myself. Oh, my Lord. I got a hit. I watched O'Neill at bat. He got a hit! I ran like the dogs of Hell were after me. I didn't even notice who was up to bat now. I had tunnel vision; all I could see was third base. I heard the crack of the bat. I ran so hard. I crossed homeplate; I don't even remember crossing third. Yeah! We were tied!Later, Soriano got a homerun. We were ahead, thank God. For the first time tonight, I actually thought we had a chance. I started to get a little more confident, but not overconfident. Look what overconfidence got us last night. If we could just hold the lead we'd be fine.Well, here we were. Bottom of the ninth. Rivera on the mound. We were so freaking close. So close. Then, three hits. We were tied again. It's okay, extra innings. Tried to get an out but, fuck! That asshole just stepped on my leg. Cleats in the calf hurt. A lot. I was in so much pain I could barely stand. But I had to get up. I did get up. God, my leg hurt. I needed to finish this game. We needed to win. That tunnel vision was back. The batter hit the ball with the bases loaded. And I froze. I could not move. The ball would've been an easy out for me--an easy double play. But I froze. The ball sailed over my head. I stared at it in disbelief. I had just lost the goddamn World Series. Me, Derek Jeter. I walked back to the dugout, dragging my feet, feeling that sharp pain in my leg. Then the numbness had returned, quashing that other ominous feeling, making me ignore that burning in my leg.I sat on the bench, staring at the field. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. Shock. Numbness. I sensed Knobby sit down next to me, put his head in his hands. The Yankees just lost the World Series to a four-year-old team. My God, we sucked. Later, we showered, dressed, went back to the hotel. I could hear the Arizona fans cheering in the street below. We had let down our millions of fans. I had. This was all my fault. I climbed into the bed and lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling until I fell asleep. I couldn't wait to go home and rest, but I could wait to go back to New York. They must all hate me there...
Chuck Knoblauch's View
How did I know that this would happen? Surprise, Chucky boy, you're on the bench while Spencer gets to play! I hated sitting there in the dugout, watching all my friends play. You're useless to this team. From Rookie of the Year in '91 to bench warmer in '01. What a turn my life had taken had taken in this last decade. In the first at-bat Jeter struck out. Poor kid. He was taking this way too seriously. And then O'Neill's hit? Wow. But why didn't he stay at second? Oh, Paul, you just wanted to be a hero. Nice try, old boy. I continued to stay in the dugout, cheering for our occaisional hits and nice
fielding plays, leaning on the fence. How exciting. Sitting there doing absolutely nothing to help our team was the worst feeling in the world. I sighed deeply. My contract with the Yankees was up when this game was over. And I was fairly sure they wouldn't ask me to come back for next season. Why had they kept me for this season? I was still pondering that one. I looked out at the field again. Clemens looked like a god on the mound. His future was as uncertain as mine,
but he was way better than I was. Later, I watched O'Neill at bat. The man just wanted a hit. Everyone else looked like they were trying for homeruns every time. That right fielder was my hero at this point in time.Then, I was shocked and amazed. Torre wanted me to go in for Paul. We were tied; maybe he felt like taking a chance. Oh, God. That nightmare was going to come true. I was going to fuck it up for all of us. The D'Backs had one run; we had one run, so we were fighting extra hard to try and gain the lead. Finally, seventh inning--Soriano got that solo homerun. For my replacement, even I had to admit the kid was pretty good. I thought I was dreaming. This couldn't be happening. After all that fighting, after those unbelievable games at Yankee Stadium, even after last night's humiliating defeat, we might actually pull this off, and win this. The adrenaline was starting to flow. That rage I had saved up from last night was coming into effect. I wanted to beat the entire Arizona team into the ground with my baseball bat. I wanted to win this game for me. And for Derek. And for Paul. Just by looking at him you could tell he was loving every minute of this. Even if we lost he'd still be sitting there grinning. Of course, if I were him I wouldn't be so happy; he was taken out so I could hit and Spencer was moved to right field. At least I was in my position. At least I was playing.There I was, top of the eighth, ready to bat. Ready to hit a homerun to further our lead. The wind-up and the pitch...I swung as hard as I could, and I hit that ball hard. Down the left field line. I watched in amazement. It looked like it would go out of
the park. I prayed once again. Please stay fair, please stay fair. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Derek waving at it, much like others do in bowling. I grinned a little, but then...foul. Ugh. That was a close one. Next pitch, same thing. Only this time, the ball was caught and I was out. Surprise, surprise. I was just a little more than bitter at this point in time. Damn Johnson and his damn dorky, hick looks. He looks like a buzzard. Two outs later, I was back out in left field. I tried to pretend all the fans were cheering for us but it didn't work. I took a deep breath, then another, then another. I was practically pissing my pants in this great mixture of delight and terror out on that field. We were six outs away from winning this championship four years in a row. Rivera is a great closer...three outs down, three to go. Oh, my God. We really were gonna pull this off.Tragedy. Horror. Bases loaded, tie score, only one out. Pop up over Jeter's head. Why didn't he try to catch that?! Then I knew why. He had done what I had done quite a few times before--he had gotten freaked out and frozen. I honestly felt sorry and sympathetic for my boy. I trudged back to the dugout, depressed. We had lost, my contract was up, and I was
the worst player in all of baseball's history. If only that shot had made it over the wall, and I had given us another run. This was all my fault. If only if only if only...I sat in the dugout and put my head in my hands. I didn't want anyone to see me cry like a little girl. My fielding and batting skills were already bad enough tonight. I didn't need anyone else to make fun of me.Back at the hotel, I virtually destroyed my room. I ripped the sheets and comforter apart; the bathroom would need a few hundred dollars in repairs; the walls in the bedroom would need to be completely redone. But that was all right. I had money.
All the money in the world wouldn't make up for how I was feeling. I am shit. I paced back and forth until about five the next morning, when I finally fell down with exhaustion. Derek would wake me up when we needed to go.
Feeback? Love it or hate it, tell me!
