Yankees 11, Angels 8

And so the Bombers end the most lackluster week since the first of April precisely where they started it: 6 1/2 games in front of the Red Sox. Seven in the all-important loss column.

The Direct TV curtain was drawn across this game, so I'll simply glean what I can from the box score.

I first heard the name "Bernie Williams" in 1989, at the time of his promotion from the depths of the minors to AA Albany-Colonie, in connection with how hard the Atlanta Braves were trying to pry him loose from New York. The story was that the Braves had offered the Yankees their choice of any two players in their organization except for Tom Glavine, John Smoltz or Dale Murphy. The Yankees said No, not even for Dale Murphy.

(I read all this in the New York Post one March weekday during Spring Break in graduate school, on a ninety-minute subway ride that took my girlfriend and I from the Bronx down to Manhattan. The plan, hatched by the woman and me, was to take our lunch to Central Park; she had grown up in Ecuador, I had grown up in Arizona and gone to college in California, and both of us were innocent of the most fundamental piece of truth known by every New Yorker, that March is the most miserable month of the year to be outdoors. The icy winds sent us right off the park and into FAO Schwartz for nothing more that heat; I swear, as we walked among the plus toys and working train set, I saw steam come off our bodies, as if we were extras in Dr. Zhivago. Anyway, back to the post.)

The offer, and the refusal, became a significant moment in baseball history, and indicative of the next decade-plus. In 1989, the Braves and Yankees were the laughingstocks of baseball, but this would soon change. In Atlanta, John Schuerholz was quietly putting together a team that, starting in 1991, would terrorize the National League right up until this summer. Meanwhile, Steinbrenner was just being weaned off the disastrous trades of the previous decade, the trading away of Fred McGriff, Willie McGee, Doug Drabek and (the previous summer) Jay Buhner. No doubt the system of sucking it up and being patient with the kids was helped by Steinbrenner's two-year suspension, which began the following summer, but the holding-on to Bernie Williams would be a sort of bellwhether, as the development of home-grown players such as Derek Jeter, Andy Pettitte, Mariano Rivera, and Jorge Posada would pave the way for four World Series championships in five years, the greatest dynasty since Joe DiMaggio's and Mickey Mantle's careers overlapped. For many, the Yankees' return to glory was signaled by the arrival of Jeter; to me, it was the sight of Bernie Williams gliding across centerfield on the way to turning a double into a run-saving out.

Throughout the twentieth century, two positions in sports have transcended their office-holders and teams and even their sports, to become metaphors for prestige. The first is quarterback of Notre Dame. The second is centerfielder for the Yankees: Combs, DiMaggio, Mantle, Rivers. And then Bernie, and now Damon. No, Bernie won't follow so many of his predecessors into the Hall of Fame, not quite. But in looking at his line today--4 for 5, two home runs--it was nice to remember how much he has meant to the team, and how he can still turn it on at times.