So, Derek Jeter then.
The Captain notched his 3000th hit in just about the most dramatic fashion possible. The only way it could’ve been more The Natural-ish is if hit #3K was a grand slam that simultaneously won the World Series and healed the sick. I tuned into the game, halfheartedly paying attention while trying to write. When Jeter reached down and pulled the ball into left field for a homer, despite the fact that I was alone in the house, I blurted out loud Are you fucking kidding me? Of course, Jeter followed it up by going 5-for-5 and knocking in the game’s go-ahead run. It was all just too perfect. You know those sickeningly sweet breakfast cereals that kids gobble but which are way too sugary for an adult’s tastebuds? This was the sports equivalent of that.
In this situation, as a non-Yankee fan, one’s first inclination is to mock and denigrate, which naturally I did. This is dumb, because it just comes across as sour grapes, and because it denies me a chance to enjoy something that should be enjoyable. As a rational human being (or at least a person who tries to be one) and a baseball fan, I have to concede that 3000 hits is in itself a remarkable accomplishment. I also have to admit that the way Jeter did it is so storybook perfect it would be rejected from even the tritest screenplay. Can’t I just take this in as one of those magical moments that sports hands to us once in a blue moon?
I won’t say no, I can’t, but there is something that prevents me from even allowing polite applause on this occasion. However, the more I think about this rationally, the more I have to conclude that any ill feelings I have toward Derek Jeter have almost nothing to do with him as a player or person.