Yankees Hero Hideki Matsui Has Moment Reminiscent of the Big Screen

Yankees starter Andy Pettitte had just left his heart in the middle of the pitching rubber in Yankee Stadium, and his defense was about to use up all of its weekly miracles in a matter of mere seconds.

Somehow scurrying across a bed of hot coals, Yankees reliever Phil Coke pitched just poorly enough to transform a devastating wild pitch into inning-ending magic—blowing the nonexistent roof off of “The House that Steinbrenner Built.”

The Yankees now desperately wanted to hear the loud crack of a wooden bat. It was the 40th anniversary of the moon landing in 1969, and the Bronx longed for someone to put a baseball where Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong once boldly stepped.

They needed anything that could be confused with an offensive pulse, as the Orioles had held New York hitless since allowing a solo home run to lead off the second inning.

The likes of David Hernandez, Mark Hendrickson, and Jim Johnson had recorded 22 outs without allowing a broken-bat single, an infield hit, a blooper over shortstop, or anything resembling an “H” by official scorer standards.

The leadoff hitter for the bottom of the ninth was Alex Rodriguez. The hopes of him sending fans skipping to the motionless lines of Bronx parking garages ended even before a “let’s go A-Rod” chant could get organized.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar sound then began to travel over the stadium’s speakers.

It was the tune to Billy Joel’s “Big Shot,” which of course meant the arrival of Hideki Matsui to the batter’s box?

“The Sayonara Kid” was certainly a sight for sore eyes, though his unmistakable limp implied that his chronically injured knees were equally as sore.

It was a poor man’s Kirk Gibson moment. A very poor man’s…we are talking homeless holding an old Styrofoam coffee cup with “I need change” written across the front of it.

What happened shortly thereafter would have made Roy Hobbs of the legendary baseball film The Natural send a smile and wink in his direction.

Matsui took a healthy cut at a 2-0 pitch from Johnson, and was somehow left holding nothing more than a toothpick.

He wasn’t jammed. He didn’t hit the ball off the end of the bat. His trusty Mizuno simply fell apart in his hands.

“Godzilla” returned to the dugout for a spare, and delivered a blast that Hobbs’ famous “Wonderboy” had produced so many times before.

It was yet another walk-off for the Yankees, and an elated roster was awaiting their newest hero at home plate.

Matsui launched his helmet into the air, as per A-Rod’s request, and the Yankees battled for the catch like a group of bloodthirsty women seeking the bouquet at a wedding ceremony.

It was another magical moment in the new stadium; further enticing fans to believe the ghosts of Yankee past have not yet abandoned their “beyond the grave” duties.

AJ Burnett got one step closer to receiving a sponsorship deal with Reddi-wip, and the Yankees pulled even with Boston for first place in the AL East.

There is a long way to go in the 2009 MLB season, but it was comforting to Yankee fans to see their walk-off lightning strike for already the ninth time of the year.

A Commitment to Yankee Mediocrity: A Fan’s Pledge to Put Away His Razor

Superstitions have forever been at the epicenter of baseball.

They have ranged from Wade Boggs’ matchless poultry obsession to Roger Clemens’ need to marinate Babe Ruth’s statue in his forehead sweat.

The minutest of details suddenly become the driving mental catalyst for success in professional sports.

Players genuinely believe something as simple as changing socks will cause a landslide with the power to destroy an entire season.

The Yankees worsening catastrophe has made this fan brainstorm how to prevent 13-149 from becoming a legitimate possibility.

The present losing streak has reached five, and the light at the end of the tunnel appears to be dimming as opposed to brightening.

Having tried virtually every superstition I’ve accumulated over twenty years of athletic participation, I resorted to the simplest form of irrationality. The superstition of choice would instead be not being superstitious.

Here is the background story behind my decision:

Following waking up on Saturday morning, I quickly realized that it was time for a non-violent protest against being proactive. In my first exploit to promote laziness, I decided that shaving was not in the day’s agenda.

After all, the Yankees were about the play an afternoon game against the Angels while riding the coattails of a four-game winning streak. An 8-4 drubbing ensured a disappointing weekend, as rain postponed any chance at Sunday’s redemption.

The Red Sox were next, and I was consistently reminded of the changes MLB has undergone since our 2004 collapse.

Two more dreadful losses stretched the incompetence streak to three, and despair had left my face looking less and less groomed.

I was beginning to resemble a man going through a painful relationship crisis. My appearance had become more disheveled each day I ignored the large bottle of Gillette shaving cream in the medicine cabinet.

An agonizing Wednesday loss at the hands of the Rays—in which I was forced to witness first hand—only made matters worse.

Mariano Rivera then contracted the debilitating “Herediatrosis,” named after former bullpen nightmare Felix Heredia. Back-to-back Rays blasts broke a ninth inning tie, and dropped New York to 13-15 on the season.

As I sit here on May 8, it has been exactly one week since a blade has touched my face. Exactly the same timeframe has passed since New York’s last victory, and I have decided to go anti-superstition.

Two decades of playing America’s Pastime would tell me that shaving could allow the Yankees fortunes to make a full 180-degree turn. However, a week of failed tricks and techniques has forced me to commit to the contrary.

I will not pick up a razor blade until the Yankees win a game.

I already look like an unkempt version of Indians’ starter Jake Westbrook, and it is imperative that something happens within the next two days.

Mother’s Day arrives on Sunday, and I cannot afford to disgrace my entire family.

This is essentially my final plea to the Yankees to somehow place a tourniquet on their gaping wounds. Something needs to stop the bleeding.

The respect of my family depends on these next two games in Baltimore. Please don’t let me down like you have day after day over the last week.