It didn’t take long. Seconds maybe.
Only hours before, the city was in mild panic (a full FOX News Alert). Everywhere, New Yorkers had taken out their Jump to Conclusions mats and decided that it was the beginning of another terrorist attack. Around 4:45 the crawl read, “The plane that crashed into an Upper East Side apartment building was piloted by Cory Lidle, Pitcher for the New York Yankees.” Panic turned into a Friar’s roast. Jeffrey Ross was played by my boss, who upon hearing about Lidle’s demise, stopped in the middle of the pre shift meeting to say, “I hope Jaret Wright was his co-pilot.” It would only get worse.
In the papers, on TV and on John Kruk’s quickly shorn face there was nothing but solace and remorse. On the ground it was a surreal comedy. I would get three phone calls and a text message within minutes as the news hitting Boston. But where we could only talk about the “fucked uppedness” of the situation, the real cutting wit was coming from the Yankees fans themselves. Immediate favorites from the masses included, “He didn’t have that bad of a year,” “Maybe it was Randy Johnson’s apartment,” and, of course, “It’s A-Rod’s fault.”
The second wave came in more of a structured joke form. When the Mark Foley story broke weeks earlier, it was easy to take all the Michael Jackson jokes you knew and superimpose his name. (i.e. Q: What’s the difference between Mark Foley and acne? A: Acne comes on your face after puberty.) Before my shift was over, a colleague had dug up some old Christa McAuliffe jokes (of the 86 Challenger disaster) and superimposed Cory Lidle’s name on them. (Q: How did they know Cory Lidle had dandruff? A: The found his Head and Shoulders on the sidewalk.)
But as New Yorkers are (especially since the Yanks hadn’t won a championship in 6 years) it was more of a nuisance. “If they start comparing it to Thurman Munson I’m gonna puke.” or, “Traffic on the East Side is impossible because of this mess.”
As surreal as it was I had actually felt bad. No one really thought they should be laughing but they were. Maybe where reality was closest, distance had to be manufactured. It was truly a tragedy for the Lidle family and who ever the other three people were that died. (One of whom, we would find out later, had also had the misfortune of being maimed by a float during the Thanksgiving Day parade in the 90’s. Like the Gods of Pop Culture were against her.)
Lidle was, at most, an accidental Yankee. Thrown in by the Phillies with Bobby Abreau to get one more mediocre prospect. He lived out of a gym bag. Seven teams in nine years, he could have just as easily been on the Red Sox in a year or two.
Even my father in law asked his daughter over the phone, “Is Justin happy there is one less Yankee?” Well no, I thought, he was a free agent anyway.
Only hours before, the city was in mild panic (a full FOX News Alert). Everywhere, New Yorkers had taken out their Jump to Conclusions mats and decided that it was the beginning of another terrorist attack. Around 4:45 the crawl read, “The plane that crashed into an Upper East Side apartment building was piloted by Cory Lidle, Pitcher for the New York Yankees.” Panic turned into a Friar’s roast. Jeffrey Ross was played by my boss, who upon hearing about Lidle’s demise, stopped in the middle of the pre shift meeting to say, “I hope Jaret Wright was his co-pilot.” It would only get worse.
In the papers, on TV and on John Kruk’s quickly shorn face there was nothing but solace and remorse. On the ground it was a surreal comedy. I would get three phone calls and a text message within minutes as the news hitting Boston. But where we could only talk about the “fucked uppedness” of the situation, the real cutting wit was coming from the Yankees fans themselves. Immediate favorites from the masses included, “He didn’t have that bad of a year,” “Maybe it was Randy Johnson’s apartment,” and, of course, “It’s A-Rod’s fault.”
The second wave came in more of a structured joke form. When the Mark Foley story broke weeks earlier, it was easy to take all the Michael Jackson jokes you knew and superimpose his name. (i.e. Q: What’s the difference between Mark Foley and acne? A: Acne comes on your face after puberty.) Before my shift was over, a colleague had dug up some old Christa McAuliffe jokes (of the 86 Challenger disaster) and superimposed Cory Lidle’s name on them. (Q: How did they know Cory Lidle had dandruff? A: The found his Head and Shoulders on the sidewalk.)
But as New Yorkers are (especially since the Yanks hadn’t won a championship in 6 years) it was more of a nuisance. “If they start comparing it to Thurman Munson I’m gonna puke.” or, “Traffic on the East Side is impossible because of this mess.”
As surreal as it was I had actually felt bad. No one really thought they should be laughing but they were. Maybe where reality was closest, distance had to be manufactured. It was truly a tragedy for the Lidle family and who ever the other three people were that died. (One of whom, we would find out later, had also had the misfortune of being maimed by a float during the Thanksgiving Day parade in the 90’s. Like the Gods of Pop Culture were against her.)
Lidle was, at most, an accidental Yankee. Thrown in by the Phillies with Bobby Abreau to get one more mediocre prospect. He lived out of a gym bag. Seven teams in nine years, he could have just as easily been on the Red Sox in a year or two.
Even my father in law asked his daughter over the phone, “Is Justin happy there is one less Yankee?” Well no, I thought, he was a free agent anyway.
posted by J. Bob. at 10:45 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home