Tragedy, and Baseball

Japan continues to tremble. The new footage that comes in, almost daily, of the incredible destruction wrought by Mother Nature, serves as a humble reminder of the power of forces beyond our control.

The recovery effort continues. So, too, does life. Just not the way it once was. And the Japanese, our baseball-loving cousins, much like the United States after 9/11, “are contemplating whether baseball can play a role in comforting a reeling nation.”

I believe baseball — professional sports, in general — is most effective in times of tragedy, and crisis. For a short while, baseball can serve its purest of purposes: distraction; respite.

Once upon a time, I was a proud supporter of the New York Yankees. For six and a half weeks, from September 18, 2001 until November 4, 2001, I rooted for the Yankees as if they were my own.

The events of September 11, 2001 mean something to all of us. Thousands of innocent lives were lost that day, and, in the days, months, and years that followed, the course of history was altered. That most fateful of sunny September mornings, I was on my way into downtown Toronto, headed for the first print journalism class of my university career. I was on a subway car when American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175 slammed into the Twin Towers.

Upon arriving on campus, I saw a swarm of students in what was a small Students’ Lounge, huddled around a tiny television. Whatever was happening, I thought, it could wait. I didn’t want to be late on my first day of class, and could use the computer at my desk to find out what was up.

As I was logging onto my computer, I asked someone seated nearby if they knew what all the drama was about. She curtly said, “An airplane’s hit The World Trade Center in New York.” I figured it was a two-seater. A Cessna. A freak accident. Little did I know. Little did anyone know.

A few minutes before class began at 10:10 am, the South Tower collapsed, and United Airlines Flight 93 crashed in Somerset County, Pennsylvania. The first words spoken by my professor were: “Today is no normal day.” We watched online as the North Tower came down. We learned that Operation Yellow Ribbon was underway; that U.S. airspace was being cleared and that aircraft were being redirected to Canada. I vividly remember thinking to myself: “How many more planes could there be?” I wouldn’t call it fear. It was more bewilderment. The events all felt surreal.

Due to the incredible circumstances, our professor relieved us shortly after noon. He said we could either do streeter interviews, or go home. It was our call. I headed for Toronto’s Eaton Centre, the city’s busiest mall. By 1:00 pm, most of the stores had been closed, and the mall was practically deserted. I spoke to an elderly man who somehow hadn’t heard of the attacks, who told me his nephew worked in one of the towers. He immediately turned around, and sped off. To make a phone call, I can only presume. I was dumbfounded. Did that conversation actually take place? I decided I was done for the day.

Waiting for my ride outside the mall, I felt like I was watching a scene out of a movie. Everyone, it seemed, was on their cell phone. I heard people saying the subway was filled with those trying to get out of the downtown core. Employees of The Toronto Star stood on stacks of extra issues that had just been printed. America was under attack.

In the aftermath of the terrorist attacks, I was glued to the news. Television, newspaper, radio, and the Internet. I loved New York city. Growing up, I was blessed to have family friends in the area, and visited often. I’d been to the top of those very fallen towers. I’d spent a week in Manhattan a few years prior, at my friend’s Uncle’s apartment, at 38th and 3rd. He’d had the most brilliant view of The World Trade Center.

For one week, no baseball was played. And rightfully so. When the games resumed, when the New York Yankees played the White Sox on the South Side of Chicago on September 18, I, an ardent supporter of the Toronto Blue Jays, wanted nothing more than for New York to win. Win it all. The Yankees needed to win. The Yankees needed to put their city — and the country — on their back, because the Mets, bless their souls, weren’t going to be able to do the heavy lifting at the time. More than anything else: New York needed to celebrate. New York needed a parade.

Down two games to none to Oakland in the 2001 ALDS, after dropping the first two games in the Bronx, I watched the Yankees fight back. Like their city, they were down, but not out. Game five in New York, Captain America Roger Clemens on the mound, the Yankees finished off their comeback. The 102-win Oakland A’s were going home, and I’d never been happier to hear, over the tube, Frank Sinatra’s “New York” playing at Yankee Stadium. You’re damned right I sang along.

Next up, in the ALCS, the Seattle Mariners. The same Mariners who managed to win only 116 games during the regular season. They were dispatched in five games. New York would not be denied.

I felt that same way — New York would not be denied — when the Yankees dropped the first two games of the November Series. And when the Yankees won the next three games. They’d seal the deal in Phoenix, and the residents of New York would take to the streets in celebration. I remember asking myself: Do Mets fans feel the same way I do? Are they cheering for the Yankees, too? Is everybody but Phoenix?

Heading into the bottom of the 9th inning of game seven, I was confident. New York would not be denied. Mariano Rivera was on the mound. New York could not be denied. And then, the impossible happened. All I could think was: The one time New York actually needed a parade, they wouldn’t get it.

The Yankees, surely under incredible civic pressure, did their city proud. They beat two powerful baseball teams to get to the World Series, and pushed the Fall Classic to the limit. They were so close. In defeat, I saw the Yankees as I saw New York: resilient. New York was always going to endure; always going to survive. The city, and the towers, would surely rise again. But it would take time. And patience. And healing. As a Canadian, as a die-hard Blue Jays fan, as incredibly foolish as it may read, I was damn proud of the New York Yankees.

Baseball, at the end of the day, is meaningless. Everything about it. Amid rolling blackouts in Tokyo, reports of store shelves emptied of rice and water, and true radiation fears, baseball takes the farthest of back seats. But we love it — at least I love it — for its ability to bring people together. For its ability to distract. For three hours — four hours if you’re at a Yankees vs. Red Sox game — nothing else matters but the scoreboard.

The Japanese are a fascinating people. They have been through monumental hardship before, and not only survived, but thrived. Comparisons to 1995, and the earthquake that shook Kobe, have already been made. Japan will endure. Again. And when the time is right, our most favorite of games will play a small but influential role in helping to bring a broken baseball-loving nation back together. It already is.

Image courtesy The New York Times. To keep up to date with all baseball-related happenings in Japan, including when Nippon Professional Baseball gets underway, make sure you check out NPB Tracker.