Embarrassing, Wasn't It?

"After you gave up two runs in the sixth and three more in the seventh, why did Hutch let you pitch the eighth?" a reporter asked Brosnan. "He just had confidence in me, I guess" said Jim.

Embarrassment is the certain destiny of the professional ballplayer. Pursuing a daily victory, he battles an historical percentage that assures failure four times in every 10 games. Unsportsmanlike, he resents failure, envies any success of his opponent.

His embarrassment has three stages:

1) A subconscious foreknowledge, which he weighs confidently: "I can and I will...but I might not."

2) A public exhibition, for which he assumes a professional aplomb: "I do or I don't."

And 3) a private postgame replay, at which he concludes, necessarily: "I didn't."

The Yankees won the Series with a professional competence that was admirable to watch...if you weren't on the field losing. For 26 innings, however, the 1961 World Series was an even match. To the concealed dismay of many reporting witnesses, the Yankees failed to run the Reds out of the park. Inevitably, the better club won. In the Cincinnati clubhouse there was a momentary blue depression, fortunately tinged with a colorful, chic-green. At $1,000 a game, embarrassment, even in a World Series, is almost worthwhile.

This is the way it went...

New York is an island, unto itself, you might conclude if you weren't just happy to be there. The newspapers, telecasters and taxi drivers pretended we didn't belong in the World Series, but 10 hours after we arrived, the Yankees welcomed us to the Stadium for a workout. Somebody said we'd be awed at the sight of the ball park.

Jogging around the outfield to warm up. Bill Henry and I stopped at the 461-foot marker to admire the proportions of a park that will allow a pitcher's mistake to be caught well short of a home run. There are three monuments in center field; and plenty of room for more future self-exaltation if such is necessary to prove the greater glory of the Yankees. Henry squinted through a slight drizzle at the expanse of sold-out seats.