somewhere. In one throat. It had to, as every wave must begin with one molecule
of water and every fire with a single spark. JO-BA!?... Who was the first to
cry it out that August night, and what made it leap to the next throat and the
next until 54,000 people at Yankee Stadium were crying it as one? ¶ This never
happened when Joe D first appeared. JO-BA!?... Not for Mickey or Yogi.
JO-BA!?... Not for Guidry or Mattingly or Derek. JO-BA!?... Why each evening
thereafter, when the Native American kid trotted toward the mound for an inning
or two of work, did that word rise and roar again like a yearning? JO-BA...?
What did it mean? ¶ Why here, in this cathedral to achievement, where the kid
had achieved nothing? Here, where the assembly manual had been read long ago,
where everyone knew how to build dynasties and superstars no matter how
unsatisfying the final product turned out, how many championships they'd failed
to win in recent years or how many superstars seemed smug or flawed.
Here, in the
house of the team with no patience for weakness, the team that ate its young,
trading them for established stars and giving away draft picks to sign the best
free agents money could buy because dominance was its entitlement, and the
future always had to be now. JO-BA!...
Here, welling up
from all these people whose fondest dream was for their sons to be that kid,
all convinced that the only way was to sign them up for year-round travel teams
and private instruction, to make them elite at each level of development.
syllables that meant it was time to tear up the old assembly manual and
distribute a new one.
read all instructions carefully before operating.
Winnebago Indian boy
One father with