Summers at Shea by Berkow Ira

Author:Berkow, Ira [Berkow, Ira]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Triumph Books
Published: 2013-02-09T14:00:00+00:00

Shortstop from the Zoo

September 24, 1988

The implication was that either he had rattled the bars and been let out of his cage, or he had escaped.

“Raffy! Raffy! How ya doin’?” shouted Howard Johnson, the infielder, looking up from a card game from across the Mets’ clubhouse. “It’s a zoo over there, isn’t it?”

Rafael Santana, former shortstop for the Mets and current shortstopper for the Yankees, had made a visit on his off day Thursday night to his old teammates, before their game against the Phillies. He wore neither the orange and royal blue of the Mets nor the white and navy blue of the Yankees, but a brown sweater, brown slacks, brown loafers, and a bright smile.

Gary Carter, the curly catcher, saw Santana, planted a kiss on his cheek, and said, “How is it over there in the Bronx Zoo, Raffy?”

To Johnson, Santana said, “We’re still in it.” Meaning the division race in the American League East.

And to Carter, Santana said, “I’m dealing with it.” Meaning Hurricane George, and the winds he blows in the Bronx.

Someone asked him about his elbow. “Messed up,” said Santana. “Bone chips?” “Yeah.” “How do you throw?”

“With pain. I try not to think about it. Every throw is with pain. But when the season is over I’ll take care of it. Either an operation, or rest. The doctors aren’t sure.” “Does it hurt when you hit?” “No,” he said.

“You call that hitting?” said Sid Fernandez, in rubber sweat suit, coming by and throwing a hefty arm around Santana. “If we meet up in the Series, I’ll just take care of you with my gas.” Fernandez moved toward his locker.

“You call that gas?” said Santana. “I just stick out my bat.” He swung out his arms as if batting one of El Sid’s fastballs. “And sheeew!” His right hand made a flapping motion, like a baseball winging away.

Funny, though, to see Santana in his old clubhouse, especially on this night, the night in which the Mets would clinch the National League East title.

“Should we vote you a playoff share?” asked Tim Teufel, playing cards with Johnson.

Santana, the regular shortstop on the Mets’ 1986 World Series championship team, laughed. “No, I’m not a Met; I’m a Yankee,” he reminded Teufel.

On the eve of the Yankees’ three-game series with the Red Sox, in which a sweep, or even two victories, would put them within credible reach of the division lead, Santana was saying that the mood of the Yankees was upbeat. “We think we can do it,” he said. “We haven’t given up. We just need our pitching to come through.”

Santana says he is a Yankee now in heart and mind. And followers of the team know that he has been quite a Yankee, playing with such pain, and playing with such consistency, that he even extracted praise from the principal owner of the Bronx Bombers. “I’d love to have Santana on my football team,” said Steinbrenner.

But Santana also learned earlier this season—his first with the Yankees—what it is to be wearing the legendary pinstripes in this turbulent day and age.

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