Max Fried, shortly after the Yankees lost to the Rays and ended their season: “It really sucks because we played a good game, we played a sound game, and we did enough to win, but unfortunately I… didn’t do enough to kind of hold up my end of the bargain.” I was there. He’s right and he’s wrong. The Yankees did play a sound game, and he did hold up his end of the bargain. The only person who sidetracked that game was the fan who interfered with a potential home run in the bottom of the sixth inning. A Yankees fan, when faced with one of those split-second decisions that make or break a man, didn’t hold up his end of the bargain when he held his hands out past the perimeter. Shocker. I’m not familiar with the mid-century German architecture of the new Yankee Stadium, but I know that in the old stadium, that man would’ve been rolled down many flights of concrete flats and left on the side of the road, a new adventure awaiting him: walking home from the Bronx.
But people aren’t allowed to vent anymore. I’m no Yankees fan, but it’s nice to think this guy would’ve been taken care of at some point in the past; now, people are too denuded and distracted to summon enough energy to teach necessary lessons. I’m sure he has the ball now, and I hope he feels bad about it. This isn’t because I wanted the Yankees to win, definitely the opposite; this is purely out of spite, because I hate the Yankees, and by extension, their fans. I spent some time behind the scenes when MLB started, and the Yankees have always wanted it both ways. They peacock like crazy and act as if they’re entitled to win the World Series every year. This thinking extends to all of baseball—it seems wrong when the Yankees hit a multi-year rut because more than any other, they are America’s baseball team. And that’s exactly what’s so infuriating about them. It’s called DARVO—look it up. It’s not my job to educate you. I’ve read Ball Four.
I tried talking to Max after the game but he was already headed out with…well, who, I couldn’t say. I don’t know most of the current roster besides Jazz Chisholm (a star), but I notice Max. I can pick him out of a crowd and go, “Yeah, that’s a guy who should be in Westerns.” Not baseball, Western movies from the 1940s and 1950s. Wouldn’t he make a great Wyatt Earp? Unfortunately his passion is baseball, and whether he ends his career in his 30s or 40s, he’ll spend his time working within the organization. I mean, I’m assuming. Since the Yankees are the center of the universe or whatever. I never really bought that. The Red Sox were cursed for a reason: demons fear them, for they are the true angels in the outfield.
Someone tried to tell me the other day that baseball is a Satanic-Masonic ritual based on sacred geometry and obscure astrological figures. They (it was Bennington) said that baseball games are a means of harvesting positive energy and love into fuel for hate, war, and division. “You know every time you go to one of your stupid sportsball games,”—he’s a “sportsball” person—“some poor child in India is dying of dehydration, and it’s your fault, and you should feel bad about it.” My God, could I have ever come to this conclusion on my own? Of course not, Bennington’s insane; he likes to talk with authority about things he knows absolutely nothing about. Like baseball. I asked him what he thought of Max Fried and he asked if he comes grilled. We’re not dealing with a particular sharp wit here.
I made it back to Massachusetts in time for a late dinner with Monica. She agreed with me about Max’s cutting figure and movie star looks, but agreed that his life would never be tainted by the cesspool that is the entertainment industry. One can’t say the same thing of Derek Jeter, who, despite being a famous Yankee, has appeared in commercials and feature films. It doesn’t make the checks for charity any less valuable, but it’s a bit much to see an entire scene written around him in Get Him to the Greek. But that was 2010, and in 2026 he’s repping BetMGM. I don’t mind gambling per se, but at a certain point it goes against the spirit of the game. What makes a great baseball player isn’t much different from what makes a movie star: they must have “it,” presence, some appeal or power in the frame. I never said I was an expert, but I am intuitive, and I’ve picked winners before, always working behind the scenes with the MLB to bring players like Mookie Betts, David Ortiz, Nomar Garciaparra, and Roger Clemens to their attention. They trust me, for whatever reason; in fact, now that I think of it, they’re the only major force in the American economy that hasn’t dismissed me out of a hand simply because I’m a bird.
MLB loves me; it’s mutual, despite the avian catastrophe of the concession stand. I’m considered Super VIP, so senior and so behind the scenes that most players never meet me, and some don’t even know I exist. But word spreads fast in the clubhouse; the Yankees knew I was watching them tonight, and while they did play a sound game, I’m not sure my presence allayed any nerves after that fan got in the way. I keep my personal feelings out of it when I’m in consulting mode, so I cheered for no one at the game. But I wonder what kept me there, totally enthralled, convinced that my only mission at this point in my life was to get Max Fried out of this season and into the Red Sox clubhouse. I’ve never questioned my affiliation with the MLB until now, but maybe Bennington was onto something. I should at least ask him about it instead of threatening a double spur claw attack. I hope’s wrong, I’m kind of in a “no Satan” phase of my life right now. I just know that if Max somehow makes it to the Red Sox I’ll stop having nightmares where shadow people make fun of me and tell me I’m not “spiritually brave.” Bitch. I am the spirit. Go back to Hell.
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