Ours is a society which respects cockroaches. We don’t like them, but we respect them. Why do we respect them? Because they’re hard to kill. At some point in every American childhood, media or a personal role model reveals to the child that cockroaches could survive nuclear war. Is this true? Probably not. Again: We respect cockroaches.
In recent decades, as the murder rate plunged and we began seeking beautiful imagery to view on our beautiful Apple products, New York City’s national identity has gotten less grimy. This is especially true for the Yankees. Out went Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and Reggie Jackson, the kinds of guys who made David Wells fit in the famous pinstripes. In came Derek Jeter, A-Rod, and Aaron Judge, brands born for Subway commercials and Instagram. There was a brief fun overlap in the early 2000’s, the Evil Empire era which God-willing will not go down as baseball’s last hurrah. But between the cleaner New York and Jeter’s retirement and the downfall of action on the bases, a downfall amplified by Yankee Stadium’s short porch, we stopped picturing those pinstripes covered in dirt. We started picturing them clean and pristine, as sparkly as a thirty-thousand-foot view of New York City. In the early innings of Game 3, I caught myself thinking the game was happening in Manhattan, not the Bronx. Roaches, rats, and snaggletoothed stray cats? Those are for the Mets, the Giants, and the Jets. New Yankee Stadium’s atmosphere is a little like an airline lounge.
This should not be what the Yankees are about.
What should the Yankees be about?
These guys:
Sorry, I wanted to include the second one too because as this guy pointed out, wearing a sliding mitt to a baseball game is hilarious.
The man in the middle—the man grabbing Mookie Betts’s glove, the man who looks like a cartoon rat who peels the cheese and the meat off of pizza, throws the crust away, and jokes that he’s watching his carbs—is evidently named Austin Capobianco, and he’s a season ticket holder, and he’s everything you would want Austin Capobianco to be. In comments to ESPN, he said, “I patrol that wall and they know that.” Capobianco shared that he and John Peter—the man to Capobianco’s right in the photo, the one who grabbed Betts’s bare hand during the kerfuffle then New Yorkily gestured that he was in the right because the ball had crossed over the wall—often discuss the need to play defense on Yankee foul balls.
(Aside: Mookie Betts downplaying the incident after the game is the perfect response. We don’t appreciate how cool Mookie Betts is.)
Capobiancos don’t originate in isolation, of course, and Darren Capobianco, Austin’s 29-year-old brother, who I’m hoping is the guy in the sliding mitt (?), also spoke publicly on the incident. He told the New York Times, “I just see the ball kind of—I don’t way to say up for grabs, if that makes sense. And then Mookie was swearing at us. Not good.” Darren? My friend? That does not make sense. But thank you for your contributions here.
Feelings about the incident are mixed, as they should be. Had this happened in 2000, we would hate the Capobianco family more than any sports fans have been hated before. Jeffrey Maier had redeeming characteristics, namely that he was a twelve-year-old boy. Austin Capobianco is 38 years old, might have a brother who wears sliding mitts to baseball games, and could easily play the role of one of Satan’s henchmen in an Angels in the Outfield/Damn Yankees joint sequel where Aaron Boone enlists the help of the devil to get himself more credit card rewards points. We should loath Austin Capobianco. Instead? While I think most of us agree that yanking on Mookie Betts’s wrists is a bad thing to do, a lot of us are also glad it happened. We don’t need to glorify Capobianco to let that little part of us say, “Man. That was awesome. I miss baseball feeling like that.”
Obviously, the play set the tone. Before the play, the hero of the game was Freddie Freeman, a very nice family man with weird teeth and a comfortable Southern Californian lifestyle. After the play, the hero of the game was Austin Capobianco, a bucket of skin and malice who somehow overshadowed the real local hero, Anthony Volpe, the lifelong local Yankees fan who is now their starting shortstop and won the game for them with his third-inning grand slam.
(Aside: Something that makes this photo even cooler is that David Ortiz took it.)
Capobianco belongs in Manhattan, of course, but not in Instagram’s Manhattan, the one at least I tend to picture when I’m envisioning New York City. Capobianco belongs in the Bronx, but in a timeless Bronx, a Bronx where Old Yankee Stadium still stands and you put your necklace in your hip pocket when you’re leaving the game. Capobianco is a roach, a rat, a snaggletoothed stray cat. Capobianco is not the Yankees. The Yankees are classier than that. But he is someone who needs to be around the Yankees, the sort of pulsing slimy blob who gives the franchise its edge.
The Yankees went Roach Mode last night. They made themselves hard to kill. It was foreign territory for many of them, probably even Volpe, who came up playing Perfect Game showcases like the rest of modern young American baseball stars. But they pulled it off, and even if Gerrit Cole gets shelled tonight or the Yankee bullpen can’t hold up against Freeman and Betts and (an injured) Shohei Ohtani, last night will be remembered fondly. The World Series felt like the World Series again. The Yankees even felt a little bit like the Yankees.
Note: A previous version of this blogpost accidentally referred to Austin Capobianco as Anthony.
