OK. Simple question. Answer honestly.
Do you boo?
I don’t mean do you think about booing, do you ponder booing, do you support the booing of a player, do you understand the nature of why athletes get booed. It’s simpler than that.
Do you boo?
Have you ever actually cupped your hands around your mouth and physically uttered the word, “Boo”? Or, as it more precisely sounds when things get especially ugly at an area arena or stadium: BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I walked around Citi Field this week during a few especially boo-worthy moments: a Jason Bay strikeout with men on base. Jerry Manuel jogging to the pitcher’s mound. Oliver Perez . . . well, being Oliver Perez. All around me, I heard boos. And yet I never actually saw someone’s lips form the word.
I heard boos. Never saw boos.
I did see one especially aggravated gentleman in an old Gary Carter jersey deliver a valedictory address on David Wright’s acumen with runners in scoring position, though it was less a simplified “Boo” than something more resembling, “WRIGHT YOU $#@$%$ I CAN’T SIT THROUGH ANOTHER $#$@% SEASON WATCHING YOU #$#@#$ SWING AND %$#$@ MISS!”
See, now that is something I can understand. That is pure, raw anger, the anger of fans in every sport, for every team, who generate enough passion, frustration and caring to let out what’s roiling inside of them. It was like Yankee Stadium last week, when Yankees fans, having stored up a zillion pounds of vitriol for Javier Vazquez’s notable contributions to The Great Choke of 2004, unleashed a hailstorm of boos upon Vazquez, puzzling the poor pitcher afterward, adding a little color and fire to that day’s news cycle.
“Hey, when I was in that slump a few years ago,” Derek Jeter said that day, both out of sympathy and bemusement, recollecting his 0-for-32 a few years ago, “even my family booed me.”
Funny line. But seriously: do you think Charles and Dorothy Jeter would ever really boo anyone, let alone their only son? I ask again: does anyone really boo? Do you? It is an absurd word, after all. It’s primary function, over the years, is to give words to the thought bubbles hanging over cartoon ghosts (“I’m Casper! Boo!”). It has become a term of endearment in modern use, derived from the French word “beau,” for beautiful (“I love you, boo.”). It is a way to describe crying (“Boo hoo!”) or childhood injury (“boo-boo”). So, yes, it’s understandable how you might say the word in those contexts.
But at a ballpark? An arena? Using the term whose etymology Merriam-Webster cites as lifted from 15th Century Middle English (“bo”) and defines as “used to express contempt or disapproval” — you’ve used it that way?
Really?
Well, obviously somebody does. In the past two weeks alone we’ve heard it fill Citi Field as often as the sound of airplane engines; heard it rain down on the Devils after they no-showed in the playoffs; heard it when a fan at Yankee Stadium refused to return a home run ball hit by an L.A. Angel; heard it at Radio City Music Hall when certain Giants fans disagreed with the selection of Jason Pierre-Paul.
So someone obviously boos.
Do you boo, boo?
WHACK BACK AT VAC
John Abbracciamento: When I was 9, Gil Hodges became my idol. At 12, I had the pleasure of meeting Gil in person at my dad’s restaurant. Today, I’m 67 and Gil Hodges is still my idol. I wish the kids of today could have Gil Hodges as an idol. I could bore you to death with his stats and how all my phone numbers end with 14 or everything else in my life that revolves around what he instilled in me; however, I will say thanks for mentioning Gil in your column Thursday.
Vac: I was amazed at how many e-mails reflected these same sentiments, and it’s sad how amazed I was. Many ballplayers have no idea just how deeply they can affect kids in positive ways. Many do. More should.
Garry Wilbur: I’d always been under the impression that a manager was supposed to go all out and do all he could to win a ball game. But for some reason the micro-manager genius Tony La Russa decided to give up last Saturday against the Mets and brought position players in to pitch the 18th, 19th and 20th innings. He had thrown in the towel and made a farce out of what had been a great game to watch. It used to be only in routs when a losing team with no chance to win might put a position player on the mound. I hope the Cards miss a playoff spot by one game.
Vac: I’ve actually been amazed how little criticism La Russa has received based upon his behaving like that game inconvenienced him. It seems you reach a certain stage in baseball and don a permanent bulletproof vest.
Marc Aronin: On the subject of retired numbers . . . for the Mets, we cannot omit another retiree that should go next to it — No. 31. Yes, John Franco deserves it — if, for nothing else, the years he closed on awful teams — and of course, Mike Piazza. As for the Knicks, in my 20 years as fan no player ever cared more than Charles Oakley, No. 34, which should be retired if, for nothing else, to right the wrong that was allowed when 34 was given to Eddy Curry, Oakley’s total and complete opposite.
Vac: I think Piazza’s definitely will be the next number on the Citi Field wall, probably within a year or two. And Marc’s right: Oakley’s 34 belongs in the rafters, and not on the likes of Easy Eddy.
VAC’S WHACKS
* If you put me on the witness stand and made me put my hand on a Bible, I probably would swear that Alex Rodriguez wasn’t doing anything untoward by stepping on Dallas Braden’s pitcher’s mound the other day. But as with everything else, you have to ask: Why does it always seem to be A-Rod who finds himself in the thick of stuff like that?
* I hate to say this because he’s been one of the great gentleman superstars we’re ever going to see, but it sure seems as if Marty Brodeur is in some danger of staying a little too late at the party.
* “Nice Guy Johnny,” at the Tribeca Film Festival, is Ed Burns taking cuts in his wheelhouse: New York, the Hamptons, a terrific soundtrack from the great P.T. Walkley and 90 minutes of laughs before leaving the theater feeling a lot better than when you walked in.
* I firmly believe Nick Johnson will swing a baseball bat sometime before Labor Day. Honestly, I do.