The Myth of Derek Jeter is so well tended that it’s blasphemy to suggest that he’s anything but a humble paragon of a gentleman’s game.
But that’s not what I saw at last week’s Subway Series.
Despite his well-worn protests that it’s all about the team, he was consistently the last one out of the dugout at the bottom of the inning, feeding the endless ovation that has followed him around the country.
At his retirement announcement, Jeter maintained he was giving a heads up before the season so that questions of his longevity didn’t become a distraction. Right. Because there’s nothing distracting about the ceremonies, the curtain calls, the gifts of surfboards and subway tiles.
This season, Derek Jeter’s very presence is a distraction. He’s not a player. He’s a shrine for us to worship.
If the team means more, why not wait until the All-Star break to alert the fans? Fewer parting gifts?
Jeter perhaps cannot be blamed for all the hoopla on and off the field. But he’s not an innocent bystander, either.
In the second-to-last Subway Series game, Jeter came out for a pregame warmup with a video crew.
A cameraman furiously backpedaled while contorting his body to such an extreme to get that all-important low-angle shot — creating that larger-than-life “Jeterian” image of the captain taking the field.
Jeter began running sprints in left field as his video entourage was told by security guards it could not be on the playing field. So, rather than warm up on the infield, the Yankee shortstop had a soft toss in front of the visitors dugout, which gave total access to the filmmakers.
With each successive throw, Jeter moved farther and farther down the left-field line while adoring Yankee fans looked on.
More perfect shots for a final-season homage.
How many balls will be signed this year and sold as collectibles? How many “the last season” pieces of memorabilia will be peddled? Yes, proceeds will go to Jeter’s foundation, a good cause, but the sheer volume of commercialism is crass.
Full disclosure. I’m a lifelong Met fan, one who remembers fondly riding my bike through Broad Channel, Queens, as a 9-year-old — like a town crier — screaming the Mets had beaten the Baltimore Orioles.
But before you dismiss my rant, I want to stress that I do respect Jeter.
Not just as a player — though a .312 lifetime batting average and 3,000-plus hits is nothing to sneeze at — I respect him for how he carries himself as a person, which is not easy in this town, where fame can corrupt.
Not once was there an allegation of impropriety or a hint of drugs during his 20-year reign at the top of New York sports. God knows every editor in town was looking for something to put on the front page.
That’s what makes what I saw last week so out of character.
Yankee fans will argue that Jeter deserves this season-long worship. If he wants to be filmed in soft light and bask in the applause, well, why not? He’s Captain Clutch.
But I’m hoping the next gift Jeter picks up on the farewell tour is some of the humility that made the five-time champ so special to New Yorkers.
It’s only May, and it’s already getting ridiculous. How many times can we say goodbye?
I have no doubt that this holiday season, Steiner Sports will be offering Jeter memorabilia, including a three-hour documentary highlighting the Farewell Tour (only $19.95!).
Perhaps I will be included in a crowd shot: I’ll be the one with the look of disdain on his face.