It's almost midnight on Monday and I still am smiling over the fact that the Phillies beat the Yankees to send the World Serious back to the Bronx for the 6th and, one hopes, 7th games. Peggy, in between coughs, sneezes and Alka-Seltzer Plus refills (all non-flu related!) looked at me in that way she has of being, at once, profound and sweetly innocent, and said she was glad to see the Phillies win because, "the Yankees can seem to get a little full of themselves now and then."
And that's like saying that a 747 is sort of a large airplane, that Danielle Steel sells a lot of books, that Starbucks sometimes seems to verge on ubiquity. Arrogance is woven into the Yankee pinstripes as Scottish heather and bramble is part of a fine worsted wool suit. (I always wonder why some suit manufacturer never tried calling their outfits the "bested worsteds." Probably because they hate lousy puns.)
But never let it be forgotten that the greatest New York Yankee of them all began his days here as a Baltimore Waterfront Incorrigible. We don't know which record we are most proud of around here: his 60 home runs in 1927 or his 23 hot dogs in one meal in 1923. May the Curse of the Bambino afflict his own team this year, and may the Phillies dance down Broad Street one more time!