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Derek Jeter's Diary: A Captain's Tears, a Centaur's Haunches - Grantland

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And for just the briefest moment, I imagined what my own last moment in New York would be like. Mr. Torre sending Joe DiMaggio and the Mick out to get me at shortstop. I look around and there's Jorgie behind the plate. Yogi sitting on his shoulders, for some reason. Scooter Rizzuto beside me. Mo trotting in from the pen. Babe Ruth running in from right. Andy and Conie and Whitey on the mound, kicking at the rosin back. Gehrig clapping his glove at first. Reggie stirring a drink in the dugout.

Then I realize this is happening because I'm dead. I'm going to die on this hallowed field. That's the only way I'm going out. That's how it's going to be. A True Yankee burial right there on the edge of the outfield grass. A pinstriped gravestone marking the 6-hole, with a big no. 2 chiseled on it. Here lies The Captain. He wanted to win.

But I'm snapped back to the moment by something Mo says to me and Andy. Something whispered, something choked through the tears.


He pulls us in a little closer.

"We're not going to the World Series this time."

He hugs us even tighter.

At that point it was impossible to tell who the tears belonged to.

They belonged to us all.

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