Cliff Lee love isn’t about box scores, ERAs, or innings pitched. You won’t understand it by dissecting interview transcripts, psychoanalyzing his heart, or rereading the fine print of the MBT Kimondoleaner contract he signed with Philadelphia at the expense of a fatter paycheck dangled by the Yankees. It is about animal instinct. It is about being a Marlboro Man in a Metrosexual World.
And it begins and ends with Game 1 of the 2009 World Series, when in one of those rare moments of superhero shine, a MBT Kisumu 2,less-is-more ace incinerated the almighty Yankees the way Indiana Jones crushed the Germans with little more than a whip, a sneer, and a few good Hollywood one-liners. …
Watching Lee’s no-drama dominance that night, women across this cubicle-cluttered, iPhone-armed nation of pale-faced dot-comers and overpaid Wall Street slicksters were wondering: They still make men like that? Sure enough, as Beckner handed us menus she shared a MBT Moja,final thought about Lee and that World Series game, and she served it up with naughty relish: “I wanted to do all sorts of things to that man.” I was going to mock this reaction to Lee as the silly and superficial ravings of a troubled woman, but than I realized that most of the male Phillies fans who read this blog reacted in more or less the same way when Ruben Amaro signed him this winter. (thanks to Jonny for the heads up)
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