The breezes are cooler, and leaves are everywhere. Fall is here. And somewhere down in Atlanta, people are about to bring the fifth World Series to the people of the “Peach State.” They won once, in 1995. That was the only time. But they are considered the team of the decade. I’ve heard that they don’t have much of a Fall in Georgia. Maybe not, but the weather seems to be perfect for the breeding of champions in the state and city of New York.

Why the Yankees? Why them again? There are so many reasons why I asked those questions repeatedly. This could be the Yankees’ 25th championship (the next highest number of titles belongs curiously enough to St. Louis who holds nine). As a Royals fan I growl and gnash against the bonds of having a low-budget team, and think back to the stories I have heard so many times. 1976, 1977, 1978: the three consecutive years that the Yanks beat the young Royals for the chance to play for the big crown. As a Christian, it rubs sharply against my beliefs that the slimy George Steinbrenner (owner of the NY Yankees) can win so often, while appearing to love nothing and no one. But as a baseball fan, I must grin and smile and laugh at the justice of it all. The century’s team. The team that defines winning and giftedness. If you ask any fan to list the great players, I bet the first four, at least, are Yankees, probably more. It is fitting to mention that their name means “Americans.” To beat the Yankees is the ultimate for any team. As the writer James Thurber says, “The majority of American males put themselves to sleep by striking out the batting order of the New York Yankees.” But it will mean everything to the Braves from Atlanta.

If they are able to secure one more championship title in the 90s, then this will solidify their place as the team of the decade. So here is how we end the first full century of America’s game, with the team of the century staring the team of the last decade in the face. It is old-school tradition against the young arrogant phenoms.

Then there are the Boston Red Sox and the other New York team, the National League Mets. To the fans of these great teams, I think that Hall-of-Famer George Brett said it best, “If a tie is like kissing your sister, losing is like kissing your grandmother with her teeth out.” What a playoffs it was. I feel for the BoSox fans. So close for so long. All of New England chants quietly under their breath, “Just wait till next year.” I can see the old men sitting on their porches screaming in their funny Northern accents at an old radio as Bernie Williams hit his game winning home run in Game 1. Unless you are over the age of 81, you haven’t lived in a time when the Red Sox were World Champions. Yet, the fans from Beantown are some of the greatest in the country. They know it will come. They know that Bill Buckner is retired, and that the curse of the Bambino will end. Til then, they keep waiting. Waiting for their chance to look down on the Yankees and laugh from above.

I myself was quietly wishing for the impossible. But we now have the Yankees, and so we’ll just have to wait for next year. And the Mets. That team with Rasputin characteristics. The Braves pulled out every arrow, threw every tomahawk, danced every dance and performed the sacrilegious chop, and in the end it was Kenny Rogers that delivered the final, fateful blow. In a game of inches, his pitch was just a couple high. And with no running, just walking and screaming and grateful appeals in southern twangs to God, it was all over.

Yes, this is one of the most anticipated times in American sports. But it is also quite bittersweet. It is going to be a long cold winter. No baseball. Sportscenter seems almost to lose some of its appeal. I will just sit and chew my sunflower seeds, spitting rhythmically into an old cup, watching my Kevin Costner movies or my Ken Burns documentary. I will leaf through my library of baseball literature, looking for inspiration to keep pressing through until March. My lover is gone again, and there is a sharp void in my chest.

Under my blue ski jacket, my skin will long for the sweat that served to adhere me to a countless number of plastic folding seats in cities across our Midwest. I will long for the warmth of the sunshine and the sound of the announcer’s voice. Those lonely days can no longer be filled with the background drawl of Fred White or Jack Buck.

The polyester gray pants and the powder blue shirt of my umpire uniform will hang in the back of my closet, waiting like the aged veteran to spring forth from the shadows to come save the game. Yes, my sisters and brothers, worship services are over. Y2K, and all of the psychos who will come with it, put a shadow of doubt on what next year will be like. But in the words of President John Kennedy, “I think that both baseball and the country will endure.”

So, I will sit watching the snow and write about my departed game, longing for the day that my lover returns and life is complete and simple and warm again. But my game and I will focus now, like Americans everywhere, on the straining rays of the sunset that we call the World Series, and hold each other one last time.

And let me close this mournful reflection with a quote from Art Hill, “With those who don’t give a damn about baseball, I can only sympathize. I do not resent them. I am even willing to concede that many of them are physically clean, good to their mothers, and in favor of world peace. But while the game is on, I can’t think of anything to say to them.”