I’m writing this column with the most heinously chipped, overgrown nail polish I’ve ever had. I got a lovely pinstriped manicure 18 days ago, and since then I’ve lugged around huge boxes, taken five midterms and watched nine unreasonably stressful playoff games — all activities that negatively affect the status of my nails.
There is nail polish remover sitting on my bathroom counter. I refuse to use it. This is because the New York Yankees’ success is, obviously, correlated with and caused by my nails being pinstriped. And, before you ask, no, I cannot repaint them with the same pattern. It doesn’t work that way.
This is my long-winded way of politely informing you that, for the first time in 15 years, the Yankees are going to the World Series.
Wait, can I say it again? Indulge me for a second.
The 27-time World Series champions and 41-time American League champions, the New York Yankees, are going to play in the 2024 World Series.
By the end of this month, the Yankees will have already played five of a possible seven games. Terrifying. There is a world in which Yankees’ captain Aaron Judge is parading around Manhattan hoisting the Commissioner’s Trophy over his head.
There is also a world in which I’m anxiously refreshing the Yankees’ account on X, formerly known as Twitter, waiting for them to drop the lineup for a must-win Game Six. And, in the depths of my worst nightmares, there is also a world in which —
Nope, nice try. I’m not speaking that into existence. It’s cute that you thought I would, though.
But to prevent that Unspeakable Outcome from materializing, I am assigning you homework. Hear me out before you start grumbling. Two editions ago I wrote my column about what steps the Yankees needed to take in order to succeed in the American League Division Series (ALDS).
It worked.
Last edition I gave then-struggling Aaron Judge some advice to help the Yankees win the American League Championship Series (ALCS).
It worked.
So, for the World Series my instruction manual is for you, my esteemed readers. Okay, fine, I know, it’s just my father and my copy editors. Hi, guys. In exchange for brutally murdering my well-placed Oxford commas, please follow the directions below.
My instructions are simple. Please look back at your Google Calendar — you’re a Georgetown University student, I know you keep it updated — and do exactly what you were doing at approximately 11:34 p.m. Oct. 19. Rinse and repeat, every night the Yankees have a game.
Were you perhaps speed-writing a paper due at 11:59? I guess you’ll have a novel by November. Sleeping? Looks like you have an early bedtime for the foreseeable future. Baking pumpkin spice cupcakes? I’ll take the extras, because you’ll have quite a few batches.
Or maybe you’re me, and you were hunched over on the couch, barely able to watch as Yankees’ All-Star right fielder Juan Soto fouled off one after another nasty offspeed pitch from Cleveland Guardians’ reliever Hunter Gaddis in Game Six of the ALCS. Maybe you also woke up your entire apartment block with the loudest scream of your life when Soto finally got a fastball and promptly deposited it over the wall in center field, effectively sending the Yankees to the World Series with one swing.
If you’re an objectively reasonable person, you’ve watched the video of Soto’s home run about 43 times, give or take, and listened to radio announcer John Sterling’s call five or six times for good measure.
If the Yankees could have a moment or two like that in the World Series, they would be much appreciated — which is why I’m asking you to do your part in replicating the necessary conditions for such an event to occur.
Winning the World Series is not a 26-man job. That is the lie that Big Baseball tries to tell you. Don’t fall for it. World Series victories require the assistance of the entire fandom.
So don’t do anything crazy: Don’t buy World Series merch before the Yankees win anything. Don’t make an offhand remark that someone has been playing really well recently. Don’t wear that really cute shirt you wore the last time the Yankees lost. Don’t get a haircut. Don’t shave. Don’t part your hair differently. Don’t turn the TV volume to an odd number that doesn’t end in five. Don’t do anything differently than you did during Game Six.
And please, for heaven’s sake, don’t get a manicure.
