As a Taoist Yankee fan I am a bit blue today (the color of the marvelously clear and crisp October sky this morning).   Even the most casual baseball fan is, by now, aware of the ignominious collapse this weekend of the 26-time world champions.  Much could be said – yes, I believe A-Rod bears a particular responsibility – but the thing I want to focus on is the improbable  performance of Detroit Tiger pitcher Kenny Rogers on Friday night.

    In August, when the Yanks swept a five-game series from the Red Sox, I suggested that Heaven, the Chinese equivalent of "Fate," had smiled on New York.  Well, Fate has its own pattern, beyond our capacities to control, and while it may work for you at one moment, it may work against you at another.  Way is like that, too.  As is qi. Yet while it slips away from one, it flows toward another, and Rogers was clearly the beneficiary of a flood of good qi.

      Think about it: he had not beaten the Yankees in seven previous tries, dating back to 1993.  The Yankees had a collective .391 career batting average against him.  How could he possibly shut them out?

     Well, he did:

“I knew from the get-go how hard their lineup is to pitch to,”
Rogers said. “I know you can’t fall behind in the count with them. That
just invites trouble every inning, and I was just trying to be as
aggressive as possible and match their intensity. I probably was a
little more intense than I ever have been in a long time.”

Again
and again, the Yankees threatened. But Rogers stayed calm, artfully
working the corners. He changed arm angles frequently and mixed in
plenty of breaking balls.

    He called upon his experience in a manner reminiscent of the cook in Chuang Tzu – not a perfect match, because the cook empties his mind and lets Way work through him, while Rogers was very much consciously thinking and plotting each move.  The key similarity, however, is that both the butcher and Rogers were, as they say, in the zone.  Every curve ball swept into and out of the strike zone; every slider rushed away from the batters; every pitch selection seemed just right.  It was the game of a lifetime, a convergence of fate and qi and Way.  No way can you beat that.

    So, what else can be said, except that timeless cry of all defeated baseball fans: wait ’til next year!