Last night, while Russell Martin was busy beating the Baltimore Orioles, the Yankees captain wasn’t on the bench, riding the pine, rather he was in the bathroom sitting atop a porcelain throne. Jeff Passan realized that it was Jeter’s steely leadership and supreme confidence that allowed him to go to the bathroom at such a time and not the body’s natural processes at work. I stepped into Jeter’s brain and took a look. I would appreciate it if anyone from The Paris Review wanted to get in touch:
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, fire it in there, baby! Let’s go,” yelled Derek Jeter from his familiar post at shortstop. The pitcher, CC Sabathia, was happy to have the moral support as he was getting tired. “Seriously, man, I really gotta go. Let’s hurry it up.” Deter danced delicately, his hands around his crotch in the international symbol of I Need to Pee.
Sabathia, realizing that the encouragement wasn’t meant for him, felt a surge of embarrassment flow through him. Gathering himself, he stared into the catcher’s mitt and threw a ferocious slider. Mark Reynolds, prone to big misses, chopped the ball to Derek Jeter who, his bladder throbbing, grabbed it and made the throw on the move. Without slowing down, Jeter ran to the dugout, tugging at his belt as he did. Jeter avoided the congratulatory slaps of his teammates, fearing that even the slightest contact would release his grip on the liquid he carried with him.
“Hey! Where are you going in such a hurry?” hollered Joe Girardi, clutching a binder to his chest.
But Jeter was already down the clubhouse tunnel, hustling (like he always does) for the bathroom door. With his pants already half off, flashing a pattern of underwear underwear to the clubhouse attendant, Jeter pushed his way through and scuttled to the urinal.
He stood there for a moment, his manhood in his hands. He waited. And waited, the crowd noise outside blocking his concentration. “Dammit, this always happens. Just relax, Derek, just cool those jets. You’re a natural winner.” Focusing on what appeared to be a booger on the wall and thinking Why in god’s name someone would pick their nose and smear the residue, relief soon came.
Derek Jeter, now fully in the zone and operating on pure instinct just like during “The Flip,” concentrated fully on the soft tinkling against the back of the urinal, the smell of the lemony fresh urinal cake, and the buzz of the fluorescent light above him. As he finished, he shook twice, no, three times, and the world came flooding back to him, like when a TV character travels through time. The last drops of urine fell against the porcelain and the groan of the Baltimore crowd and the excited yelps of his teammates filtered their way into the bathroom.
“What the hell…?” Jeter mouthed. He quickly stuffed himself back into his boxer-briefs, being extremely careful as he zipped his pants back up. He jogged towards the door before realizing that he hadn’t washed his hands. Stupid germs, thought Jeter as he rubbed the grainy pink goo between his hands into a lather. Gotta find out what happened.
Not bothering to dry them, Jeter sprinted, as he always does, for the dugout, a smile spread wide on his face. “Hey guys, what’d I miss?”
Nick Swisher, leaping up and down like an excited puppy, said, “Russell Martin just hit a home run! We’re in the lead now.”
Derek Jeter now leaped up and down too and the two hugged. They were happy.
“Life may be short,” said Jeter, ‘but sometimes it’s nice to play baseball and have friends and be rich and be on TV.” Nick Swisher wholeheartedly agreed.
Be sure to tune in next time when I cover Derek Jeter getting a snack and Derek Jeter answering a text message. Don’t be the only one on your block to miss it.