COMMENTS & CURIOSITIES -- peter buffa

Politics and the Fall Classic. My favorite subject and my favorite time

of year.

The leaves are turning, sort of, the days grow shorter, and the Yankees

are in the playoffs. I suppose it could get better than this, but I doubt

it.

First, the world of politics -- always entertaining, but rarely as

bizarre as recent weeks. Wanna run for president? Why not? Everyone else

does. All politics are local, but the ones that aren’t can be more fun

than planting a sign at the Sand Canyon exit just before dawn that says

“El Toro International -- Next Exit.”

Are there any celebrities out there who don’t want to be president? Most

but not all of the current crop of celebripols -- polebrities? -- are

from the Hollywood land. They’re hip, they’re happening, and they know

the difference between Alfani and Armani, thank you so much.

Quick, read these names and pick one: Warren Beatty, Alec Baldwin, Cybill

Shepherd, Donald Trump, Charles Barkley, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jesse

“The Loopy” Ventura.

Pick one for what, you ask. Well, as for Warren, Alec, Cybill, Jesse and

The Donald -- for president. And yes, we are talking about president of

the United States. Arnold is toying with running for governor, as in, of

California. Charles Barkley’s name has been tossed around for either

governor, or the senate, as in, of the United States.

I know when I envision the next president of the United States, Cybill

Shepherd is one of the first names that come to mind. Actually, if

getting to the White House will stop her from making any more Mercedes

commercials, she’s got my vote. Need a United States senator? Why on

earth would you look any further than Charles Barkley?

Granted, celebrities-turned-politicians are nothing new, with Ronald

Reagan being the most significant by light years. But the earlier

generation of polebrities had long records of political involvement and

preparation before they reached for the political stars.

Oddly enough, only one of the new crop of hopefuls can make a similar

claim -- Conan the Republican. Arnold the Large has been deeply involved

in politics at the state and national levels for years. And talk about

lively political discussions at dinner time -- a conservative Republican

married to a network news correspondent who happens to be a Kennedy.

So stay tuned. Whenever you think politics can’t get any stranger, you’re

wrong.

From the Beltway to Yankee Stadium.

I know, I know. I promised last year I wouldn’t go on about the Yanks. I

can’t help it. It’s imprinted in my DNA. But this is an especially

interesting playoff year, even for those of you who hate baseball -- an

opinion I respect, even though it’s dumb and the most un-American thing I

can imagine.

Here’s the deal. This week, the Yankees and the Boston Red Sox battle for

the American League pennant. If the Yankees win the pennant and then the

World Series, the result will be one of the most remarkable records in

sports history. In the 100 years of the 20th century, the Yankees will

have won 25 World Series.

Boston’s postseason record is almost as notable, but in the opposite

direction. In a nutshell, they have not won the World Series since 1918.

Yes, that’s 1918. As in 81 years ago.

So what’s the problem? No money? No talent? Can’t pronounce their “r’s?”

Not at all.

The Sox have had some of the best players to ever play the game -- Ted

Williams and Carl Yastrzemski, to name just two. The problem is a man

named George Herman Ruth, a.k.a. Babe Ruth.

The Babe started his career as a pitcher with the very same Red Sox of

Boston. Incredibly, he could throw the leather pill as hard as he could

hit it. In the 1918 World Series, Ruth pitched two winning games and the

BoSox took the crown.

A year later, in what is recognized as one of the great bonehead

decisions in the history of sports, Boston traded Ruth to the New York

Yankees. And the rest is, well, you know.

Within a few years, the Red Sox star was plummeting as fast as the

Yankees’ star was rising. Writers and sports fans began to whisper about

“the curse of the Bambino.”

By the late ‘20s, as Ruth and Lou Gehrig led the Yankees to heights no

team had ever reached -- and few have since -- no one was bothering with

whispers. The Red Sox would be forever cursed for trading away Babe Ruth.

Flash forward to Wednesday night. First game of the American League

Championship Series between the Yanks and Sox.

The Red Sox take an early 3-2 lead. The Yanks are sluggish and can’t get

anything started. In the seventh inning, a funny thing happens.

Accompanied by some distant thunder, rain that was predicted for late

that night arrives early. During Boston’s at-bat, the Sox threaten to

break the game open.

But the rally is stopped short when the second-base umpire makes an

outrageously bad call in the Yankees’ favor.

During the Yankees’ at-bat, Scott Brosius scores the tying run when

Boston’s catcher inexplicably drops the ball before Brosius even touches

him.

Eighth inning. No runs, more rain. Ninth inning, the same. As the game

goes into extra innings, Boston brings in a fresh pitcher. Bottom of the

10th. Bernie Williams leads off for the Yankees. On the second pitch, he

takes a lazy swing at a hanging slider. The ball heads for center field,

rising slowly then climbing quickly, as if a wind were lifting it. Home

run. Game over. Yankees win. Again.

You may think it was Bernie Williams, but I know better. It was the

ultimate designated hitter, stepping to the plate not from the dugout,

but from the other side. George Herman Ruth.

Yankee fans streamed from the Stadium onto 161st Street, chanting in

unison: “1918, 1918!”

As the announcers said good night and the cameras panned the near-empty

ballpark, I thought I saw a very tall, very old woman in a flowing black

dress and a large, pointed black hat. She was standing alone in the

deserted upper mezzanine, her head thrown back in laughter. It was more

of a cackle, really.

But when I looked again, she was gone. The Fall Classic, with a twist of

Halloween. “Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and caldron

bubble.”

Was that from Macbeth, or Boston? I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays.

E-mail him at o7 [email protected] .