Open Letter to Yankee God: If Bobby doesn't get well, you're fired!

Dear Madam, Sir or Yahweh:

We’ve endured muy heavy crapola this winter, with the self-righteous frat-boy Redsocks strutting their checkbook gyroballs, and still trying to wax fake-Jewish torment about how they suffered so much, before basically turning into everything they once claimed to hate.

Then came the love-hate saga of A-Rod, who ditched us, saw a dead-as-Topeka market, pitched Scott Boras into a vat of remorse, and slithered back to wrangle the most money possible -- while booting his chance to bond with a city that could have loved him, and now may never.

Then came the “probe” by Redsock jock-sniffer George Mitchell, and then Clemens v. McNamee and Handsome Henry Waxman and Savior Santana and – and – and…

... And now you have the gall to suggest Bobby Murcer might have a recurrence of cancer?

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Got that?

This is the scene in the Yankee God movie where the lights shine, the angels sing, Jeffrey Maier makes the catch, Aaron Boone hits the knuckler, and you justify your $210 million payroll.

Got that?

Mess this up, and you’re fired. It doesn’t matter whether you’re in with Allah, Jesus, Buddha, Oprah, Morgan Freeman, George Burns or Alanis Morrisette. Clean out your cubicle. Turn in your swipe card. We’re demoting you to God of Scranton. Or Trenton. We’ll go out and sign a free agent god, a small market god from Oakland. We’ll trade you for three prospects and a god to be named later. Or we'll waive you.

Do something. Make Bobby Murcer well.

We’ve lost big games, good people. (Scooter, talk to him; he’ll listen to you!) Bobby Murcer… no way.

We’ve taken a lot of crap. We’re not taking this.

Amen.