Seventeen Magical 10-Win-Plus Seasons!

OK, we give him a lot of shit. It flows off his back. And where would we be without him?

Besides, there's a Carlton Fisk thing going on here, where instead of being remembered for his first team (in this case, the O's), his second incarnation defines him. A lot of people will someday ask, "Mussina, who did he pitch for, before the Yankees?"

But somewhere, frozen in time, that pitch to Carl Everett is still unfolding.

O-and-two count. Redsock crowd standing, wretching, prepared to witness the first perfect game in Fenway history. Everett, the bejeweled headcase who signifies Redsock egoism -- the real Curse that has kept them from a world series -- is batting for somebody named Joe Oliver. Everybody in the Yankiverse -- everybody in the world -- knows what's coming: A perfect game. Because that's how it works, when you're a Yankee.

Everett takes a ball. Just missed the plate. Crowd groans. Mussina bites his lip. Not a problem. He bends, arches, pivots, throws -- and, pinnng, watches Everett dump a feathery soft liner to left field. It bounces at Knobby's feet. He had no chance for it. Mussina tilts his head, gives God a half-smile.

He's been here before. This is home. This is where he will be forever. One strike away from greatness.

Most players never get that far.

So deal with it, Mussina critics.

Seventeen years, he's logged more than 10 wins. That's Pennsylvania mountain DNA, right there.

Ten wins by June 15. He's on his way to 20. Nothing can stop him. Who's up next? Some guy wearing jewelry...