Once again, the mainstream media gets it wrong

Today, Newsday gristmeister Neil Best goes Hemingway (not Papa but Margeaux, the 1970s model with the 17-pound lips) on John Sterling, an 800-word frenzied belch of typing, in which he calls The Master -- and we quoteth: "...perhaps the most polarizing figure in New York sports media, a hot-button topic both loved and loathed - sometimes by the same people."

Thank God for the word "perhaps."

Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

As for being loved and loathed by the same people? Perhaps Best has fallen in with a strange therapy group.

But one error must be corrected. Best writes of Mr. Sterling:

"The most frequent complaint is his anticipating of plays, often wrongly. There even is a blog dedicated to him under the banner, "It is high, it is far, it is . . . caught.''

That's us. And while, perhaps it's nice to get your name in the paper, (unless its for kiddie porn), let's set the record straight.

Our title has absolutely nothing to do with John Sterling missing a call, or for that matter, John Sterling, whatsoever. Nothing. Thirty-five years ago, when SuperFrankenstein and I launched this blog out of a homeless shelter/barbecue stand in Pungo, Virginia, we never dreamed the phrase would someday ignite a nation through a future Voice of the Yankees, driven by Jeep. Hell, back then, it was tough enough just imagining the Internet.

No, we believed the phrase "It is high, it is far, it is caught" signified the eternal struggle of humankind (yes, we also imagined future political correctiveness), as he (or she) asks fundamental questions and seeks fundamental answers, sometimes to the fundamental questions, unless they are fundamental contestants on Jeopardy, in which case it's the other way around.

"It is high, it is far, it is caught" reflects a common theme in the spiritual fabric of reality, because each of us at one point must ask himself (or herself:)

Holy crap! What the hell is going on in this plane of awareness? Because if this is all just a dream, and life is nothing more than random experiences piped-up through my subconscious, why am I hunched over a radio, listening to these two people jabber about travel days and New York Life? What manner of God would subject a living entity to this, 160 times a year, no less? There must not be a God. Oh shit. Now I've done it. I've blastphemed. I'm asking fundamental questions that could get a guy (or girl) hit by lightning and, WHAT?!! HEY, IT'S AN A-BOMB... FROM A-ROD!

We love John. We don't loathe nobody, except bald Redsocks who throw their helmets.

As for Neil Best? Thanks for the ink. Next chance, take the buyout.