Yankeetorial: Melky Cabrera has risen from the grave

A year ago, his game became a stinkbomb. He suddenly turned into the switch out, the guy who can't hit from either side. Maybe he was partying. Or maybe that "romance" with porn star Mary Carey. They banished him teary-eyed to Columbus-Wilkes Barre and last winter offered him around like a plate of bad clams in a paper bag. Nobody bit. Nobody expected a Yankee career. The question seemed whether he'd go alone or with his always clean-uniformed pal, Robbie Cano.

Well, goddammit, Melky didn't turn into Roger Repoz.

He changed his number from 28 to 53 -- a Bernie Williams-type number, a do-it-yourself number, the number of a guy who's worked in coal mines next to dead canaries.

He learned to bear down in the clutch, which might just be something a guy can only learn by walking to the edge and staring into the abyss.

His average is rising to .300, which is what he hit throughout the minor leagues.

Until yesterday, you could say Melky's greatest moment as a Yankee was punching out Evan Longoria last year during the spring training brawl after Shelley Duncan gored the Tampa Bay secondbaseman in the testicles, days after the cheap shot on Cervelli at home plate.

We didn't trade him for Roy Halladay -- (along with small army, including either Joba or Phil) -- and some of you are screaming bloody murder about Johnny Cash's failure to cut a megadeal, while the Boston, Ma., Redsocks stole Vickie Martinez (their third DH, counting Lowell and the Stay-Free Maxi Papi.)

It's impossible to analyze the trade that doesn'tt happen.

But if Melky or Brett Gardner were gone -- I'm betting one would have been -- I'm am here to give thanks that we didn't pull the trigger on Roy Halladay. Both have earned pinstripes, and we could have them for many years.

On Aug. 11, Melky turns 25. (Lou Dobbs might want to see the birth certificate.)

To those who would heckle the Melk Man, here's his proud response.