"Trust me, I'm booing myself right now."

Let's trust Lance Berkman. When he comes to the plate, the little man in his testicles stands up and yells, "Berkman, you suck! Go back to Milwaukee!" (He does not follow baseball closely.) And Lance, the man at the plate, that is, turns to L'il Lance and says, "You're right. I think I'll hit into a double play."

Friends, this isn't working. Big Lance cannot go through life booing himself. His career will collapse. His marriage will fail. His children will become gay, and he'll take up with a commune, start growing his hair long and protesting the war. We have to save Big Lance.

Throughout Yankee history, the most common thread remains resurrection -- the born again star. Billy went though it. Mickey went through it. Giambi endured it. The player who comes to New York must be broken down to bare components, humbled on the heelprint of Gotham, destroyed and then reborn.

Next time he comes to the plate, we have to collectively -- in the stands and cheering at home, offering our juju emmisions through the as-yet-undetected-scientifically wormhole that we know exits for game-changing wave particles -- make Lil Lance stand up and feel big again.

Or trade his fat ass back to the NL for a plate of clams. Right now, clams look good.