Yankeetorial: Boston is listing; we must finish the job -- and one man can do it

In the beginning, this New Millenium looked like a clunker. It opened with that humpback single in the cultural desert of Arizona, then it trenched on our own cold turf in 2004, with humankind's worst choke since the Spanish Armada - and at least the Spaniards didn't have to then face a Drew Barrymore chick-flick made about it. Short of a chlamydia outbreak in St. Jetersburg, the citizenry of the Yankiverse could not have suffered more.

But we had one torch to wave: The Jersey Giants' stunning 2007 Super Bowl victory over mighty New England. Unfortunately, the Coughlins quickly fell apart - David Tyree retired, and the Patriots annually contended - making the Shannon Sharpes among us think it a fluke, and that one day, we surely would pay for our insolence.

Well, last night, for the first time since the Curse of the Bambino turned into a bad Kreskin show, New York got both its hands inside Boston's skull and started shaking that jelly mass like a snow globe. From now on, when Ben Affleck's kids go to sleep, Tom Coughlin will be their Freddie Krueger, and Jason Pierre-Paul - well, obviously - their Jason. We own them the way Norway owns wool socks, and they'll be brooding in their fratboy lairs, afraid to see us walking down the street, fearing they'll have to hear another story about Eli.

But as every Yankee fan knows: It's not enough!

No, not even close. Last fall, the planet rejoiced in a glorious Boston meltdown, fueled on beer and fried chicken, a collapse on par with ours in 2004. The Yankiverse guffawed for two weeks - then joined Boston in flailing, overpaid mediocrity. This winter, we had a chance to bury them with free agents, but the Steinbrothers instead wanted new kitchens in their summer houses. We dazzled the world by signing... Hiroki Kuroda.

Folks, this is our chance. We have Boston sucking air. If we can knock them out of the playoffs this year - not easy, because Rug Selig wants an extra tier -  the Redsocks could collapse in a Bobby Valentine smoke-haze. Big Papi would leave spitting. Varitek would be cut, Beckett booed. We could Wade Boggs them. We could lock them back in the cage, throwing feces at passersby. We can validate our lives in the knowledge that - hell, even if Mitt Romney wins the White House - the bum is still a loser.

One man out there can add that final blow - the knockout jab - the shot to the belly that drops Boston the way Clay dropped Liston. We all know who that man is. We need him, and he needs us. It is time to finish the job.