Coachilla: MLB rule change can open the gates to allow long-overdue seventh coach in dugout

Didn't see this coming. Wow. Mammoth. The MLB owners have OKed a tentative rule - sit down for this - that each major league team can now suit up seven coaches per game. No, this isn't a dream. No, this isn't The Onion. You're actually reading this, and it is actually happening. In the past, teams could only play six coaches at a time. Just six. How they managed - well - it was brutal, but they survived. Next year, seven. I swear this is true. I swear to God you're not having an acid flashback. Stephen King couldn't write a wilder plot. Next year, our under-coached Yankees can have seven.

Listen, with seven coaches, Joe Girardi can be a king of kings. Between innings, while the pitcher and catcher warm up, every player on the field can have a personal coach. If you concede that Jete, Pettitte, Mariano and Ichiro are sort of coaches - they're old enough anyway - every man in the lineup could have a coach - a confidante, therapist, father figure and 24/7 drinking buddy.  Seven coaches - on a team of 38-year-olds. We should call ourselves the 50 Shades of Gray.

We are no longer limited to the subhuman poverty of pitching coach, hitting coach, first base coach, third base coach, bullpen coach and a bench coach. The wall has come down! We now can have a utility coach. Or a bunting coach. Or a rover. Many things can be coached. Base-running coach! Or maybe a second-base coach. If runners on first and third are important enough to have them, what about the runner on second? Is he second-rate? Doesn't he matter, too?

Wait a minute. A coach coach! A coach who coaches the coaches, if a coach slides into a coaching slump.  Or a life coach, like that lady on The Biggest Loser. When ARod walks back to the dugout after striking out, she can get into his face and scream, "DON'T YOU GIVE UP ON ME." It works on fatties. Or wait... a first-runner up coach. The Miss America pageant has one. And in the event that a coach cannot complete his term, the first runner up would be designated to fill out the season.

Seven coaches. A magic number, seven. A magical rule change. Arod will never have to write notes to women in the bleachers. There's a coach for that. Want to calculate currency exchanges? There's a coach for that! The weather? Latest news? Record video? There's a coach for that! It's gonna be a great year.

Game called on count of reign: The U.S. prosecutors who whiffed on Roger Clemens have all gone home

Last week, the national gaggle of professional Gammonites - those obese and balding poets of the game, whose mission is to report each day on whom the Yankees will not obtain - did what the U.S. government could not do: Take down Roger Clemens. They ignored him for the Hall of Fame. Why?

a. He used steroids.
b. He lied about using steroids.
c. He refuses to apologize for lying and using steroids.
d. He lies about refusing to apologize for lying and using steroids.
e. He refuses to apologize for lying about refusing to apologize for lying and using steroids.
f. He's a former Yankee who refuses to apologize for lying about refusing... oh, hell with this... you get the picture, right? If not, Bleacher Report surely has a posting written just for you.

But getting back to the guv. For five years, three prosecutors in the U.S. Department of Justice apparently had nothing better to do than pursue Roger Clemens. Theoretically, they had a slam dunk. And they whiffed. Which pretty much sums up the government's epic battle with Barry Bonds. They spent millions, for what? To put asterisks on their foreheads? To maintain the moral purity of Cooperstown? (See Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, et al.)

Now we hear that the three lead prosecutors in Clemens' prosecution have left the Washington U.S. Attorney’s office.  Two have gone into private practice, where they'll make more money. Great. Whenever a government lawyer goes into private practice, an angel gets her wings. This comes with the news last week about the death of Aaron Swartz, the founder of Reddit and a certifiable Big Bang-level geek, who was hounded by U.S. attorneys over a bogus case until the poor sap hung himself. Too bad. They were never going to put him in jail. They were just messing with his head. And, of course, he would never make the Hall of Fame.

Listen: We are a nation of written law - the first and foremost being: If a fly ball is hit to an infielder with less than two outs and runners on first and second base, the batter is immediately declared out, and the runners can advance on their own peril. This law makes sense. But I wonder how the U.S. Justice Department would prosecute it? (Last year, in the NL playoffs, the whole country suddenly couldn't decide on it.)

It doesn't matter who is President. It doesn't matter who you are. There will always be self-righteous swine-boogers who cloak themselves in robes, or wigs, or diplomas, and look to take down somebody for the sake of showing their power. God save us from the witch hunts. God spare us from the secret tribunals. This is the U.S. government that put Martha Stewart in prison while the banking industry was looting the treasury. This is the government that chases Roger Clemens, while Goldman Sachs turns the economy into a Ponzi scheme.

Well, Roger and Barry didn't make the Hall - this year. They will, someday. A new generation of Gammonites will look back and wonder how the sportswriting profession turned into a clown court, and it will vote them in. They will old and withered, maybe dead from the abuse their bodies took - in part from the drugs they surely ingested (like 80 percent of the others.) They will probably be no less defiant. They will refuse to apologize for lying about refusing to apologize for lying and using steroids. And the prosecutors? They will do the same.

We will look back and ask the question that every generation asks: WTF?

See you in Cooperstown, circa 2020. That is, unless we're all in prison.

SOLVED Baseball's Hall Of Fame Problem

1. Clemens, Bonds, McGwire and Rose pool their money.

2. They build an exact duplicate of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Texas, adding their own plaques.

3. They open annual voting to the fans.

4. The Cooperstown Hall of Fame dies of neglect.

5. You're welcome.

Das Boot: A blessing wish for Jeet's foot, as it emerges from the blackness

Let the healing begin!

Reports from Steinbrother South say Derek Jeter's broken drumstick has been taken off its liquid diet and is now eating solid food. The protective boot - worn by the Captain since that Hell Night, when the lights in Nick Swisher's head lost a fly ball, and we squandered a four-run miracle comeback in front of the world - which included a lot of empty seats.

Folks, it's only been three months, even if it seems like an entire Jersey Gints season. (Wait a minute, it was an entire Gints season.) In that time, three teams replaced the Yankees as the new Yankees of baseball - two in LA, the other in Canada. (God, Canada!)  In that time, the Steiner collectables spent their hard-inherited money on players they could not ignore without facing pitchforks and heated tar: Andy, Mariano and Hiroki- and then they shelled out for a dose of Kevin Youkilis, after Arod dropped his biggest A-bomb in two years.

All that time, Jeet's ankle was left in the dark, shrouded from reality, shielded from the truth.

Now, it has become conscious and seen the world anew.

Nobody knows what to expect from Jeter's foot. It can't pivot forever. (At least, I don't think it can.) We have no ankle in the system ready to replace it. If it cracks this year, or if it cannot swivel enough in the batter's box, God knows what will happen to the team. And if Jeet squeezes one more season out of that ankle, well, there goes the Steinbrothers' $189 million payroll plan in 2014. (He has an option for 2014; if he exercizes it, and the Steins refuse to budge, there goes Robbie Cano. In fact, the whole budget thing seems to hinge on how bad the Yankees are this year, but that's another story.)

Well, little foot, you are free again. Breathe the air. See the sunlight. Welcome back to our world. And to you, we offer this blessing: May you never lose your sense of wonder. May you get your shoes to walk, but always keep that hunger. May you never take one single step for granted. And God forbid, insoles never leave you empty handed.

Foot, may you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean. Whenever one shoe store closes I hope one more opens. Promise that you'll give support socks a fighting chance. And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance... I hope you dance.

As we prepare for Arod Surgery Day, what are the realistic chances that he can beat Barry Bonds' career HR record?

Yankee fans around the world will wake up early Wednesday, toddle down to the living room in their Doctor Dentons, and see what the Surgery Fairy left under the dead tree. Who knows? Maybe it'll be an Evan Longoria! Then again, it might be a lump of coal, or a Celerino Sanchez.

This year, Arod turns 37. He has 647 home runs - 115 below Barry BigHead's career all-time record. Can he do it? Can he out-pariah the pariah?

Obviously, this is all projection - and the further we go, it's like traveling beyond the solar system. But hey, strap yourself in, and let's go for a ride.

This year (37): We assume the operation is a success, and they don't leave a bottle cap inside him. He returns in July - homers in his first game. (He always does.) He hits a few, then goes cold. He's streaky. Let's project 10 to 15 home runs - let's call it 13.

He is now at 660 - tied with Willie Mays for fourth. (This is an issue, because landmark HRs cause delays.)

2014 (38): This is his best shot. Increasingly, he DH's.  But he must share that role with Jeter and maybe Tex. (Could Jeet play third?) Arod swings away, and his average falls to .240. Nevertheless, he gets 500 plate appearances and hits 20 to 30.  Let's call it 25.

He is now 685 - fourth place, and 29 HRs behind Babe Ruth.

2015 (39): Now he's a full-time DH, maybe a little 1B. He's a bit chubby and comfortable with pine seats. Injuries nag at him. He increasingly platoons, but he's nasty on lefties. Let's say 15 to 25 HRs. Let's call it 20.

He is now 705 - nine HRs behind the Bambino.

2016 (40): His Yankee tenure has become dicey. A team chasing the pennant cannot play a slow, aging slugger who bats .230. Arod is now a full-time RH platoon, a DH and pinch-hitter. He swings for the fences. Think Andruw Jones.

By now, he's either made peace with NY writers and fans - or the Yankees face a huge quandary. Can he become the crafty bat off the bench, a Raul Ibanez? Dunno.  Let's say 10 to 20 home runs. Let's call it 15.

He is now 730, third on the all-time list. He is 32 HRs from the record.

2017 (41): It's hard to see him now. He's beaten the Yankee legend, and the team wanted him to do it in a Yankee uniform. Now he's chasing the beloved Hank Aaron and the hated Bonds. At this point, some last place team with a bandbox stadium and a crying need for publicity takes half him off our hands. I'm thinking Miami, Texas, Seattle or the Mets. We pay much of his salary (unless it's the Mets.)  On a crappy team, he is free to chase numbers. He gets 500 plate appearances - more than he's had in recent years. He bats .220. But he hits 20 to 30. Let's say 25.

He is now 755 - tied with Hammerin Hank and seven behind the pariah. He is a free agent. OK, how bad does he want this? How bad does baseball want Bonds out of its memory hole. Is Arod looking for one last shot at a ring? Could the Yankees bring him back, hoping to carry him, platoon him until he hits eight measly home runs? Would the fans want him?

Well, we've obviously gone beyond the solar system. You can't project from interstellar space. Everybody has a different answer to those final questions. Hey, it's just a story to tell your kids when you put them to sleep on Surgery Day Eve.

  

News from Northern Yankee Country

 

Cat on a hot tin commode.

Jeet. Love. Pray.

The Captain is rehabbing!

Hal: If the 2013 team collapses (like a lot of people think it will), the Yankees will try to spend their way out of it (like his father always did)

Hal Steinbrenner, aka "the smarter one," took to the conference call podium yesterday to try and defuse a growing hostility within the Yankiverse, a fan base that sees the family ownership as more interested in profits than pennants. He said it just aint so. The vaunted $189 million payroll - which the Steinbros have pitched as the Prime Directive for 2014 - is not so all-important that he would allow the team to slide into the fiery pits of Pittsburgh Piratehood. 

“I’m surprised to hear that there’s anger if you see what we’ve done this offseason,” Steinbrenner said.

Well, where do I start?

What the Yankees did this offseason was watch two key players walk, buy a retread thirdbaseman to replace the hobbled boondoggle known as Arod, and let an antique lineup grow yet another year slower, older and more frighteningly fragile. Nobody but a Steinboy would say the Yankees improved their team with free agents or youth from the farm. And the reason is that pitbull commitment to the magic $189 million goal.

Listen... to me, baseball has always resembled the national model for college football. You have your Alabamas, and you have your Vanderbilts. They play in the same conferences. One spends a billion dollars on its weight rooms. The other teaches kids to read. (OK, that's another morality, which we won't bother with.)  If I grow up as a diehard fan of the Crimson Tide, well, I damn well expect Nick Saban to do whatever the hell it takes to recruit the best players, appease the ghost of Bear Bryant and beat the living smegma out of Vanderbilt, 54-0, every damn year. Hell, I pay $20,000 for season tickets, and they rattle a cup for more donations. So if the owner - or college president - suddenly says, "We're not going to spend any more than Vanderbilt next season," you better believe that I'm going to go bonkers. 

By the way, how convenient is it that college football and basketball - the NCAA's two cash cows - put absolutely no restrictions on how much money can go into weight rooms, private jets, coaching salaries, child abuse coverups and payments to coaching mistresses -- but it stipulates that no college athlete ever gets one extra thin dime in payment for putting his head on the chopping block for the old Alma Mater? 

Meanwhile, in pro sports, where the owners must bid on on talent, the scions of the game artificially - socialistically, you might say - cap payroll spending, seeking to make all the teams equal. They want no Alabamas - or New York Yankees. They want everybody to be Vanderbilt (without, of course, learning no kids to read.) Remember - and I've said this many times - the MLB owners are just billionaires pretending to be millionaires, so we'll feel sorry for them. AND I NEVER FEEL SORRY FOR THEM.

And Hal can't understand the anger?

Well, a couple more things here, because it's Friday and I'm on a ripping coffee jag....

Imagine the Yankees as Alabama, OK? Imagine the Crimson Tide if it abruptly stops recruiting. Because that's us. And imagine the Alabama fan base after it loses to Vanderbilt, 36-0.  Because that's us. The 2013 Yankee lineup will be ancient. One injury domino could follow another, and you can easily envision a Boston-baked meltdown by mid summer, with the Yankiverse absolutely exploding into rage. What happens then? Will Hal abandon the $189 million plan, which caused this problem? Will we scrap the long-term strategy and start trading youngsters? Because that's how Old George launched the Yankees' 11-year barf  back in 1983: He couldn't stick to a plan.

This winter, the Yankees did one thing that inspires hope. They added a second team in the Gulf Coast Rookie League. They're using their money to build a bigger pipeline. Hopefully, they'll hire the best scouts, best coaches, etc. - and build from the ground up.  If we're capped at the payroll - damn - let's build an infrastructure like Alabama's. Trouble is, it won't bear fruit until arond 2018 - and God knows what the Steinbros will be doing by then.

A storm's a brewin,' folks.

This will be a memorable Yankee year.

Trouble is, we might want to forget it.

Yankiverse Confidential: Shhhh, it’s the time of year when Brian Cashman is silently, covertly, creating his mayhem

Last Jan.23, out of nowhere, the Yankees dropped a bomb: They dealt Jesus Montero, et al., for Michael Pineda, et al – a trade that defined the 2012 season. Until that moment, the Yankiverse had experienced a meek and mild winter. Suddenly -- tornadoes. 
   
    I note this because, if you believe in moon phases and biorhythms, and if you study Brian Cashman’s psychiatric history, the month of January is when he boards his invisible flying monorail to Looneybin City, chasing the next Paul O'Neill for Roberto Kelly. When not handling the obligatory interview about Eduardo Nunez or Austin Romine — moments when he spews Jeterian nothingness — he’s holed-up in his Yankee war-pod, plotting something big - really really big.
    
    Lately, speculation has centered on a possible deal for Michael Morse, an outfielder that most Yankee fans have until now never heard of. If there’s one thing we know about Cash, it’s that he doesn't work in open water. He hides under the desk. In public, he waves a shiny object — say, Michael Morse — then uses slight of hand to deal away Jesus Montero. You never suspect it, until it's done. 
   
    That was the case with Nick Swisher, Curtis Granderson and Michael Pineda - Cashman's biggest trades. No advance rumors. No trial balloon. The Gammonites didn't see them until they were on the wires.
   
    So. . .  let’s think outside the honeybun: We know Cashman is toiling. He's got 30 days to find a catcher, a hitter and maybe a pitcher. He can’t trade Arod. He can’t move his front-liners. The farm system jewels have yet to reach Triple A. They can be deal sweeteners - but little more.
       
    So, if he’s looking for the next Paul O'Neill, where does that leave us?
   
    I keep coming back to two troubled souls: Curtis Granderson and Phil Hughes. They’re in their final contract years. Next winter, when the new Steinbrennerian austerity hits, they’ll almost surely leave, the Yankees receiving nothing in return. So Cash could deal one – or both – and throw in a prospect from Charleston -- for what?

  Think with me here. He wants a 26 to 28 year old, somebody yet to hit prime. He wants a RH outfielder, a starting pitcher or a rock solid catcher. He has front office pals in San Francisco, Arizona, Seattle and Pittsburgh —people who will deal with the Yankees (some teams won't) - and he’s probably good with Theo Epstein in Chicago. He can sell Granderson as a smart, fan-friendly OF who hits 40 HRs, and Hughes as a pitcher about to emerge, as Ian Kennedy did. 
   
    So... can he find that target, that stud hitter or pitcher?
   
    Listen: I have no inside track to Cashman's mind. You'd need a flashlight and compass in there. (Maybe pack a condom too) I can't begin to speculate what he'll do. But if a week from now, the Yankees pull off a stunner – well — you heard it here first.

Unlike bitter, fat, balding sportswriters, who elect nobody to the Hall, IIH voters vote Ichiro Suzuki as Yankee December Employee of the Month

He's old, he might bat ninth, he might even platoon - in other words, it's all downhill from here - but Ichiro Suzuki has been named by you, the faceless general public, as

IT IS HIGH IT IS FAR'S 

DECEMBER YANKEE EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH.

Also announced are:

The Official Movie of the 2013 Yankees:  

"THIS IS 40."

The Official Nickname for Any Rightfield Platoon:  

"ICHY AND SCRATCHY."

Congratulations, Ichiro! And don't worry. Those ugly stories about the IT IS HIGH curse are mere urban legend. It's going to be a great year.

Bernie hosed again

Keep moving, everybody. There’s nuthin to see. Move on, keep going. No news here. Nothing happened, go on. . .  
   
    Nope. Nothing new. Same ol’, same ol’. Once again, Bernie Williams has been stiffed for Cooperstown. Nobody expected otherwise. He has Yankees Disease: Too much fame, so obviously, he doesn’t belong in the Hall of Fame. All we can do is remember this insult when Josh Hamilton, Torri Hunter and Big Papi come around, so we can politely ask how many rings they accrued in their long and august careers. Because Bernie has four. And write this down, folks: There won’t be many people in the Hall for the rest of time who have four. 
   
    Oh, yeah, we know the argument: Bernie’s career numbers don’t rate the Hall. Of course, it’s the Craig Biggio argument. Lookit all them there base hits! Nevermind that only two dozen came in a pennant race. They should make Cooperstown the Hall of Numbers —  eliminate the sportswriters altogether and install a counter out front of the Hall: When a guy reaches that golden number of hits — bingo, he’s in. Eliminate the middle man! Hey, let’s hear it for Tim Wakefield. Two hundred wins!
   
    Say, how many rings does Tim have, anyway? Two. Well, that’s two more than Josh and Torri. 
   
    Listen: Bernie Williams was part of the heart and soul of Joe Torre’s Yankees – the last great team in baseball history. Four rings, baby. Four. That’s two more than the Big Red Machine, two more than the Mantle-Maris Yankees (who, shamefully, have still been denied Maris) Torre’s team faced extra rounds of playoffs, too. But hey, don’t bother looking for anyone in the Hall. Why — those World Series championships must have won themselves.  Of course, Jeter will make it. Mariano will make it. After that — well, like I said, it all must have just happened on its own.
   
    Well, we know the deal. Play in Kansas City and the sportswriters will take up your cause, because they’re all about comforting the oppressed. Plus, you can have your Arod years — just swing away and stack those numbers! In New York City, a season is a lifetime, and week is a year. Bernie is one of our greats. He's done. He's off the ballot. Jeez, I can’t believe the New York writers let the profession get away with this.

Just what the Yankees need: A bidding war for a right-handed fourth outfielder

Supposedly, the Washington Gnats - another team that is unafraid to sign players - is ready to shop Michael Morse - the great Michael Morse, as he is now known.

Morse is 31 - too young to be a Yankee. He hit 18 home runs last year and drove in 62 runs. He only struck out 97 times. None of that matters, of course. What matters is that he bats right-handed and he's on a one-year deal. Thus, he is "in our sights" for a trade.

Well, WTF do I know? It depends on what we give up, I guess. But as we have learned, Manchild Cashman works best with the surveillance cameras off - and when no teams are bidding against him for a spare part. From the looks of things, Washington plans to put Morse on a flatbed truck and drive him from city to city in a Catwoman outfit, sitting in a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. This won't be a sneaky, behind the scenes burglary, and Washington won't take Chris Dickerson - the unappreciated one - straight up. This is the other Washington, not the one that can't run anything.

Any longtime Yankee fan knows that when other teams start rummaging through the bowels of our farm system, it's time to fear Fred McGriff Redux. (For you post-millenials, Old George traded the 18-year old Crime Dog - plus outcasts Dave Collins and Mike Morgan - to Toronto for Tom Dodd and Dale Murray. Fred eventually hit 493 home runs.) There's a ton of crapola written and blogged about the talent in Charleston and Tampa, but you never can believe it, because of the Yankeeganda mills. Now we'll know. If Washington runs off with a Tyler Austin or a Mason Williams, they were for real. So long, Crime Dog.

Depends on what we give up, I guess.  But damn - for a fourth outfielder who is going to cost nearly $7 million  - it better not be much. I'm still hugging Ronnier Mustellier, but really, WTF do I know?

"Your wife tastes like Honey Nut Cheerios," the first catchphrase of 2013

Reportedly, two nights ago in MSG, Boston's Kevin Garnett came up with the nastiest taunt since  Don Rickels called Little Richard a hockey puck.  He blew Carmelo Anthony's circuit boards by saying Carmelo's ex-wife, La La Vazquez - (no relation to Javier) - "tastes like Honey Nut Cheerios."

This, of course, is not true - Vazquez is believed to bathe not in breakfast cereals but a mixture of Roquefort cheese, salted vinegar and hair removal products. Of course, Garnett was using the literary device called metaphor to antagonize his opponent by attacking him where it hurts, in his imagination.

This is a well known method, most famously used to spawn the great fight between ARod and Jason Varitek:

"Hey, did Steinbrenner sign any free agents that lived?"

"Yeah? I'd cut you short, but somebody beat me to it."


"Yeah? So is 13 your number or your IQ?"
"Your sister wears Youkilis shoes!"

"WHY YOU DIRTY... TAKE IT BACK!"

Now this. Honey Nut Cheerios - the first catchphrase punchline of 2013. The hockey puck is dead. Long live the Honey Nut.

It’s almost Happy Hairston Day in New York City

Open the Canyon of Heroes, Bloomberg!

Prepare the Blue Angels flyover, Cuomo!

Get out the bunting for Lady Liberty, Obama!

The big day is nigh! 
   
    Sometime soon, from his North Pole Fortress of Solitude, none other than Scott Hairston himself will proclaim the winner of the 2013 Right-Handed Hitting Free Agent Fourth Outfielder Prize, awarding the 2013 services of none other than Scott Hairston himself to the team found to be neediest for a Right-Handed Hitting Free Agent Fourth Outfielder.
   
    Will it be the Yankees? The Mets? The Heartland? Tunisia? The Secret Undersea City of Glogga? The Martian plains? What lucky fans in this world (or the next one) shall get to cheer and appreciate, as Liam Neeson would say in the epic movie “Taken,”  the “certain special skills” of a Right-Handed Hitting Free Agent Fourth Outfielder.  
   
    It’s hard to imagine the pencil-snapping tension within the offices of Yankee Stadium today. Whenever the phone rings, hearts stop. Brian Cashman abandons his game of chess with former hotel hookup Louise Meanwell and rushes to the front desk to shout, “Is it him? Is it Scottieboy?” The receptionist, Miss Polly Bixley, shakes her head and says, “No change since ya last asked, thirty seconds ago, ya mooch.” Cashman plunges into his ergo chair. “He’s out there, waiting,” the manchild says. “That’s what right-handed hitting free agent fourth outfielders do. They just sit and wait. Talk to me, Scottieboy? HOW CAN I MAKE YOU A YANKEE RIGHT-HANDED HITTING FOURTH OUTFIELDER? HOW?”
   
    Tonight, as he prepares to land his private jet atop the Baxter Building, only Scott Hairston knows what he will do.  One team will the take the prize – the right-handed hitting free agent fourth outfielder. Everyone else — shall DIE!

A-Rod has a note from his doctor, absolving him of his absence in October

The eternal publicity war over Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez - who in terms of public opinion is currently running neck and neck with brain cancer - has a new player: Dr. Bryan Kelly, hip surgeon to the stars, sez Joel Sherman of the Morning Murdoch. In today's episode, Doc Kelly says the reason Alex pulled an Al Roker last October was the inflamed state of his hip, whose MRIs resemble a Peter Max painting of the Titanic.

In an exclusive interview with The Post, Dr. Bryan Kelly described a patient whose left hip muscles had “just shut down,” becoming so weak that A-Rod had trouble doing a simple leg raise during exams. And, after seeing medical imaging of the hip, Kelly stated he had “no doubt” Rodriguez’s humiliating playoff meltdown was caused by the injury.

In other words: "Please excuse Alex for the first half of the coming school year," the doctor writes, in a letter to Principal Cashman of the Yankee Day Manners School. "I'm advising him to stay home, rest up and drink lot of fluids."

This comes during a monsoon season of tabloid fodder for our man and his ex-pro wrestling iron-pumper Torrie Wilson, who now receive the Justin Beiber treatment whenever they go to the corner store for a new 30-rack of Keystone and carton of Winstons. The other day, they took A-Rod's two teenage daughters - that must have put a gleam in the paparazzi's eyes - for a three hour boat ride. (All together now: The weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed, if not for courage of the fearless crew, the Minnow would be lost... the Minnow would be lost.) Somebody shot them with a long-distance lens.

Basically, A-Rod and Jeter are the only players in baseball to be hounded by paparazzi. Nobody chases CC or Robbie. Nobody chases Josh Hamilton - although that could change now that he's in LA. The Daily Mail - (which, considering its love of bikinis, should call itself the Daily Male) - slaps ad-links on A-Rod's shirt and sunglasses, so you can buy the brands. It's all part of an ugly beast that no one can stop. 

Now comes word from his doctor, saying October wasn't A-Rod's fault. It was that dern hip. So when the fans boo, they shouldn't boo A-Rod - or be calling for Youk. They will be booing his hip. 

Listen: I have a problem with booing anybody simply because he got old. Hell, I'm old. Trust me on this: Blink, and 10 years go by. And if any player is being paid too much money, boo the idiot owner and GM who spent it - not the guy. I say the day A-Rod starts jogging out grounders, he should hear loud boos. Until then, he's just another schmuck - albeit a well paid one - bringing a note from his doctor.

In the last two injury-plagued seasons, A-Rod has averaged 17 HRs and 59 RBIs. Over those two years, he batted .273. That's not mediocrity, but it's getting there. His 2013 season won't begin until the All-Star break. If everything is cured, he might hit 10 to 15 home runs. That would put him around 660 for his career - a long way from 700.

He's 37. We have him for five more seasons. After that, he belongs to the paparazzi - that is, if anybody still cares.

Rafael Soriano might once again fool Cashman

Two winters ago, Rafael Soriano became a Yankee over Brian Cashman's penny-pinching objections. It was a different era.

This was back when the Steinboys were crazy-mad-loco to win - damn the shekels - because spending Yankee money was in their red hot gypsy blood. Besides, the engine oil light was flashing: The Redsocks had signed Carl Crawford and traded for Adrian Gonzalez, and even the home-fed Bronx Gammonites were giving the next two World Series to Boston. Hal and Hank vetoed Cashman's cheapo tendencies and signed Sori, the most expensive free agent available, as if they were ordering a Papa John's pizza.

Well, Sori sucked eggs in 2011 - pitching with an ERA slightly north of Chad Gaudin Country (that's 4.12, but you stalwarts shouldn't have to look it up).  But last year he averted our zombie apocalypse after Mariano hit the wall, literally and figuratively. In his two Yankee years, Sori saved 44 games... 42 in 2012. The sign of a Yankee win was Sori, the eternal slob, yanking the jersey from his pants to show off his ample behind. 

LISTEN: An entire generation of Yankee fans has never had to face the ninth inning with the kind of stomach distress Lindsay Lohan feels when power barfing in a cab.  Why? Because we had Mariano. And last year, when we suddenly didn't -  we had Sori. We've never tasted Lindsay's gin-juiced bile. The ninth inning has almost always been kind to us.

This winter, the scuttlebutt - amazingly - is that the Yankees DON'T want Soriano to accept their $13.3 million one-year option. The Gammonites are saying - (and theoretically, Cash is whispering in their ears) - that we hope Sori leaves, so we get a draft pick. Well, I'm all for draft picks, (though it might be time to start picking consensus talent rather than throwing darts at the Brackmans, Culvers and Bichettes of the world.) But seriously, do the Yankees think it's 2009, and Mariano will save 40 games?

I know, I know... it's blaspheme to question Mo. He's great! he's magnificent! he transcends time and space! yaddayadda  - but folks, he's 43. Forty-three.  If we're lucky, he'll pitch effectively when healthy - and we won't have to watch him collapse in prime time. If we're lucky, he's fresh at the end. But few closers last a season. We need a backup.

The little birdies claim Soriano over-estimated his market and won't get the $14 million multi-year deal that superagent, Super Scott Boras, promised. (Super Scott is sooooo super-2002, am I super-right?) They're saying the best deal out there might be the $13 million option. If so, this is the best news all winter -- that once again, Cash has been overruled by fate.

Which leads us to The Question: Are we really supposed to believe the Yankee front office doesn't want Soriano back? At the worst, that's 42 eighth innings. At the worst, that's a solid bullpen lugnut and a cost that will go away before 2014. And if the answer is "YES," then it leads us to the ancillary question:

Good grief, have they gone mad?

When RG3 went down last night, who did it remind you of?

Nobody even touches him. That's what hits you. And everything seems to unfurl in slow motion. He reaches for the ball, extends himself, then crumples. And he doesn't bounce up, as he always does. That's when your heart stops. It's a routine fall, until he doesn't get up. Then you realize something's wrong, really wrong...

Don't get me wrong: Last night, I was juju humping full-tilt, phasers not on stun, for Seattle. I am not one of those clump-hearted Rudy Giuliani fan-tadpols, who claims to root for his arch-rivals due to "divisional pride." Those people are the reason condoms come with printed instructions. 

Like most thinking fans, I keep a personal vendetta list. When an opposing team, player or even fan base hurts me, I vow to enact revenge - by rooting against them and cheering their demise. The Redskins cut me in the 1980s. Sometimes, I think of John Riggins and still bleed. For that, they must pay.

Normally, in a tome like this, the writer then lays down the politically correct caveat that nobody - not even the blackest-hearted fan - ever enjoys watching a player get hurt. I say, ha. I say, boo-frickin-hoo. On two solid knees, this Griffin guy was going to wreck my next 10 Decembers. Say what you want about evil me, but evil me does not lie: I hope the guy fizzles and the Redskins forever beat themselves up for having played him too soon. Take that, Washington - and maybe I'll consider it a partial payment for hurts that Riggo inflicted.

NEVERTHELESS... last night, when RG3 went down like Sonny Liston, I did feel one enormous sense of woe: Who could not flashback to that horrible night in October? We had just seen one of the great comebacks in Yankee history. Down by four with three outs left and their fat goggled closer on the mound, we came back. And for what? So our great and shining hope, our captain, could reach for the ball, extend himself, then crumple...

Damn. I am still watching it from my luxury box, next to the kitchen. Damn. Jeet doesn't bounce up. That's when your heart stops. It's a routine fall until he doesn't get up. And then you realize something's wrong. Last night, watching that poor mope go down, well, somewhere deep inside me, I felt a shard of pity. I must be getting weak.

Where are they now? Catching up with ex-Yank catcher Eli Whiteside

Back in November 2012, Eli "From the Right Side" Whiteside captured the imagination of the Yankiverse as our newly signed fourth catcher. Not only did we have suddenly competition for the position of backup to the backup backstop, but suddenly, New York City had competition for the position of Number One Eli.

Frankly, New York would have been better off if Eli Manning had been pushed a little harder to keep his top ranking. Unfortunately, the Number One Eli contest didn't last a month - and both contestants are no longer competing. 

The 31-year-old Eli Whiteside - who batted .091 in 11 at bats last year for the World Champion San Francisco Giants - had few chances to make a splash with the Yankees.

On Nov. 5, we signed him off waivers. Twenty nine days later, after the Yankees signed Andy Pettitte, Eli was waived.

He signed with the Blue Jays. He lasted a few hours, then was waived. Same day, Eli signed with the Rangers. He stayed a month. On Jan. 3, Eli was re-waived - this time, for good. Having cleared waivers, he is now an official Ranger minor leaguer. But he is Number One Eli for Texas.

When we rubbish-minded fans ponder the life of MLB players, they see stacks of cash, network TV interviews and carnivorous broads rubbing lotion on their legs in hotel lobbies. We seldom think of Eli Whiteside.

It's part of the biz, of course - being waived four times in two months. But next time some radio caller, Vinnie from Bayonne, screams about the money being wasted on Arod or Russell Martin or anybody --- remember this:

No owner ever gets waived.

No owner ever has to wonder where his kids will attend school next fall.

No owner ever gets passed around like a bong at a frat party.

Owners are independently wealthy billionaires who do nothing but apply figurehead status as the Number One Fan of teams they theoretically support. Where did the notion ever rise that they should also make money off their teams?

This week, the smartest team in baseball signed Scott Proctor

I know what you're thinking: Scott Proctor? Noooo! He's dead. We all saw Joe Torre shoot him! Between the eyes. We saw it!

Me no think. Me just report. Scott Proctor has been signed by the San Francisco Giants.

I still remember him dealing with a tough outing by piling all his belongings at home plate, dousing them with lighter fluid and striking a match. That's juju, folks. It didn't necessarily work, but you had to love the guy for trying. I hope Proctor squeezes another year out of that arm.

But seriously, didn't Joe Torre kill him?

Orange Flush: Syracuse University on cusp of all-time bowl greatness

DATELINE: Syracuse! _ It’s the fourth quarter of the big game against Albany. For 50 minutes, you’ve held back your water like the heroic walls around Copenhagen. Now, deep within your exhausted bladder, swollen to the size of a weather balloon, nature’s liquid fire has begun to wail like Mariah Carey seated on a hot tack. Enough! You waddle to the rest room. You die 10,000 deaths waiting in line. Finally, you step into the confessional, unsheath yourself and behold a vision foreign to human eyes - not even Moses on the mountain saw this! - in 20 milleniums: A welcoming pool of beautiful, perfect orange. 

What wizardry is this? What hath God wrought!  Hath the savior Himself returned to change water into Tang? 

No, my bloated friend, you're simply peeing in Syracuse – the city of magic, the town where the sewer pipes flow with carrot juice - future home to the Orange Flush.   

Yes, Syracuse University -  which has hosted Jim Brown, Ernie Davis, Carmelo Anthony and even members of the IT IS HIGH IT IS FAR Yankees truth blog – could become the first U.S. institution of higher learning to turn common, everyday toilet water into a pumpkin-hued symbol of academic, athletic and urinary excellence.

I know what you're thinking: Holy crap! How did they do it? And how can I get me some? Can I buy it?  Well, the answer is in today's home delivery edition of syracuse.com:  It reports that SU has won government money – (surprise, surprise!) – to install a $1.35 million rainwater collection system atop the Carrier Dome roof.

Approximately 880,000 of the 6.6 million gallons of water that pours off the Dome’s 7-acre roof each year will be captured by the system and stored in tanks hung from the bottom of the arena’s upper bleachers. During events at the Dome, the water will be used to flush the toilets and urinals in the building’s 16 public bathrooms.

Building codes require the water to be dyed to avoid confusion with drinking water, even though the water will only be used in toilets and urinals. So university officials are considering coloring the water orange, the school’s official color since 1890.


Folks, this is gonna be big. This is like the second Erie Canal, except the water looks like runoff from John Boehner's skull. It's like Superstorm Sandy with a surf of liquified Velveeta.

Songs will be written about this. Movies will be made. Tourists from around the world will visit the Dome, having their pictures taken while pushing the flush button. To stay competitive, every school in America soon will dye its dumpster water. Frankly, I pity Brown University. That will not look pleasant.

From now on, every game is the Orange Bowl. I no longer fear hydrofracking, global warming, asteroids and Bristol Palin. Hell, if humanity can do something truly splashy about the otherwise boring and colorless pee break... well, we can do anything:

Write this down: 2013 will be the year that water flowed orange. Orange you happy?