Open Letter to A-Rod: Believe it or not, you've been granted a reprieve

I

n his late years, Shoeless Joe Jackson – he, of the lifetime ban – ran a liquor store in Greenville, South Carolina. One day, Ty Cobb and the sportswriter, Grantland Rice, came in to buy life-sustaining booze. Jackson pretended not to recognize them. Cobb grew exasperated. “Don’t you know me, Joe?” he said. “Sure, I know you, Ty,” Jackson replied. “But I wasn’t sure you wanted to know me. A lot of them don’t.”

It’s been 95 years since Shoeless Joe was banned by the Bud Selig of his generation. The world still remembers Jackson, still debates him, still views him as one of the great hitters of history. He will be known long after other stars of his time are forgotten. It’s the Bill Buckner Effect. He will take on a larger than life perspective, because people have an innate appreciation for greatness and a fascination with tragedy. It is part of human nature.

Over the next year, in the darkest times, you must remember this.

Someday, the world will track through its instinctive anger upon hearing the name Alex Rodriguez. Someday, writers and pundits will compare your transgressions to a generation of far worse villains, because evil seems to evolve more quickly within our species than goodness. Eventually, they’ll say you weren’t so bad. But it will take time. Maybe a lot of it.

Listen: Yesterday, you screwed up. You pushed a nuke button and began suing MLB and the player’s union. My friend, that is a loser’s strategy - unless you are lawyer. It’s how to spend $10 million, without achieving anything - unless you are a lawyer. Your name will get dragged through the mud, and the lawyers will become famous and rich, and sir, you should rethink that strategy soon. The courts will not save you. They will simply take your money.

Many people, like you, believe the recent arbiter’s ruling was a shame. But one thing Frederic Horowitz did do was to cut your suspension from 1.5 years to one. That’s not minor. That’s the difference between a lifetime ban and a year off.

Listen: You have been given a year to redeem your name.  

This is no time to go Robert Redford and sail around the world, thinking if you die, everybody will feel bad. This is no time to run a liquor store and pretend you don’t recognize people. This is a year to get out and make the world a better place. I’m not talking about “personal appearances.” Courtney Love makes “personal appearances.” Get out and work. Get out and build Habitat for Humanity homes. Get out and march for crops, or causes. Get out and wield hammers and deliver foodstuffs, and actually do things. Don’t disappear into a weight room. Don’t hide with the aerobics instructors and the hangers-on. Get out and be with real people.

Bud Selig sold cars. Know what? He’ll always been a car salesman. Go out be Alex Rodriguez, the person, not the player. You cannot win your case in the courts. There will be no justice there, just a bunch of suits who nod and take your money. Plead your case to the people, to the fans, to America. That is the only court that matters.

If you get involved with a righteous cause, the next year will disappear in what seems like a minute. It will soon be the winter of 2015, and nobody will give you a chance at returning to baseball. And that’s when you get a shot at proving them wrong. That’s when you can show the world who Alex Rodriguez is.

Because, frankly, we still don’t know.

You’ve been granted a final act. Not many people get one. You have one year. Will you sit in your compound, screw the latest stripper and direct your legal war? Or will you get out and work with people – REALLY work with people, not just do p.r. – and become the person you’ve never been able to be. It's time to tell the truth - about everything.

The craziest part of your defense was that crowd of nutjobs who showed up on the streets of New York to support you. Everybody assumed they were paid. Well, maybe it doesn’t matter. Wherever you go, there will be a crowd of nutjobs. (Some will be there to heckle.) You have a podium. You have a chance to tell about your life, and maybe to do some good.

Sir, you are not “retired.” You are “banned,” and banned by a gang of jokers who will carry a lot of historical baggage. Everything they did will come out. Everything you did will come out. You don’t need lawyers. You need friends. Do something with your year. Do something with this ban. You will be remembered for 100 years, like Shoeless Joe.

Do something. Or else buy a liquor store and instead of selling booze, just drink it up yourself.  Because it’ll be you in the mirror that you pretend not to recognize.

Blinded By the Lie: What his hero, the Boss, would say about the Chris Christie bridge scandal

Nobody loves Bruce Springsteen more than New Jersey Governor Chris Christie. But the highway was jammed with broken heroes last year, and it’s put him into a last chance power drive. Fact it, nobody can tell the Big Man’s fate better than The Boss.

Oh-oh, join my campaign,

I’m riding out tonight to-oo close your exit lane.
Oh-oh, Pander Road... 

Got a wife and kids in Morristown, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never came back,
Like a glutton who don't know where he’s sated,
I died in traffic while my ambulance waited.
Not everybody's got a healthy heart
Not everybody's got a healthy heart
Good luck in waiting for the lanes to part.
Not everybody's got a hell-hell-healthy heart

The car door slams,
Mary’s gut flames,
Like a vision she dances across the road
As her bladder-full drains.
Three hours of sitting by her lonely
Nature calls and you've one choice only…

 In Christie’s room, there are pictures
Of his heroes on the walls,
But to get to Christie’s room,
You gotta kiss the ridges of Christie’s balls…

I got a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396
Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor
She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot

That used to be State Route 104…

Read more >>

OK, I give up, call off the dogs, world: There is no reason to defend A-Rod or to think magically about the pathetic organization known as the New York Yankees

Well, it finally happened: the convergence of Higgs bosons and gamma rays that creates our reality, has finally achieved human perfection - that nexus of mismanagement, nepotism, corruption, deceit and hubris that is the New York Yankees.

Last night, CBS’s 60 Minutes also solidified its position as the official Voice of the Police State. In the same way that it recently soft-balled the head of the NSA to assure us that government surveillance is for our own good, last night it trotted out Anthony Bosch and Bud Selig to do postgame interviews on the A-Rod story. A victory lap. Baseball defeated drugs. The game is safe now, everybody.

Well, I hope the Woodward/Bernsteins of ESPN/Disney start asking the Steinbrenners and Levines what they knew and when they knew it. If Chris Christie goes down because his aides were cutting throats, shouldn’t the Yankees front office be required to explain how hard they investigated those joking email concerns that A-Rod was juicing? Or are owners off-limits? Do owners have to be held accountable, in the way their employees are?

Oh, hell. Well, why am bothering to ask? It’s over, folks. There is no sense defending A-Rod anymore. It’s like trying to claim the Redsocks didn’t win the World Series, or that the Yankees are still a better franchise – because long, long ago in a universe far far away, they won a bunch of world championships. The last ring we won, 2009, looks tarnished and rusted – not only by the money we spent on free agents to win it, but by the drugs A-Rod ingested to get there. He’s OJ Simpson. He’s Lance Armstrong. They’re going to delete him from the record books. And here’s the cool part: The Redsocks will skate. Oh, Manny Ramirez will take a hit; they soured on him. But the others, all those great “Cowboy ups” and “Idiots,” including David Ortiz… nobody will raise a peep. It’s good business to have heroes.  The Yankees will go down, folks. And if we’re going to root for them, we go down too.  So why should we?

Once again, we enter a season without one young player - not one rising star - to give hope. It’s like being a Democrat in Alabama, knowing they can run a hyena against you, and they’ll win.  It’s like being a Knicks fan, and knowing you’ll finish last and not have a draft pick. (In fact, the Yankees will have no draft picks next June; they practically don’t need to attend the draft.)  We once were the Evil Empire. Now, we have no empire. We’re just evil.  Right now, Hal Steinbrenner’s claim to the Yankees is based on the belief that he is the smarter brother. But that’s a low bar. He’s up against self-made billionaires who own other teams. Do we really think this franchise will ever be the smartest?

Yesterday, the Yankees announced the signing of Scott Sizemore, a scrap heap acquisition for third base. This signifies the 2014 plan: Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled free agents. We will take in your Vernon Wellses and Travis Hafners, and we shall give them clothing to wear.  I keep thinking it can’t get worse. Then I look at the infield and wonder what it will look like in July. I keep thinking we’ll turn the corner. Then I imagine the fifth year of Brian McCann’s contract, and the seventh year of Jacoby Ellsbury.

Listen: We cannot justify rooting for the Yankees. Don’t try to explain it. It’s like cigarettes. If we could quit, we would.  But like cigarettes, they’re going to kill us.

Let us now speak blaspheme: Derek Jeter should move to third base.

You know that old joke about the camel being “a horse designed by a committee?” Well, meet the current 2014 Yankees.

Yesterday, the public tarring and banning of Alex Rodriguez formally began. It will peak this evening on 60 Minutes, when Anthony Bosch tells the free world about injecting A-Rod with steroids. This will be even uglier than the Golden Globes. Meanwhile, the Yankees just banked $25 million - actually more, without A-Rod's bonuses. Meanwhile, though, the 2014 team looks like a muddled mess of a meltdown.

The outfield bulges at the seams with old and/or fragile players. The pitching staff is a roll of the dice. (Seriously, are we supposed to think that Sabathia and Kuroda, both a year older, are still aces? Are we supposed to expect Nova to become a star? Be real) And the infield – well – the infield is Milwaukee on the Hudson.

At 1B, Teixeira will always be a wrist tweak away from Lyle Overbay returning to New York. At second, Brian Roberts is the Yankees version of the Make a Wish Foundation. At third, dear God, it’s anybody’s guess. (Remind me again why we released David Adams?) At shortstop, God bless him, is the Captain, battling the ravages of age and injury.

Between now and April Fool's Day, there will be trades. Fear them, the way rabbits fear wolves. Our situation nearly demands that Brett Gardner must go, and last year, after Robbie, he was our best position player. Not only that, but Gardner is a gamer. When you find one, you want to keep them.  Finally, no GM ever trades with the Yankees unless it’s highway robbery: Their fan bases hate the Yankees too much. Yes, Cashman wrangled Nick Swisher a few years ago – but for every gain (never forget that Wilson Betemit, whom we traded for Swish, had a fine career), there is an Austin Jackson and Ian Kennedy out there, jabbing the needle into our sides. 

A salary dump deal? Sure! We can always get another Vernon Wells. Why not just keep the one we had?

Right now, there is a possible solution to the infield mess, and it’s time has come. Derek Jeter should move to 3B, where the stress on his ankle will be far less. His range at SS has diminished, with an infamous numbers-cruncher study a few years ago claiming he covered the least ground of any SS in baseball. We have a good field-no hit SS in Brendan Ryan. But we have nobody to play 3B. It makes sense. The only thing standing in the way of it is Jeter.

Playing 3B extended Cal Ripken Jr.’s career by several years. It could do the same for Jeter. In the past, to even suggesting such a move has been greeting as blaspheme by the blogger trolls of the Yankiverse. But if this team looks like it was built by committee, it has been: Hal and Hank, Cashman and Fred Horowitz. We might as well add Jeter to the panel.

Everything could change. Maybe we'll sign Tanaka (though I'd watch Boston very carefully.) Right now, though, 2014 looks like a disaster. When you don’t have a farm system, there really isn’t much you can do.

A-BOMB

"Seligeus Slaying the Centaur"
(Thanks, Unsustainable BABIP)

All's well that ends Wells

I came to like Vernon Wells. All last season, he never whined. He never Sheffielded – which is to say, he never not hit and then complained, because he wasn’t getting a chance to not hit some more. He took his miserable over-swings, and when they didn’t work, he walked back to the dugout and took his medicine. It hurts to see a great player in the dregs of his career, and nobody knows that experience more than Yankee fans. It’s nearly a foregone conclusion that every great hitter or pitcher, from Enos to Ozzie, from Sheff to Randy, gets an inconsequential whack at pinstripes before hanging it up.

Which brings me to Brian Roberts. Don’t get me wrong: I hope I’m completely missing something here. But Roberts is a classic reincarnation of Vernon Wells, except that he plays 2B instead of RF. He’ll do well in April and part of May. We’ll be congratulating ourselves – or at least the YES courtiers will be congratulating Brian Cashman – for his work in picking Roberts off the scrap metal heap. Around June, the floor will sag. It won’t be Roberts' fault. It will be some nickel and dime injury, something that hitches his swing. He’ll soldier through it, because that’s what tough guys do – and he did it in the past, when he was young. But now, it won’t work. He’ll bat .180 for six weeks, and then we’ll go through the angst of telling a classy veteran he is done. And by then, we might just have faded from the Division race – although that wonderful one-game playoff will remain in sight. It always remains in sight. That’s why it’s there.

Vernon Wells was just the latest Yankee incarnation of Andruw Jones, the Pronks, the Tony Clarks, the --  – good grief, I don’t want to list them anymore. Will the Yankees ever wake up to the notion that a young guy hitting .240 without power is actually better than an old guy doing the same? Because the young guy might improve. The old guys... they just end.

Which brings me to Zolio Almonte, who is likely to play another season at Scranton. Almonte can run, field, he switch hits, and who knows: He might bat .270 with 15 HR, if given the opportunity. Will Ichiro do that? On any other team in baseball, the GM would know exactly what to do. Will the Yankees ever learn?

Baseball phrases that could describe the Chris Christie bridge scandal

He was caught napping, ran through a stop sign, and left a lot of people stranded.

If you're scoring at home, it was a two-lane error.

Also, look at him: He uses double-chin music.

If Mike Mussina had been an Atlanta Brave, he'd be going into the Hall of Fame

Wait a minute. I know what you're thinking:

I'm gonna piss and moan about Yankee-hating Gammonites in the Pooperstown vote. Well, you are wrong. How dare you. Nothing, NOTHING, could be further from the truth.

This isn't about Mike Mussina being blackballed because he was a Yankee. Nope. He lost because of the F Troop-sorry state of the Orioles during the 1990s. If not for the wretchedness of that team, Moose could have won 300 games in his career and been a lock for the Hall. Look at the numbers:

Check out 1992, when Baltimore finished only 4 games over .500 - even though he went 18-5.

Or 1995, he went 19-9 for a team that finished below .500.

Only twice did Baltimore make the post-season, 1996 and 1997. If Moose were substituted for either Maddox or Glavine - and he played for Atlanta during that stretch - he would now be sitting on 300 wins.

Also, his career ERA would be much lower. Remember, he pitched his entire career in the AL East, consistently facing the toughest lineups in baseball. 

One other thing: Some writers never do forgive anyone for joining the big bad Yankees. Moose getting screwed is another reason not to give a damn about the Hall.

DAMMIT, I GOTTA STOP GIVING A DAMN ABOUT IT!

Worst timing ever? Tanaka's visit to NY may coincide with A-Rod's ruling (and ensuing explosion)

Masahiro Tanaka is coming! Quick, everybody, bag those bottles, and hide the bong! (Wait a minute: Just thought of something: If Masahiro likes his happy herb, so to speak, we have no chance in bidding for him against Seattle.) (Wait No. 2: Did the Jogger go to Washington because Robbie has a thing for the weedier pleasures?) We gotta look good!

Jeeze, De Blasio, plow the roads! Damn, Christie, open the bridges! Who the hell shut down Spider-Man? This guy won't sit through Waiting for Godot. Can we get him into one of those Billy Joel monstrosities at MSG? What? They're sold-out? Jeesh, is everybody in NYC over 55? Do we have to take this guy to a Knicks game! Boeheim, get your ass down there and beat Duke, or something! Can you maybe play Dennis Rodman's all-stars?

Aw, hell, it doesn't matter. Any minute now, Fred Horowitz - the most powerful man in the world - will rule on A-Rod's MLB ban. Whatever Fred says, it's going to cause a volcanic burst of bad publicity for Hal 9000 and the Evil (Retrieval) Empire.

Of course, there's a slim chance that Breakfast-in-Bed Fred will side with A-Rod, and scuttle Bud Selig's dream team of investigators, with their tote bags of money. Thus, the Yankees could publicly welcome back A-Rod and play kissy-face. But Alex will probably miss a big chunk of 2014, if not all of it, and he's already in a spitting contest  with Randy Levine, the Yankees designated fright wig, and even the team physician, Dr. Hippa No-Tell. Soon, A-Rod's lawyers will start firing away, and unless Alex is written into our lineup, the Yankees will be high on the target list.

Great, just great. So Tanaka arrives in New York City to be wined and dined, courted and sparked, and while he's having his toes sucked by Louise Meanwell's cousin from Bayside, he's watching an overhead TV, where A-Rod is telling Charlie Rose what bastards the Yankees are, and how Brian Cashman was stealing underwear from the team's Booty Box. Great. Just great.

If you were being recruited by, say, the Death Jell Pharmaceutical Company of North Korea, while you were touring the mass graves with Supreme Leader Little Kim, how would you like to hear about his beloved uncle was recently set upon by a pack of 120 wild dogs? Would it make you want to sign up?

A-Rod's lawyers could try to make him into our version of Kim's uncle.

Listen: No Billy Joel front row tickets can overcome that. We'll be just sharing a drink that's called loneliness, 'cause it's better than drinking alone.

Pile on time: Let's remember that Chris Christie is a Met fan who has repeatedly disrespected not only The Master but Suzyn

"I don't want to hear one more thing from John Sterling... John Sterling turns my stomach. ... I just can't take him."
 - Chris Christie, embattled New Jersey governor, Yankee hater and Met fan.

Well, well, well... Look what the cat dragged in... little Chris Christie got his nipple caught in a little controversy, eh?

Met fan.

I hear the good folks of Ft. Lee - up in Yankee Country - are gonna hold a little "party" today for Chris. Because while all those Democratic voters were stuck in traffic on that bridge, they were listening to The Master on the radio.

Met fan.

Day of the Governor

Robbie Cano will never receive this treatment

The Iron Horse as the King of the Jungle

Alex Rodriguez' posthumous 2055 Hall of Fame Induction speech

(Today, Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens barely even showed in the voting for the Baseball Hall of Fame. Let's face it, Alex Rodriguez surely will receive the same treatment.

Someday, when a new generation of sportswriters looks back on the vendettas and moral outcries of this era, I believe they all will be inducted into the Hall. 

Trouble is, they'll be dead. Someone will have to write them speeches. Let us now take the liberty of attempting that task. For lack of a better subject, let's try A-Rod.) 

Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for this great honor.

I wish I were here to receive it in person. Alive and breathing.

Because then, I could pitch it back into your faces.

If I were still alive, I would be standing outside this once hallowed Hall and blocking the entrance to this ceremony. I would be yelling to the world not to come or bear witness to an institution that honors the likes of Bud Selig, George Steinbrenner and many others like them - yet turned its back on men like Marvin Miller, Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds.

But let me get quickly to what you surely most want to hear.

I took steroids. Yes, I did.

Of course, you all know this. By now, I suspect there are numerous deathbed confessions by rivals and teammates, who came forward to describe the horrible things we did to our bodies, to our minds, and - yes - to our souls... all to win baseball games, all to hear the sound of cheering fans.

Ah, the sound of cheering fans. We would do anything for it. We would stick needles into our hearts. And the fact that none of us are here bears testament to the price we paid.

Yes, I took drugs. I took HGH. I took drugs they didn't have names for. I took drugs so exotic that nobody really knew how they would affect me. Yes, I did.

I took them to win games. I took them to become the best ball player I could be, because, in my mind, the worst scandal any player or team could ever bring to the game was to NOT try to be the best they could be. If you thought others were juicing, how could you NOT try to compete?

Isn't that why we still consider the Black Sox as the darkest day in baseball history? They threw the World Series. But what is the difference between Shoeless Joe Jackson and an owner who dismantles his team - sells his players at a tidy profit - to basically throw an entire season? Is that not a scandal? The players are fighting with everything they've got, but the owner would rather make money? Why was that not a scandal? Why were owners like that not banned from the game?

Yes, I took drugs. Yes, I did. And yes, I was not the most likeable guy.

But long before I hit those depths, I devoted my life to the game. I made myself the best player in baseball. Nobody else can know the sacrifices I made. Certainly not the owners, whose greatest achievement was to inherit their teams. They bought me, and they sold me, and when I made too much money, they turned on me.

As they turned on Babe Ruth. As they turned on Pete Rose. As they turned on Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds. Some of those owners are honored in this hall, this supposedly hallowed hall. And for what? What did they do for the game of baseball, other than own it?

Well, what can I say? I'm dead. I thank you for this honor. Now, I ask two favors.

One: Take down my bronze plaque and melt it for scrap. Pull my jersey out of that glass case, and yank my banner from this podium. They chased me from the game. They made me a pariah. They wouldn't even bring me back for Old Timers Day. I'll be damned if I'll let their sons and daughters sell merchandise on my name.

Two: Make sure my home runs stay in the record books, and take any asterisks off my numbers. Those games happened! Those home runs were real! The victories and the defeats, they EXISTED! I played. I fought. I gave my teams everything I had. If I went too far, it was to WIN. They didn't like me, and so they got rid of me.

Well, I stayed out of this Hall in life, and I'll stay out in death.

But my numbers belong in the books. Because I was here. I was here.

I am and always will be... the one and only... A-ROD.

I am not sure if I am watching this ceremony from Heaven or Hell. Either way, one last favor. Let me hear the sound of fans cheering one last time. Ah, the sound of fans cheering. Whatever happened, wherever I am, I assure you... it was worth it. God, what a time it was!

(Idea by KD)

It is National Judgment Day among America's scions of morality, the sentries who keep impurities out of the Hall of Fame

Cotton Mather was a punk. Those creampuffs who sent the Salem witches to the gallows, or the cranberry bogs, or whatever - they were K-mart cheapos when it comes to indignation. To be a true moral superstar, you must write about sports. And today is National Judgment Day: When the professional Gammonites of America elect their human beacons of super-purified morality to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Nothing against Greg Maddox and Tom Glavine, et al. Bravo to them. But more than likely, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Rafael Palmeiro, Mark McGwire - and in the future Alex Rodriguez - will never see a Cooperstown plaque during their lives. After they are dead, a generation will look back on the morality cops who singled them out (as opposed to all those who were not caught) - and they will be elected. Their grandsons and granddaughters will accept the awards. We might not be alive. But it will happen. Because everybody knows they weren't created in a lab like Captain America. What separates them from many others was getting caught. I think history will judge them more kindly.

Which brings us back to Jan. 8, 2014: America's Day of Moral Indignation... The day the sportswriters' votes are announced.

Doesn't matter if you're a beat writer in New York or the featured columnist in Kalamazoo: Become a Gammonite, and in the Hall of Fame vote, morality flows from your exalted lips like recycled sewerage from a theme park waterfall. 

I've written in the past about why some sportswriters turned into overbearing morality thugs on the matter of A-Rod. And let me stress that not every writer goes this route.  Some close friends write sports. Some great people write sports. But again, I wrote news for more than 30 years, and here are my best reasons why some Gammonites become pig-headed slop-slingers.

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1. Arrested Development. In fifth grade,  every baseball nut who can finish a sentence wants to be a big time sportswriter someday. Most grow out of it. They end up covering politics or culture - or - if they're working in today's markets, celebrities.  Something keeps sportswriters from abandoning that original childhood dream. And some, at basic levels, maintain an element of childishness in everything they write. They call people names. They never think in shades: just winners and losers, villains and heroes. Worst of all, they fall down to authority figures. They automatically follow any old white guy who sits behind the big desk. It's like a flashback trip to the Principal's office.

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2. The one-stop shop. If you cover politics or war, or just profile one person, the complexities are overwhelming. You can never do enough interviews. The stresses of uncertainty never leave your belly. You're always wondering, Did I get it right? Sportswriters don't face this as often. The game is played, the stats are compiled - (actually, supplied) - and the players are trotted out to be interviewed. (It is part of their job.) Everything is laid out. Most writers almost never have to stand on a stranger's doorstep and talk somebody who hates the media into an interview. In every other form of journalism, writers make a million decisions on what and whom to believe. The sportswriter can report the score and what the jocks said in their underwear, and his job is done. The real mission is to sound wittier than they do. (And that's a low, low bar.)

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3. The press box. If you're profiling a junkie's scorched life in a housing project, odds are, no other journalist in the world is competing for your story. You are on your own. But sportswriters sit together in a press box, chewing fat for hours, in a place where civilians are not allowed. They compare notes about good guys, bad guys, managers and the free buffet. Most importantly, they can get a sense what everybody else will write tomorrow. There is a huge pack mentality here, a need to run with the herd. It's not their fault, but it's almost impossible to avoid.

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4. The economic disparity.  Most beat writers have a nice middle class gig going. But they must cover pro athletes who drive cars worth more than they'll make in a year - and some jocks can't even speak coherently. It aint right! There is a class thing here. There is a youth thing here. There is a race thing here. Yeah, that's a touchy subject, and writers are no better or worse than the rest of us. But that economic rift between jocks and writers shows up in every story about A-Rod, or LeBron, or anybody who makes too much money - which is everybody in sports but sportswriters. It's always there, whether they acknowledge it or not.

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5. The folly of humanity. Keep this in mind: Half the people you meet in life will be of below average intelligence. Sportswriters are no exception. Nobody notices an idiot taxi driver. A stupid sportswriter - woah - that's hard to ignore. The dumber they are, the more fervent they will be in their sense of righteousness.

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6. The access. If a writer's phone calls are being returned, he or she has an incredible advantage over the competition. When in doubt, you can quote the GM or the owner, anonymously, and never go wrong. Thus, Selig and his minions took batting practice on A-Rod for most of last year, until his legal team fought back and recruited their own mouthpieces. When writers quote anonymous sources, can they really act so oblivious to the reasons why those sources would be inclined to lie? Well, if they do, the guy might not return their calls. And they're in trouble.

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So today, we learn who they liked, and who they didn't like. And someday, after we're all in the ground, Bonds and Clemens will get their day in the sun. I hope their grandchildren can write the perfect words. Writing is an art, you know.

A petition to rename the Rolaids Relief Award for Mariano Rivera

I hereby support this and vow to never use another Rolaids tablet until justice is served, and the change is made.

And considering the state of the Yankees, I would expect to consume thousands of cases of Rolaids in 2014. Unless this change is made, I will go elsewhere. Somebody get me a Tums.

I would write more but - ooooh, the acid indigestion. Hear my cry, Rolaids. There is only one person who can save you.  

One New York Post writer - out of nine - voted Don Mattingly for the Hall

If there ever was a definition of Reverse Homerism, well, here you go.


Nine NY Post writers voted this year for the Hall of Fame. Here are the vote totals from that august group:

Glavine: 9
Maddux: 9

Piazza: 8
Thomas: 8
Bonds: 7
Biggio: 6
Clemens: 6
Bagwell: 4
Morris: 4
Raines: 4
Schilling: 4
Mussina: 3
E. Martinez: 2
Kent: 1
Mattingly: 1
McGwire: 1
Palmeiro: 1
Sosa: 1
Walker: 1

I understand them honoring Glavine, Maddox, et al. But it's both revealing and sad that New York writers would value Curt Schilling more than Mike Mussina, or Edgar Martinez (who never played in the field) above the likes of Donnie Baseball. 

It's the reason Roger Maris isn't in the hall. It's why Thurman Munson, Ron Guidry, and Bernie Williams will never make it. New York writers feel compelled to downplay the value of New York players. They don't want to be accused of favoring the home team. They think the Yankees get too much attention, so they self-regulate. And if your own beat writers don't support you...

Steven Seagal looks so much like Penn Gillette that you could plot a murder around it

Steven may run for something in Arizona.

I don't know anything about it.

But how do you get your hair to do that?

Yankees may lose opportunity for $45 million taxpayer boondoggle in Ocala, Florida

When Yankee fans ponder $45 million, they generally have the same response: Chickenfeed... pocket lint... bottle deposits... fifth starters... backup OF... Come back when you're ready to talk about MONEY, rather than bathwater. Forty five million doesn't shovel Carl Pavano's driveway.

So the Retrieval Empire couldn't have expected the people of Ocala, Florida, would miss $45 million added to their tax-loads. The Yankees planned to shift their Class A team (which hasn't developed a player since Brett Gardner) from cosmopolitan Tampa to the rural Ocala, thanks to the bedrock workers of Conservative America, who seldom resist the chance to subsidize a billionaire. (See SCRANTON, See KOCH BROS, See WALL STREET, See HUMAN HISTORY, see LIZARD PEOPLE OVERLORDS)

Evidently, the deal has gone kaput. (At least for now. If there's one thing we've learned about taxpayer-financed stadium boondoggles, they are never truly dead.) The political Pooh Bahs of Ocala did not imagine that folks would oppose the construction of a new concrete dog dish, simply because they'd pay higher taxes. 

The Yankees aren't the first sports team to hold small markets for ransom. (See COLUMBUS, See BUFFALO, See ROCHESTER, See MAP OF AMERICA). But let's salute the Floridians of Ocala for saying no - at least for now. Forty five million dollars is scrap metal money to the YES/Murdoch/Steinbrenner/Lizard People Overlords machine that owns the Yankees. If they want to build a ballfield in Ocala, they should do it. Nobody would stop them.

Yes, this view is simplistic: Suited pimps with MBAs and college interns in stilettos can gin up bar charts to show the "economic ripple effect" of stadiums. They do it in Syracuse every 10 years. It's the biggest shell game in America - the Carrier Dome Shell - which recently started a new round of cup-rattling for taxpayer money. In hard times - has anybody noticed the jobless rates lately? - it's sickening to imagine a city that would prop up sports teams - pro or college - that are literally choking on their own vomited wads of cash.

Here's a prediction for those in Ocala who might yield to the bar charts: In 10 years, the Yankees will be looking for a new town, a new tax base, and the people of Ocala would be bending over to find somebody - anybody - to play in that beautiful, empty field. Shoeless Joe had it right: If you build it, they will come. Trouble is, he meant  in the pornographic sense. Forty five million dollars? Wake me when you're ready to talk MONEY.

There is nothing to say until the A-Bomb hits

I never have nothing to say about the Yankees. Never.

Today, I have nothing to say. Nada. Naught.

Screw the polar vortex. It's not Glycol in the pipes that's frozen; it's the Yankiverse - stuck in a state of suspended animation, speechless and unaware, until super-arbiter Fred Horowitz rules on the fate of our dear Number 13, Awful Alex. This will happen soon, maybe today, maybe as you are reading this. Until the A-Bomb detonates, what is there to say about the 2014 Yankees other than, "Good luck with that!"

Seriously. Wanna talk pitching? Duh. Depends on what Fred says. Will we trade Brett Gardner? I dunno. Why bother to speculate? Until Fred makes a move, we might as well be talking about life forms on Alpha Centari... or that Internet sensation, The Man With Two (2) Penises.

If A-Rod is banned for the season - well, the franchise saves $27 million, which can help buy Masahiro Tanaka, Ubaldo Jiminez, a bullpen, and we can keep Gardy. But The Man With Two (2) Penises plays 3B. Plus, Alex's all-star team of lawyers will try to goose everything into federal court, for a super A-Bomb.

If Bud Selig's ban is banned - well, A-Rod gets his mad money, but at least we have a man at 3B, and considering Alex's critics, hell probably show up in shape. But who pitches? I don't think Hal has a taste for long term contracts, and some team will offer the moon for Tanaka. We might be pitching The Man With Two (2) Penises.

If it's a "wisdom of Solomon" decision, the ban cut to 50-75 games - well, we save $14 million, get A-Rod for the stretch, maybe trade Gardy... and cut The Man With Two (2) Penises in half - which is terrible to ponder, except that each still has one (1) penis.

I've got nothing to say but it's OK, good morning...

It's time for Yankee fans to ponder a future that increasingly resembles the NFL

This season will offer the biggest change in baseball since 1973, when Ron Blomberg, the first DH, stepped to the plate: MLB will use instant replays to overturn calls. Imagine "Cowboy" Joe West - mouth full of black chaw - touching his mic and announcing, "Upon furth refew, the runner beeda throw, and da caw is oturn."

Some say this should have happened long ago. Others can lament yet another blow to the humanity of baseball. It will add 15 minutes to games that already run too long. But, hey, if the Yanks lose on a corrected call, won't the world cheer the justice of it?

Because baseball will be a tad more like football.

Bud Selig has always longed to make MLB into a baseball version of the NFL - that is, a pro sport without a team like the New York Yankees.

Long ago, the NFL neutered any chance of dynasty by the New York Football Giants of Robustelli, Katcavage, Huff, Gifford, Rote, Connerly et al. (You could argue that by choosing Ali Sherman over Vince Lombardi and Tom Landry, the Giants neutered themselves.) Thus, no NFL team boasts anything like the Yankees' 27 World Championships. And no team ever will. The draft, weakened schedules and the almighty payroll cap guarantee that every NFL team looks and plays alike.

It's interesting that most pro football owners are old money billionaires, conservative in politics and ardent free market capitalists - except when it comes to their business, which they run like Karl Marx: The rules are designed to keep all franchises on near equal footing.

For years, MLB has edged toward this model. If Selig has a lasting legacy, it sure won't be in ridding baseball of steroids. Rather, it will be his constant push to institute a universal payroll cap. It caused the horrible 1990s labor strike. Ten years later, he instituted luxury taxes so onerous that they form a de facto payroll cap. This is why the Yankees are stuck so deeply with the pain of A-Rod's contract. It pushes the Yankees into a zone of incredible taxation.

But here's the reason for Yankee fans to worry: The fix is on.

When the Yankees are involved, the rules get changed.

In December, MLB's rules stated that when Japanese import Masahiro Tanaka came to America, his salary (correction: his posting fee) would not count towards the team's official payroll, and thus it would not be subject to luxury taxes. That left the Yankees with a huge advantage in the looming auction for Tanaka. But at baseball's winter meetings, this issue was raised, and the rules were changed - so abruptly and completely that Tanaka's Japanese team nearly refused to let him come to America. The new rules will push Tanaka's salary far higher - and add it to the payroll numbers. If the Yankees get him, they will pay huge penalties. The new rule changed the entire dynamics of the off-season, most notably for one team - the Yankees.

You could argue that, from a logical standpoint, the new rule makes sense. Why should posting fees be high and a player's salary low - and not count toward luxury tax? But somehow, when it was the Texas Rangers signing Yu Darvish, or other teams chasing boatloads of international free agents in recent years... well... cries to change the system were not considered. 

The latest sign of Seligism comes with a story that has made the rounds lately: The Yankees are threatening to go wild this year on spending in Latino markets. Actually, they have no choice. They squandered their draft picks, because of the (I believe dubious) signings of Brian McCann, Jacoby Ellsbury and Carlos Beltran. They need to spend their money somewhere. But MLB's reaction apparently will be to institute an international Latino draft - and then take away the Yankees first round draft picks. Basically, the move would destroy the Yankees chances to ever build from the ground.

Let's face it: The game is stacked: If every time the Yankees use their clout or money, the league changes the rules and penalizes them, eventually, we will be just like the Kansas City Royals.

Listen: I am a psychotic Yankee fan. I plead guilty. I root for the one team that throughout history has embodied greatness in American sports. (And it's not as if New York City dominates sports.) Yes, Americans are supposed to root for underdogs. But must we must usually lose? Is there not one pro team we can count on to, more often than not, lift us from the doldrums?

This is the deal: The lords of baseball will never quit until an NFL model is in place. At some point in the next five to 10 years, the Yankees will be an amalgamation of the San Diego Padres and Dallas Cowboys. They will be just another team with long-faded glory in their distant, distant past. In exchange, we will have parity - an annual shot at those one-game Wild Card weekends! Pass the meatloaf.