Self-Fulfilling Prophecy and All That

So, I was afraid I would have to wrote this all along. I am going to cheer for the Yankees to sign Manny Ramirez. I want it to happen. I want them to get Brian Fuentes too. And dump Hideki Matsui-- one of the only guys I like on the entire team, really. I want them to sign Derek Lowe, Adam Dunn as a DH and trade for Jake Peavy.

Think about it: Manny, Dunn, Jeter, Arod, Tex? And the other cast of characters?
Think about it: Lowe, Burnett, CC, Wang, Hughes and Fuentes/Joba/Rivera
Think about it: over 500 million dollars in one offseason.
Think about it: have we ever seen anything like that? Has sport become the recession-proof ideal it always looked like it was?

I want to find out. I want one city to dominate sports so crucially that we can't take our eyes off of it. I want New York City to be the destination for every word of every conversation. I want LeBron, Wade and Bosh to the Knicks. I want some hockey dudes to sign with the Rangers. I want Tom Coughlin to keep his seemingly brilliant ways. I live here, and I want it all. I really do. If these things happen, I'll switch. I'll leave Boston sports.

This is not sarcasm. This is the biggest chest-beasting city in the world, so let's see it. I want year-round championships. This is philosophical (albiet in sports) proof that there is no reason to resist, but I want more. I want it all. I want every big name player with a gleam of the bog-time in his eye to come to New York City. It's never happened before, but it could happen now. I want tampering, cheating, money-laundering, hotel break-ins, back-loaded contracts, law-breaking nasty-minded, hooker-incentive deals. Anything is nothing, everything is not enough.

It's time for the Yankees-- nay New York City-- to get its due. This is not sarcasm, it's hope for the rest of humanity to finally see the big idea.

I will become a fan while paying outrageous rent with a shit job, not being able to afford to get into the stadiums and giving up one of my last true strongholds-- the feeling of euphoria I get from seeing my original teams win championships. I'll do it. But, New York City, you gotta earn it.

Man, I gotta get outta this shithole. Happy fucking holidays.

If the Last Game at Yankee Stadium Had Gone According to a Yankee Hater's Plan

1:30 - Monument park opens.

1:43 - Someone spray-paints "dolemite" on Miller Huggins' plaque.

3:11 - For old time's sake, twelve women simulate fellatio on Mickey Mantle's plaque.

5:24 - As fans are allowed on the field, Jeffrey Maier walks to the spot where Tony Tarasco would've caught Derek Jeter's fly ball in Game 1 of the 1996 ALCS, had Maier not interfered. An Orioles fan recognizes Maier and promptly kicks him in the balls.

7:21 - While introducing all the former Yankee greats at their respective positions, Willie Randolph slides into second. The throw beats him by three feet.

7:38 - Bernie Williams is introduced and roundly cheered on his first visit back to the Bronx since 2006. Meanwhile, someone in the field-level seats mentions Mickey Rivers, and nobody knows who he's talking about.

8:11 - Babe Ruth's daughter, all 92 years of her, bounces the ceremonial first pitch to the plate. Everybody boos.

8:20 - Andy Pettitte delivers the first pitch. As digital camera flashes go off throughout the stadium, Brian Roberts pulls it over the wall in left for a home run.

8:31 - Jeter strikes out looking.

9:14 - Jeter flies out to the warning track in right.

9:29 - Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra join Jon Miller and Joe Morgan in the booth. The pairing of Berra and Morgan introduces a strange yin-yang dynamic: Berra, king of the unintentionally intelligent, and Morgan, king of the intentionally unintelligent.

9:54 - Jeter grounds out to short.

10:40 - Jeter strikes out looking.

10:53 - During "God Bless America," everyone in attendance gets up to go to the bathroom.

10:06 - Michael Kay joins the booth. He is eaten by locusts.

11:19 - After striking out the first two men he faces, and throwing hellacious mid-air haymakers, Joba Chamberlain hits a batter, walks two guys, and gives up a grand slam to Kevin Millar.

11:36 - In the bottom of the eighth, A-Rod hits a three-run bomb to Reggie Jackson-land in center to cut the Orioles' lead to 6-4. Upon crossing home plate, he flips off the entire crowd and their sarcastic applause.

11:41 - With one out in the ninth, Joe Girardi calls for Mo. As Mariano Rivera prepares to enter the game, the gate door gets stuck. The game is put on hold for three minutes.

11:49 - Luke Scott hits a solo blast to right off a cutter that doesn't cut. The Orioles go up 7-4.

12:05 - With two outs and the bases loaded, Jeter walks to the plate. As 54,000 people chant his name, Jeter, the captain, grounds out weakly to third. Game over.

12:11 - Addressing the crowd after the game, the microphone goes out on Jeter. With nowhere else to turn, Jeter screams into Jorge Posada's ear, using his head as a megaphone. Due to the unique shape and design of the ears, not to mention the overwhelming size, the sound carries through the stadium, shattering windows and glasses and hearing aides. At eighty-five years, the stadium's shaky structure struggles to sustain. With evacuees running for their lives, Yankee Stadium crumbles, topples, falls. The only thing left standing is Babe Ruth's monument, covered, fittingly, in beer.

Outside the Aviary: "Everything You Must Love You Must Love Now"

I had a column all set up for how the Yankees were shot and how the Red Sox were becoming a less polished version of those 1996-2001 teams that just won at any costs (sprinkling the pickups of Kotsay and Byrd in as evidence), but really, I don't feel like talking about all that. Perhaps it's the whimsical instrumental music I am listening to, the fact that i have cheered on championship teams a lot lately or the fact that I read way more on sports than I write about it these days, but the article bores me. It really does.

The liberation of a two-sport championship is daunting. Ask Bill Simmons, Dan Shaughnessy or the cavalcade of "Boston Bloggers" nationwide. It's not a small task to write about things when they are going well. There's little to criticize-- the Red Sox are on their way to another playoffs and took two out of three from the Yanks in September. The Celtics are taking a gamble here and there (although a non-guaranteed contract to Darius Miles is not a gamble-- more on this in a later column) after securing a championship that got more press than Lady Di's death rattles. The Redskins have made improbable playoff runs and are, at least, intersting every year. My sports life is good.

Still, the Sox letting a sweep slip through their brittle fingers, I noticed something-- the Yankee fans are comatose right now. I went to the game last night, and most of the meatheads were expectant. They expected Papi or Varitek to come through against the Veras and Ponson types. When Jeter came up, they looked ahead to the next batters and knew A-Rod had no chance against relievers. Whereas my friend and I just stared ahead and waited. We talked about insurance runs and how funny 'Tek's swing looks. We talked about how cool it was to see Yankee Stadium one last time and how we couldn't wait for it to be razed. We talked about all kinds of things, waiting for the bottom to drop out against a terrible set of pitchers.

Meanwhile, the Yankee fans got more and more hopeful. You could hear fingers crossing and heads nodding. You could hear frustration. When the Sox went up 5-2, some people left. 5-2? At 6-2, more scampered away. 6-2? This is a team that leads the world in bullshit hits-- infield choppers, dying quails, etc. There is no other team blessed like this one. Granted, the place deadened after the Pedroia grand slam, but even then, where was the swagger, the bravado? The "Well, we still got twenty-six rings" assholery?

It was lost in Goose Gossage pulling a fake lever to remind the fans that they had two weeks left to enjoy the old stadium. It was lost in a lackluster "YMCA" chant as the grounds crew came out in the seventh. It was lost in the anti-clutchness of the middle of the order. It was lost in walks, doubles, a grand slam and the overall disillusonment of their reality: they don't field good teams right now. They just don't.

There's a new Steinbrenner, a new stadium and new motto: win with what is out there. Gone is the hope of a saviour for this season, and soon the invented mystique of the ideal playing field will be gone too. For someone with a dog in the hunt like me, it's not a moment too soon. Bury that hole as soon as possible and make sure Michael Kaye is in it. But for the casual fan-- like the Californian father and son in front of us, it was a moment bereft of rivalry. Yankee Stadium, with its statue park, its die-hard/vulgar fan base and its ancient lore meant something different entirely. It meant the end of an era that was long past, not the one of recent memory.

Now, nearly every dog is in the hunt. Then, it was the Yankees and whomever challenged them. There was little to no real rivalry. Fans are better off believing that their team can win now. Fans are better off wondering if their new young rookie sensation can be the next Josh Beckett or Mariano Rivera rather than the next Cy Young. The year-to-year, station-to-station idealism is better for the mystery of the game. The casual fan has really never had it better: there is no dominant force in many major sports anymore. Rivalries exist out of biterness, sure, but moreso becuase each team has a real stake again. The Red Sox, White Sox, Rangers, Cubs (as of this year)-- invented curses or not-- have a chance. This hurts the dynasty and leaves the monumental fans pride-hurt and with new stadiums? Pride hurt and priced out.

Such is life, I suppose. I won't miss the mystique or the builing. I won't. I will miss the old fans like my Uncle George-- recalling the past-- a little, maybe. I might miss the way there is no bad seat in Yankee Stadium, just a touch. But, I won't miss how the casual fan came in with reverence and fear. Price 'em out, Yanks. The die-hards are dying with the titles. The Sox's are winning, the Rays are running away with it this year and the Stadium is done. And so, the new era is upon us.

Story About A-Rod Is Pumped At The Rear

Yesterday was a typical slow day at work.

I had to watch The Transporter 2, a movie so off-the-wall outrageous that I think I have to Netflix the first one just so I can smoke my weight in carpet fibers and laugh through the whole thing. (Noticing that there is a bomb planted under his car, and forced to drive off at gunpoint, British/Scottish/Irish/Welsh/Australian/Kiwi/Oyster Bay actor Jason Statham gets in, speeds off, sees a crane with a large hook hanging down, drives over some crates and assorted boxes so that the car flies 30 feet into the air WHILE ROTATING HORIZONTALLY, whereupon said hook perfectly knocks off said bomb literally nanoseconds before it explodes. Whew!)

Normal hump day.

Then a co-worker sent me this.

By nature, AP stories are supposed to be bland. There's a formula that all of us lowly journalism students learned the day we stepped into a soulless lecture hall - the inverted pyramid.

It goes like this: you put the good shit at the top, where people are likely to read it. Then, the further down they go, and the more bored they get, they stop. That way if you need, say, four inches to fill and you have a six-inch story, you just chop-chop-chop off the inconsequential dredge at the bottom until the story fits.

This AP story about Alex Rodriguez at spring training, however, is too good to snip, with everything from how he exaggerated the number of times he was tested for steroids to how he'll never be among the Yankee greats until he wins a ring.

The best part, however, is the best part. When my co-worker e-mailed it to me, all he said was, "Ninth paragraph."

That graf was this:

Andy [Pettitte] is one of the greatest human beings I've ever met. I have two daughters -- well, I have one and one on the way. If I had a daughter, I would want 'em to marry Andy Pettitte. The age difference might be a little awkward, but in today's day and age anything is possible.

Looking at that story again one sees that the loquacious verse in question has been moved to the very bottom of the piece, light-years beyond the ninth paragraph. I can't prove that it was changed, but two of those three links were updated pretty late in the evening for a wire story, and the other was updated a good two hours after I read it initially (at roughly 5 pm ET Wednesday, Feb. 20).

I'm trying to go easy on the guy here and shift the focus away from the contents of the actual quote. But look at it again: "I have two daughters -- well, I have one and one on the way. If I had a daughter ..."

Wow. Just ... amazing. And I haven't even begun to psychoanalyze the absolute and utter awkwardness of a man trying to hook his "alleged" daughter up with someone 32 years her senior.

When asked about saying that he had been tested for steroids nine or 10 times last year, A-Rod said: "My quote from earlier today was taken literally."

Too bad he was talking about the wrong one.

Outside the Aviary: "No More Bad Town"

I live in a baseball town. In many ways, this is a dream situation. Even Yankee talk, to me, is better than constant blathering about College Basketball when the season is so far away (North Carolina-- guilty as charged). My coworkers, friends and all the customers I see every day have a new fire in their eyes, a renewed vigor that I seem to forget until the first week of October starts. Sure, some it is bloodlust for the failure of my team, but it is all in good spirit. That is, unless you're these kinds of assholes.

I've almost been in fights over sports. Hell, I've been in a fight over a beer from a fridge. But never-- even when it involves assbirds in Brosius jerseys in 2007 yelling about how A-Rod is going to make Reggie Jackson disappear in the record books-- NEVER have I considered beating the shit out of another man (with help) due to sports affiliations. In 2003, a man (in North Carolina, no less) traveled the length of a bar to inform my friend Miles and I that we enjoyed homosexual anal and oral sex after Aaron Boone's home run in the ALCS. He actually, red-faced and wielding his beer like an axe, screamed "Better luck next time, assholes." We had no idea he was even there. He was picking a fight. Still, I didn't take the bait.

Duane Somers, 32, of Huntingdon, Pa., and Edward McConaughey, 42, of Orbisonia, Pa, are the exact reason I can't watch sports in bars as often as I want to. They are the reason I refuse to talk shit, even when my team is triumphant. They are the reason I stopped wearing my Sox cap to work every day-- the inclination for wanting to get into a shouting match with someone who thought Derek Jeter was the best defender to ever play the game was too strong. The art of loving sports is a tough one. There are those that devour their teams and those devoured by them. It's a shame Carlos Ortez got devoured as well.

It brings up a philosophical quandary. I think the reason I haven't posted for this site and have talked about sports less and less with my friends stems to the fact that I hate the people that like sports to this insane level more than ever before. The debates, the sniping, the constant criticism of something I have no control over, the lumping of me-- a person that talks less shit than Pirates fans-- in with Massholes and maniacs who didn't know who Jacoby Ellsbury was until two weeks ago. It is as pointless to debate the merits of Jeter's defense and A-Rod's offense as it is to figure out the meanderings of Manny's mind. I could care less.

This is not to say I don't cheer. Nor is it to say I wasn't at a bar last night celebrating one of the most dominating pitching performances of my lifetime (Cowperwood Theory in motion). I was not, however, screaming in Yankee or Angel fans' faces. I wasn't running through the streets proclaiming anything in particular. I was just watching the game. That's all. Nothing crazy. I especially didn't feel the need to beat the hell out of someone because they didn't wear the same hat as me. The people yelling the loudest are driving me away from one of the things I was most in love with and best at disseminating (see also: my general apathy toward college football and its rabid fan base).

Say what you will about multimillionaires and free-agency "ruining the game." I'm happy for a few more social disconnects at this point. I really am. That just puts me one step closer to enjoying sports without the fear of assholes and hospitals. That just makes one less asshole willing to pick a fight with me over a retarded groupthink mentality. Maybe--hopefully-- it will allow one less Carlos Ortez incident. I mean, c'mon, all he wanted to do was watch the game and go home.

Escape Engine 6: Jason Lives

This may be one of the the only times you'll ever see this here, but:


Yep, it's time to examine the Yankees. First, the explanation:

The fast rise and fall of a bullpen is a tragic thing to watch. A month of fantastic pitching could just as easily crumble as continue, as anyone knows, but to predict such a fall is divine. Since sportswriters mention bullpens more than they actually talk about them, we've decided to devote a little time to some contenders' bullpens (with little focus on the closer, since they get enough airtime already). This week we've focused on the New York Yankees, currently 5 games behind the Red Sox in the AL East at 62-47 and tied for the wildcard lead. We have them finishing second in the division (and out of the playoffs, we know... we know) if you must know.

Let's Get This Guy Out of the Way, Shall We?:
Old man in AL All-Star Hat: OYES, OYES! The Afraid of Joba Chamberlain Society will now hear from the floor! Mr. Leisure?
Business or Leisure: Holy shit, have you seen this guy? Dear LORD.
Members mumble, someone audibly says, "fuck."
Old man in AL All-Star Hat: This meeting is adjourned.
He bangs a gavel.

Late Innings: The aforementioned Chamberlain is joined by Luis Vizcaino and Kyle Farnsworth. I remember the day Farnsworth was signed as if it were my first whiskey and coke on my roof in college (boy was I smiling) and Vizcaino is less than reliable from night to night. It's a wash, except, well, see above commentary. Chamberlain is the future closer and the serious threat the Yanks needed all along. Say what you will about the boys making the decisions, but the shrewdness of the Proctor for Chamberlain (oh, you thought Wilson Betemit was the reason he left?) deal was the best one they've made since they signed Pettite. I know it was just last offseason, but this is a team built on moving and shaking. This was genius.

Middle Innings and Long Relief: Here's where it gets trickier. If Torre was smart (or even not asleep at the wheel), he would use the "best pitcher for the biggest outs" situation. If that means holding a lead when the facsimile of Clemens leaves after 4 1/3, do it. Fuck the later innings, just keep the lead. However, the team now relies on Sean Henn and Ron Villone. They are effective at times, but essentially a step away from disaster. There's a reason this team isn't losing: the lineup. Oh, and if you can name a game in which Edwar Ramirez made a difference, I'll mail you a picture of him.

Long-Term Eye: With Joba fresh armed and the lineup killing the damn ball right now, the Yanks are going to have to hope that the runs keep coming and the bullpen stays rested. Mariano isn't exactly blowing people away right now and the team's hope rests on a much harder schedule than they've faced in the last two weeks or so. If they expect to beat the Tigers, Red Sox, Angels and Mariners down the stretch, they better get production unseen in the Orioles series. They have a lot to do before the playoffs are handed to them (namely, find out if Kyle and Luis are even going to see the 8th inning anymore).

Fun Fact: Did you know that George Steinbrenner is made out of smoke? Entirely? Bet you didn't.

Prediction: I stand by my earlier assumption that this team doesn't make the playoffs. It will be close, as the Mariners and Angels both get head-to-head chances after beating up on the NL Central for a minute first. Plus, Cleveland gets Tampa Bay next. The Yanks have a tough road ahead of them and I don't know if I would trust 5 out of 7 of these guys without having a finger or two crossed that they don't have to face inherited runners. With a staff of old men, a closer alongside them and a crew of possibles, anything could go wrong. As of yet, it hasn't. I say it will, but I feel like I say that every year.

Outside the Aviary: "F-F-F-Foolin'..."

A report from Yankees stadium on Sunday (and another Red Sox victory).

I love fooling Yankee fans. Nothing beats doing it over the course of a Red Sox series either. It's like the dieting commercials you see on TV-- you can eat anything you want and still lose weight! It's simple-- wear anything you want without Red Sox paraphernalia on it and cheer as loud as you want for them! It's a guaranteed good time.

On Sunday, a particularly timid and tame group of Yankee fans filed into the section in which I sat. The combination of terrible pitching and losing record was beginning to grate on them-- you could tell. The kids in front of us were bored off of their asses by the fourth-- dumping peanut shells and stabbing holes in the plater's program faces with a pencil. The fans were yelling more at Mets and Rangers fans than they were at blatant Red Sox fans walking in and out of their seats. They were like a lame duck Presidential speech or a long-winded National Anthem rendition. It was as if the fans were ready for April to end rather than looking forward to the game's conclusion.

And with good reason, I suppose. Their Yankees, as has been well documented, are miring themselves in yet another slow start. This April, however, is different for one solitary reason: suspicion. When the Mets were ready to overtake the Braves last year, there was an attitude of, "Well, their due, but I can't pick against the front runners." People knew that the right amount of pitching mismatches and lineup adjustments had been made. The Braves were rife for domination, but the "hump" is never easily overtaken.

The stadium was never abuzz-- even in the ninth when Giambi came through with a double, even when Doug Mientkiewicz hit a three run job, and even when Alex Rodriguez came up in critical situations (welcome back Little Momma!). With last year's darling of the staff pitching, the fans were listless, yet unable to boo. They were in a conundrum-- there is no one to blame (injuries being the main reason) and no one to love. No heroes, no goats.

I know their pain. Last year's end of season came at the hands of a healthy Yankee squad versus a patched-together pitching dynamic including detritus from all over (Kyle Snyder?! Starting?!). The leftovers still remaining from last year were a past of the unraveling that could have happened in two innings: Tavarez unraveled in the third (wlks and a HR) and Timlin pitched a shaky eighth: (Jeter's HR and the tying run reaching the on-deck circle). The fact that the series is 5-1 thus far rests on the shoulders of new pitchers on both sides. Last year's domination has no carryover with Diasuke Matsuzaka or Jeff Karstens; Jose Vizcaino or Hideki Okijama. I understand the injuries, and stared from the stands at a team bereft of answers.

That's the biggest fool job on the Yankees this year. The trades of Randy Johnson and Gary Sheffield may have strockpiled arms, but it doesn't plug holes. The Craig Hansens and Manny DelCarmens of the world are always on the cusp of ready. The Julian Tavarez guys are always in between good stretches. The Sean ("Robin Wright") Henns are always struggling to strike out the superstars of the league. All of this on top of inefficiency an d injury. It's the "smart" plan. It's the "hope" plan. When the clutch comes calling, do you want to watch Sheffield hack at a high hard one, or do you want Melky Cabrera or a 65% Damon or a struggling Abreu? I know these questions well.

The doubts are planted, and the Stadium is full of them. Most of all, there is a lifelessness right now. Of course, when I go in May, June and onward, the attitude will change. I'm sure the standings will change. But, more importantly, will the suspicion? The general rumblings are unsure-- as shaky as a Chase Wright fastball over the heart of the plate. The fans are occupied and languid for now. Will they come alive? Right now, apparently, not enough to worry about two guys in regular clothes celebrating right in front of them as Manny rounded the bases or as Alex Cora slid into third safely. Apparently, not enough to stick around while Giambi stood on second with his tenth multi-hit game or as Papelbon stood ready to deliver. Apparently not enough to hide their sneaking suspicions.

All this, and no one even noticed the shit-eating grin on my face. They were fooled, I suppose.

Little Momma: the Scenarios

As you know (or if you don't, welcome!), we Pretzeleers are a fair breed unless it comes to the Bronx. It would take a real stubborn asshole not to consider Alex "Little Momma" Rodriguez's start astounding. Sure, it's early and, yes, October is when champions are truly crowned, but Little Momma is kicking ass. It's prompted ESPN to take their coverage of him to new heights (focusing on his triumph last night despite the Red Sox improbable victory).

I'm catching Little Momma fever, and since Michael Kay decided to break out A-Rod's projected stats every time he came up to bat last night, I am going to play out several scenarios that could unfold this season.

Scenario 1: A-Rod continues his tear through the season without ever getting cold. He hits 134 HRs 265 RBIs and Michael Kay mutes himself by ripping a vocal chord or two talking about it nonstop. He then single-handedly lifts his team in the playoffs with a .366 average and 11 HRs in a World Series victory for the Yankees. Meanwhile, Bristol, Connecticut explodes.

Scenario 2: A torn vaginal muscle forces A-Rod to cool off while sitting out for a month or so. Little Momma ends up with a respectable 47 HRs and 138 RBIs and places 2nd in the MVP voting. He bats .275 with a HR in the playoffs during another early exit, but spots news contemplates whether he really recovered from that injury to his gash.

Scenario 3: A-Rod completely falls apart in June and struggles mightily at the plate before rebounding for a solidseason: 43 HRs, 125 RBIs and the MVP award. Little Momma just edges out Big Momma (Jeter) and Big Papi for the MVP before struggling in the playoffs. Big Momma and Little Momma fight it out in the press before A-Rod opts out of his contract and signs elsewhere.

Scenario 4: A-Rod gets so confident he stops swinging altogether and has his personal assistant (Andy Phillips!) take his swings for him. Phillips does well, so A-Rods Stats are padded nicely. When Joe Torre wakes up around mid-July, he decides to punish A-Rod by making him play the field (something handled by fielding assistant Phillip Hughes). Torre is fired, Little Momma continues to have other do his dirty work and ends up with 35 HRs, 123 RBIs and tons of errors wile the Yankees miss the postseason.

Scenario 5: A-Rod cools off for awhile, and then sparks a late run to win the AL East, but struggles in the playoffs. He still wins the MVP award. The press hounds him. He leaves New York to play for the Angels. He puts up amazing numbers for a long time. He makes the Hall of Fame.

Scenario 6: The Yankees are so surprised by Little Momma's numbers, that Steinbrenner decides to use him to populate his horse farm. A-Rod so loves his new job that he begins running with a crowd of the most popular horses on the farm. He retires from baseball (at the end of what turns out to be a disappointing season-- 31 HRs, 101 RBIs) to concentrate on horse racing. He dominates his field-- the fastest horse in history-- until cracking his foot during an important race. Despite an outpouring of affection from fans, media and internet groups, Steinbrenner puts Little Momma down in the Spring of 2009. Little Momma becomes the first human-horse breed to make the horse racing and baseball hall of fame simultaneously. Jeter makes the induction speech calling him, "truly on of a kind-- a SUPERHORSE."

Scenario 7: At some point in the season, Little Momma decides he won't play until he gets a raise. He hires Drew Rosenhaus to begin negotiations and keeps Boras on to look slimy and menacing in press photos. Meanwhile, A-Rod begins showing up to games in a T-shirt reading "Fuck You, Pay Me." He levees some pretty mean fines. The two headed monster of Borasenhauser renegotiates Momma's contract to a five year deal for 212 million and part ownership of Gambia.


Feel free to let me know what YOU think is possible, or just agree with one the above scenarios in our always available and seldom loved comments section.

Outside the Aviary: "To Find Me Gone"

As a Red Sox fan, one of many things that kill me about Yankees fans is their pride in keeping players too long and letting them retire when they are ready (rather than let go of dead weight). I've heard about all the times the Sox have lost out on guys who still played some good seasons-- most notable Jonathan Damon and Roger Clemens. While it is debatable that either of these players were really pushed out the door (Clemens maybe, Damon definitely not), I am not going to discuss that. Instead, I'm here to praise (ahem) the Yanks for letting go of a good player that is well past his prime.

Anyone that doesn't work at the New York Post will tell you it was time to let go of Bernie Williams. While it's true that he was effective against left handers last season, his demeanor and general aptitude were astute failings for the first time in years. I wasn't afraid of him in any game-- postseason or otherwise-- for the past 2 1/2 years. There was no swagger. He reminded me of Jake Taylor-- a teacher with no discernible skill set left to offer a team in need of a numbers man, only you know, nonfictional (so there was no happy ending last year).

All this aside, I am happier, even, to see a team with a glorious past letting go of someone even at the behest of their fans. The Yankees treated Bernie like gold-- keeping him higher in the lineup than he deserved for a short while last season, letting him start amidst injury when they could have traded for someone better or played youngsters, and extending an invitation to Spring Training this year though they could have scoffed him and had their goodbyes and tears already. Just like the Packers have handed a pass to Brett Farve, the Sox will do with Curt Schilling, and the Redskins did with Mark Brunell the Yanks will not do with Bernie any longer.

Sweeping Bernie out is not a disaster situation. This is not a company man who makes little money and cannot do anything else. This is not a factory worker who has spent decades in the industry. This is a aging millionaire baseball player trying to compete with kids who are better than he is. This is a man that has been given everything with little left but stubbornness in his arsenal.

I can't for the life of me imagine one scenario where Bernie fits better than Melky Cabrera in this lineup, nor can I imagine one where Bernie doesn't see this. Bernie doesn't strike me as someone who is naive or much of a dullard. Leaving may sting after all these years, but it cannot shock or wound. If there is gas left in the tank, so be it. There are several teams that need some help and a proven quick-fix warrior that can teach the kids in a weak league. OK, I'll stop beating around the bush. Go to the National League, Bernie. Play in Florida with the kids if they will have you. See what the rest of the country has to offer. Shout at holler at Tampa Bay-- the place where good baseball players go to die. Someone will take you on, and if you play well enough, they will release or trade you for little to no value so you have a shot at another winner.

I just don't see what leg you have to stand on in the Bronx. What do the Yankees owe you? Nothing. In fact, if Yanks are smart, they'll rescind their minor league offer sheet. They will say, "We gave Bernie his chance to make the team, but we have to move on." They've all but done it already. Bernie, don't accept the offer. Move on and then move out. (Pros: You won't have to hear "Disco Inferno" or "YMCA" again, right?) You've done it all, but now it's all done. For once, I'm with the Yanks.