There's no other way to state the obvious in the final tally for American League Most Valuable Player than to just say it. In a stunning upset, Derek Jeter was fucking robbed. ROBBED, I tell you. And somewhere in Miami, A-Rod is laughing his ass off.

It's clearly apparent that more than half of the baseball writers weren't paying attention to the 2006 Major League Baseball season. Maybe they signed a deal with the devil to just collectively drop the ball. Or maybe it's that pesky East Coast bias rearing its ugly head again. Who knows? Who cares? One thing is for sure, they fucked this up big time.

Exactly what does he have to do to get a little recognition of the individual kind? Guarantee handjobs from Jessica Biel to the clueless dipshits at the BBWAA who found a way to make the choice for this year's award even more of a travesty? I could live with him losing the honor to Minnesota's Joe Mauer, who aside from edging out D.J. for the batting title on the last day of the regular season, had one helluva year both at and behind the plate. For a nod to the archenemy that is Dead Sox Nation, it wouldn't have been a too bitter a pill to swallow had it been bestowed to David Ortiz. But Justin Morneau? Are you fucking for real? A Gold Glove/Silver Slugging shortstop that led a team who was racked by injuries to our heaviest hitters in Hideki Matsui & Gary Sheffield losing to a first baseman not even remotely considered top 3 most valuable on his own team (I'd put Mauer, Johan Santana & Torii Hunter all ahead in terms of importance...) and can call the AL batting champion and Cy Young winner teammates?! Sports writers, put down the spliffs and get real. Even more incredulous is the asshat beat writer of the Chicago White Sox, Joe Cowley who ranked Jeter not 2nd. Or even 3rd on his ballot. But 6th. Sixth?!?! Stop the fucking insanity. Aside from raising the ire of avowed Yankee haters like WFAN's Chris Russo, I can take cold comfort in knowing that the uproar this colossal lapse in judgment doesn't have Jeter fazed a bit. This quote from a Newsday editorial crystallizes the worth of a ballplayer whose impact can't be measured solely in HR's and RBI's.

"If it's any consolation to Derek Jeter, in 1980 "Ordinary People" won the Oscar for Best Picture over "Raging Bull." A quarter-century later, people laugh about that one and someday, they'll laugh about this one, too, the year Ordinary Player, otherwise known as Justin Morneau, was named the American League's MVP for 2006." - Wallace Matthews

Labels: baseball, Derek Jeter, New York Yankees

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
I don't care if I never get back,
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game...

Ah, nothing like the return of America's national pastime to get me feeling excited at the dawn of another run towards the World Series. The annual springtime tradition resumes as the boys of summer take their limos for a spin and have their chauffeurs drive them to the stadium for a game. Today the sun was streaming over the city like an emerald-cut gemstone. The media horde was, well, hoarding for prime position with the local All-Stars better known as our starting lineup. The diehards were back in full force right down the pinstriped faces, heads, chests and God knows what else. Oftentimes, baseball's traditional season opener kicked off with the Cincinnati Reds. In recent years, the marketing geniuses at Major League Baseball have gone Pan Pacific in Japan to a Sunday night prime time prelude on ESPN, which suffered from a rain delay earlier this month in Chicago. However, with apologies to the Second cities, the baseball year does not truly begin until the New York Yankees play their first game in the Bronx. Even sworn enemies of the supposed "Evil Empire" would be hard pressed to deny there's something special about Opening Day at the House that Ruth Built.

Having a boss that's also a rabid Yankees fan has its privileges. He can sympathize when I slink in a bit later than usual because we were both up till 1 in the morning trying to catch the last out in a West Coast road swing. And when I came down with a mysterious ailment just before lunch today, he knew this was code for wanting to fly the coop. Coming in two hours earlier than usual had to tip him off. But on a beautiful, cloudless afternoon, could you really blame me? In the decade that I've spent rooting on my Bronx Bombers, I never had the luxury of being there for the curtain raising on the regular season. But I was bound and determined to make my debut in the tier reserved section for the 2006 campaign.

In typical fashion, the Yankees produced a little magic in their cinching their first "W" before a sellout crowd of just over 56,000 strong.

The hometown boys got off to a good start, then began to sleepwalk their way throughout the middle innings, keeping us unhinged waiting on the final blow to be struck. And with all the talk of our newest acquisition in Johnny Damon, it wasn't until the eighth inning, when Captain Clutch came through yet again with a three-run moonshot by Derek Jeter. The Bombers came away with a 9-7 victory, their ninth consecutive win on Opening Day in New York. It wasn't a pretty game, but in the end, it came with the sweetest conclusion you could've asked for. Start spreading the news, Yankees win. Thaaaaaa Yankees win!

Labels: baseball, New York Yankees

Steinbrenner rings, I was listening
Overnight, the Stadium's glistening
A beautiful sight
Leaving Fenway tonight
Walking in a Yankees wonderland

Gone away is the long hair
Here to stay is the short hair
Singing a love song
Me and Jeter go along
Walking in a Yankees wonderland

Red Sox fans got run over by a reindeer, standing on their soapbox this Christmas Eve. If you don't think there's no such thing as karma, head on down to Beantown... they believe.

In between preparing the holiday menus and readjusting my morning routine, did everyone neglect to mention that hell froze over? I was all but certain that my eggnog had been spiked with the news that now-ex Boston centerfielder Johnny Damon had spurned renegotiating with the front office at Yawkey Way to jump ship to the dark side. Grizzly Adams, a Yankee? It took front page confirmations from both tabloids that this in fact was true. And in many ways, can't say that this is too much of a shock either. The deafening silence that was Cashman & Co. fronting the so-called "Evil Empire" with low-key sound bites and a tight-lipped rein was getting to be a bit unnerving this offseason. However, The Boss rarely misses an opportunity to make a big splash in the free agent market and this turned out to be the whopper of them all.

Rabid high priestess of pinstripes that I am, I'm pretty ambivalent about the whole scenario, really. While this plugs a hole in the outfield and provides our most lethal 1-2 leadoff combo since the days of Chuck Knoblauch wearing down pitch counts with his pesky at-bats, Damon's arm is even worse than Bernie's, his shoulder problems aren't a thing of the past and mere memory of his grand slam off Javier Vasquez in the 2004 ALCS still is a sore subject to even type about, much less discuss at length.

However, when you consider the implications of a team who can count among the highlights of their year:

• losing their boy genius GM
• having their knucklehead, but infinitely imposing star slugger Manny Ramirez so desperate to flee New England that his swanky penthouse went back on the market before a trade scenario could even be worked out
• shipping off their one blue-chip SS prospect to the Marlins in order to swing the Beckett/Lowell trade, meanwhile the supposed heir apparent to Nomar in Edgar Renteria was such a collective bust, they paid the Braves $11 mil to get him off their hands

And now supposedly to right the ship of Red Sox Nation, pillaging the castoffs that make up the Tampa Bay Devil Rays is the key for AL East contention next season? Pardon me while I laugh till my Great Lash smears into Tammy Faye territory. The upswing of this move is without depleting our already paper thin farm system, the Bombers have not only addressed a key liability for the most part, but also gives their speed and athleticism a much needed boost with a clutch player of the Tino Martinez/Paul O'Neill/Scott Brosius school of magic playoff moments.

At the expense of the Fenway faithful, this is a comedy of epic proportions. The Yankees didn't even waste much time in hot pursuit. They waited for Scott Boras to pull his head out of his ass with the ridiculous 7-year contract sticking point, and he fell into their laps for a bit over market value - but only boosted by the "are they kidding?" uptick caused by Rafael Furcal's defection to L.A. Now for Dead Sox fans, it's the nightmare of losing Pedro Martinez being played out all over again as another beloved favorite bolts and the excuses started piling up quicker than Jesus to Judas analogies. "He's not worth that money" and "We didn't really want him anyway" rings really sincere after the fact. Have fun filling all the holes in your lineup, guys.

A father's pain: And on a more somber note, a tragic footnote in recent headlines is the apparent suicide of Indianapolis Colts head coach Tony Dungy's 18-year-old son James earlier this week in his Tampa apartment under bizarre circumstances.

So many times sports figures receive all-too-public floggings from the media about the image projected and examples being set in light of their heavy visibility. One couldn't find nary of a source of badmouthing directed to Tony Dungy, because he was that kind of person.

Unfortunately in life, sometimes very bad things happen to very good people. It's a scenario that no parent ever wants to confront and is a horrible juxtaposition against a season that up until this point was on a magical ride, flirting with perfection. And in that chase for immortality in the history books, we're reminded of how life really is. Fragile and oftentimes, far too fleeting.

Labels: baseball, football, Johnny Damon, New York Yankees

And so begins a long winter of discontent. While not as gut wrenching as last year's implosion in slow motion, it's every bit as disappointing. In a season where so many unsung journeymen became household names because of their surprising and gritty efforts, to go out this way in California just feels so empty. The winds of uncertainty is sure to blow more than a few familiar faces out of the Bronx. Did Bernie Williams really play his last game in front of the Yankee faithful? Joe Torre isn't quite the steady bet anymore in his tenure. Has his grace period met its end? Mel Stottlemyre could be eying a scenery change over in Seattle. Brian Cashman's contract expires (almost appropriately enough) on Oct. 31. Who's going? Who's staying? The reshuffling of power players eerily mirror question marks of the next roster unveiling on Opening Day '06.

As enemies of all things pinstripes rejoice, I have no choice but to find solace in multiple bottles of Absolut to numb the sting after leaving a dent in my flat screen from hurling my fuzzy slippers in frustration. At the end of the day, yes it's still just a game. But for the casual fan, it's hard to fully understand what it's like to ride and die with one team. Hurts like a motherfucker. The countdown to hope budding eternal at Legends Field begins now.

Labels: baseball, New York Yankees, playoffs

It's been a two month quest of scratching, clawing and fighting through every start. Now this morning finds my beloved New York Yankees alone at the top of the American League East standings. They haven't been the top dog since July 18th and it's been one helluva rollercoaster ride to this point. You can forget breaking out the Bacardi Breezers to celebrate this occasion since the lead is only a razor thin ½ game spread between first and 2nd place (damn, it feels so nice to type that) Boston. Just reveling in the notion that if the season ended today, the defending champs would miss the playoffs entirely is almost orgasmic.

When you take into consideration the frustrations of how maddening the 2005 campaign's been, how poorly they've played through excruciating stretches against the bottom feeders, how many bouts of acid reflux were induced due to the failed Felix Rodriguez/Scott Proctor/Alan Embree experiment in middle relief and how many key pieces of the puzzle have suffered injuries are all added up, it's simply amazing that this team is still in position to win their eighth consecutive division title. The magic number now stands at 11.

Beyond the team dynamics, the race for AL MVP is coming down the homestretch between two of the game's best sluggers who just happen to on either side of this battle royale. In this corner we have Boston's David Ortiz and in the other, New York's Alex Rodriguez. The edge in RBI's, HR's and an eye-opening 54-point differential for RISP are on Shrek's side while batting average, hits and a Gold Glove caliber year at third base work in A-Rod's favor. Do you reward a power hitter that causes migraines with one swing of the bat but only comes off the bench as a DH? Or crown the best, all-around player in the game who's in the upper echelon both offensively and defensively with the kind of fielding that's separates the cream from the rest of the crop?

So after all the stats, offseason maneuverings and a bitter end to the curse of the Bambino in the House that Ruth Built, here we are. The fiercest rivalry in sports kicked up another notch for what promises to be an exhilarating photo finish. Shades of 1978 all over again with the final showdown at Fenway Park. Will another unsung hero become this year's Bucky Dent reincarnated? It doesn't get any better than this.

Labels: baseball, New York Yankees