"I came in like a lamb. But I intend to leave like a lion..." - Sade, Bullet Proof Soul

And how fucking sweet it is. After 17 long years of wandering in the wilderness of championship draught, New York is back at the top of the pigskin heap. Baseball remains my first love, but I can't front like I wasn't yelling from the top of my lungs and running around my living room as if the spirit of Jeff Hostetler was hovering over U. of Phoenix Stadium. On a personal note (the team used to be one of my corporate accounts), I was so proud to see the classy tributes to both Wellington Mara & Robert Tisch. The first time in a long time that the tagline "don't believe the hype" need not apply. I'm still trying to decide which will rank highest on my highlight reel for Super Bowl XLII. Among them will be:

• The bat mitzvah of Eli Manning to a global audience.
• All-American whiner Tom Brady eating Astroturf. Five times.
• Junior Seau coming out of retirement only to remain ringless.
• David Tyree's catch on 3rd and 5 from the 44. Holy. fucking. shit.
• Plaxico Burress proving that unlike Randy Moss, he can unequivocally put his money where his mouth is.
• Gratuitous shots of Osi Umenyiora. (Operation: Selita Ebanks Must Disappear is in full swing.)
• Defecating on the prospect of 19-0 in the most heartbreaking of ways.

Stomaching 2 Red Sox World Series wins, a sickening stranglehold the Patriots had on the league and the resurgence of the Celtics was the equivalent of Chinese water torture. There's no hatred like New England hatred and their deal with the devil for prolonged multisport dominance was driving me batshit crazy.

But thankfully the balance of power has shifted (if only for a fleeting moment) back in its rightful order. Celebration in the Big Apple, desperation in Beantown. Knowing that whenever Massholes reminisce on what could've been in the days, weeks and months ahead, they'll always know that perfection was derailed at the hands of the evil underdogs from Gotham. Little tidbits like that just perk my nipples up at full salute. Payback's a bitch I'd like to have a drink with.

P.S. Feel free to go fuck yourself, Tiki Barber.

Labels: football, New York Giants, playoffs, Super Bowl

Being a Big Apple sports fan has been tough this past year. The Yankees suffered another disappointing exit in the postseason, the Mets crashed and burned before even making it there and the Knicks aren't worth bringing into the discussion. But just in time to swing a wrecking ball square in the hopes of fantasy football fans, the New York Giants are headed to the Super Bowl. It's hard to decide what's sweeter: putting an end to the never ending blowjob given season long to Brett Favre courtesy of the media or having the chance to derail perfection in New England. Talking heads kept picking against them, but if they only heeded the advice of Zamunda's royalty — the end result wouldn't have been a surprise to the odds makers. Onward to Phoenix!

Labels: football, New York Giants, playoffs, Super Bowl

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