Mimeographed Memories

AS I MENTIONED last week, I'm starting to send some of my short stories out there in hopes of getting published. In a related development, the other day, while rummaging through my extensive and complicated filing system, among other noteworthy discoveries, I came across a folder of stories written during my all-too-brief halcyon days at university.

While encamped at that prestigious academy's dormitory quarters for a span of two semesters comprising my freshman year, I found myself enrolled in an interdisciplinary program. Such nebulous, loosely configured, relaxed approaches to higher learning were undoubtedly intended to resemble the famous Academy of Plato and its later incarnations throughout the history of higher learning. Classes were often held outdoors, tangential discussion was greatly encouraged, and all in all a spirit of intellectual precociousness seemed to reign. It's a long time ago now, but I seem to remember the outdoor classes most of all, with the discussion often splintering off into groups of two or three students talking among themselves, smoking, and perhaps even learning something along the way.

One of my favorite classes was creative writing, where the basis of the course was each student submitting a short story that was read by the class and then subsequently discussed and critiqued. The stories were of course submitted without attribution, all the better to protect the more sensitive students should too mean-spirited a line of criticism take hold. This was well before computers, when the Internet was but a gleam in young Al Gore's mind, and in fact even before the days when Xerox copy machines came to make their mark. So if you wanted multiple copies of, say, your short story, you turned to an ancient mechanical device known as the mimeograph machine.

The mimeograph was really little more than an elaborate roller with ink. You took the page you wanted to copy, and then a blank piece of paper, and then carefully inserted them into the rollers while cranking a handle, and the ink would somehow transfer from the old page to the new page through some kind of mystical, alchemical process that remains a well-guarded state secret to this very day. I told you the mimeograph was archaic, and it was that, painstakingly making a single copy at a time, all the while invariably dispensing ink all over the operator, and generally was one very small incremental step above Gutenberg's original handmade printing press. But like the 8-track player, until something better comes along, you don't realize that what you got is not what you want, so you wait until something better comes along. And you know what, it usually does.

Anyway, most of my college stuff, as you might expect, is too subpar to dwell on, but given that we live in an unlimited (bandwidth) universe, what would be the harm of from time to time posting stuff that isn't extraordinarily cringe-inducing. From the batch I wrote for that freshman course, that comprises a very short list. And out of that, I select this tale, The Pinstriped Man -- my literally juvenile attempt at an Oedipal Western, I suppose, although in retrospect Johnny Cash's A Boy Named Sue could have been equally as big an influence. If you're of a mind to offer feedback, I bid you be gentle, as everyone has to start somewhere, and these early efforts indeed represent something like the first tentative steps of the literary giant you see grinning sardonically back at you through the digital looking glass.

The Pinstriped Man

Wilbert Simpson had been riding for twelve hours without rest. His undershirt and pants were soaked with perspiration, and his faded deerskin shirt and Levi's jeans constantly stuck to his clammy, itchy skin. He had not eaten for the same twelve hours, and still had no craving for food.

The sky was the orange glow that directly precedes the setting sun. Wilbert had planned to arrive in Pittsdam at twilight, and was content that he had come so close to satisfying his schedule.

He jumped off the ebony mare, tied her to the post, and then dusted off his shirt and pants, all performed with the same restrained and controlled manner Wilbert prided himself in maintaining.

It was Saturday night, and inside the inn the crowd was in a partying, rollicking mood; about half looked legally inebriated. Wilbert shoved the door open, hesitated long enough to explore the faces in the room, and then started toward the bar. Wilbert's ten-gallon hat and desperado attitude and attire drew an array of stares, one in particular belonging to a tall, lanky male, aged around forty, wearing a dark pinstripe suit that looked to be at least as old as its owner. This is the man Wilbert would kill tonight.

Wilbert had followed the pinstriped man for exactly a year. Each day's particulars were painstakingly and quite graphically recorded in Wilbert's black log book. On the cover of the book, in elegant bold letters, the words THE GOOD LORD WILLING were inscribed. These words held a special meaning for Wilbert.

In the back of the book, using up the last twelve sheets of paper, was a calendar. The calendar started with the date of August 22, and ended with the same date a year later. Each day was marked with a black pen through it, until the final day, which was marked in a quite different fashion. On that date, Wilbert clutched his hunting knife and, with that same controlled air about him, made a one-inch gash in his left arm. Wilbert dabbed the point of the dagger in the wound and, in the box marked August 22, formed a neat red cross. Wilbert looked at the cross with glee, then glanced backward through the calendar. He snapped the book shut, fastened his hat comfortably on his head, and rambled outside for the last leg of his one-year journey.

The bar was crowded, and Wilbert was forced to stand as he ordered a drink. He called for a double shot of rye. While he waited, Wilbert turned around and searched for the man in pinstripes. Abruptly their eyes met, and each held firm for what seemed like a long time, until the pinstriped man sharply veered his eyes from Wilbert's fanatical glare. Wilbert eased into a diabolical grin, patting the bulging pocket that contained his revolver. He turned and downed his glass in one motion.

The pinstriped man knew for some time that he was being followed, but of two things we was unsure. The first was just how many months had he been followed, and the second was why was he being followed. The pinstriped man's thoughts floated between these two questions as he nervously fondled his glass.

Back at the bar, Wilbert ordered another shot. The first drink worked on Wilbert's empty stomach, and erased any apprehensiveness he might have had. The second drink arrived, and with it came the memory of an incident of fifteen years ago.

Wilbert was very young, about five years old, on the night his father walked out on him and his mother. Outside, it was raining, and inside the house his mother was weeping. Wilbert's father had been adulterous for over a year and was now abandoning Wilbert and his mother for another woman.

"If you leave me, you son of a bitch, don't ever come back here," cried Wilbert's mother, hysterically.
"I don't wish to, my dear. That's why I'm leaving," said Wilbert's father, matter-of-factly.
"You bastard! I swear I'll kill you, you diseased vermin!" Her face was overcome with rage and her body was quivering. She seemed on the verge of physical collapse.
"I don't like to leave you in this condition," Wilbert's father countered, "but I'm leaving you just the same. You'll make out, the good Lord willing. So long, son." With a wave of the hand, he was gone.

After about five minutes, Wilbert's mother stopped crying. She walked over to where Wilbert had been sitting throughout all of this. He seemed untouched by what had just happened, but his outward appearance failed to show what he felt inside.

He listened intently as his mother softly but forcefully uttered these words: "If it takes me forever, Wilbert, I'm going to see your father die. I gave him everything I could. I bear'd his child, and he left us anyway. As God is my witness, I swear he'll die before his time, if it takes my last ounce of strength to do it. Now listen carefully, Wilbert. I am not a well woman. If anything happens to me, I want you to carry my wishes out. I want you to kill your father." Two weeks later, Wilbert's mother was dead.

Wilbert picked up his drink and carried it over to the table that the pinstriped man was sitting at. He took a seat across from him and, nodding, blurted, "Hello, father."

The man in pinstripes was startled at Wilbert's assertion. But then he looked deep into Wilbert's cold blue eyes and realized it was true. From deep within himself, he felt a heavy and hot rush rising up throughout his body. His mind bounced back and forth between thousands of previous moments in his life. The pinstriped man's turbulence was a telling contrast to Wilbert's calm demeanor.

Wilbert looked down into the glass that rested between his hands on the table. "I hope you understand why I have to kill you. Mother would have wanted it this way. You remember mother, don't you, dad? It's a shame she won't be here to see it." Wilbert said the last line with exaggerated reminiscence. Wilbert lifted his head and inspected his father's troubled face.

"Look, I'm not your father," declared Wilbert's father, himself not believing the words he just said. "I don't know who you are, but you're crazy if you think I'm your father. Now stop following me, ya hear."

Wilbert just smiled, as the pinstriped man got up and hurried out of the bar. The same expression of concentration mixed with self-assuredness still marked Wilbert's face. He slowly drank what was left in his glass, and then he too started for the door.

Outside, Wilbert saw no sign of his father, but was unworried. He had mentally disposed of his father already, and all that remained was the physical act. To Wilbert, that would be ecstasy.

Wilbert untied the horse and mounted her in that same distinctively smooth manner that was his alone. Wilbert and the mare slowly galloped away from the inn. It was now so close he could taste it. The culmination of a year's journey and a lifetime's mission was a hair away. Wilbert wet his lips in bestial anticipation.

Wilbert scouted the area around the inn for a short while. Then he decided to check for his father near the lake. There he found the pinstriped man with his back to him, sitting on a large rock. He was hunched over in an odd way. Wilbert debated between shooting his father while on the horse, or getting off and killing him close up. He chose the latter.

As Wilbert walked toward the solemn figure perched on the rock, he eagerly clutched the gun in his pocket. Soon he would be at peace with himself. Soon it would be over. He called to his father, but received neither an answer nor a movement. A second call again produced nothing. At that moment, Wilbert realized his father was already dead.

Wilbert's father died with a smile on his face. He died clutching the knife that punctured his heart, and with blood spilling on his hand and clothes. The deep red of his blood blended eerily with the darkness of his pinstriped suit jacket.

The stars winked defiantly at Wilbert. The tranquil water provided unharmonious background for the scene near the rock. Wilbert threw his gun down into the dirt, then deliriously seized the knife from his father's hand. With a violent thrust he punctured his heart with the knife, letting out a demonic shrief. He fell to the ground, and landed at the feet of the pinstriped man.

-- BW

A Sport Held Hostage

So I'm listening to Mike & Mike in the Morning on ESPN this morning, waiting for an upcoming football training camp report. I'm told Sal Paolantonio is at the Cowboys camp, where of course I expect an update about the state of my team.

About 20 minutes later, Sal is on the line, all right, but he's not there to talk about Dallas or the NFC East or any other football team per se. Instead it's all about one player, the prima donna diva of the NFL: Brat Favre.

How foolish I was to think ESPN might deliver some actual football news on the eve of an incredibly intriguing NFL season on so many levels: How will the Patriots respond to their devastating loss to the underdog Giants in the Super Bowl? Will the Giants be able to defend their crown or will their amazing run prove to be a one-year wonder? How will the Cowboys bounce back from their own disappointing defeat in the opening round of the playoffs, and will QB Tony Romo continue to deliver the goods under increasing scrutiny?

There is legitimate reason for optimism at training camps around the country, but ESPN and other news outlets continue to bombard NFL fans with all Favre, all the time. When he signs with another team or gets his release from Green Bay, which is very unlikely, then I will be interested. Until then it's a soap opera.

I'm glad people are finally seeing Brat Favre as the self-centered, me-first player he's been his whole career. Winner of exactly one NFL championship, Favre's recent postseason history is littered with subpar performances. You wouldn't know it from the sometimes sickening displays of hero worship writers like Peter King have resorted to in making their pro-Favre case.

Before training camp, Favre did a lengthy cable TV interview in which he basically called his GM a liar, expressed reservations about his coach, and in general behaved like it's Brat Favre's world and everybody else should just adjust. In this regard he's a lot like a player in another sport who couldn't make up his mind about retirement: Roger Clemens. Although, come to think of it, Roger Clemens would've had a better playoff game than Brat's embarrassing stinker against the Giants.

Maybe Roger Goodall should mandate a huge farewell tour over the next two seasons where Brat Favre plays one game for each team every week on a rotating basis. Every game would be a Sunday Nighter so that John Madden can fawn over him like a teenage girl with a crush, and then his leading sycophant Peter King can give him a backrub at halftime on national TV.

Not only the Packers, but the whole league is being held hostage by Favre. First he retires, then changes his mind and wants to play for the Packers; then he wants to be traded, now he wants to be released. The Packers don't want to trade him in division, and they don't want to trade him to a team on the schedule; Brat wants to be traded but only to certain teams (sorry, Jets fans). It's all Brat Favre, all the time. If you're like me, you're sick of it, but get used to it, cause it ain't ending any time soon, that's for sure.

All Dialogue Guaranteed Verbatim

Sunday Night Baseball, Red Sox versus Yanks, with the New York Nine going for the unlikely series sweep at Fenway, as well as their 9th straight win overall since the All-Star Break. And what better way to kick off the game than having the remaining members of the Cowsills singing the National Anthem? I don't know about you, but I always think Cowsills when I think baseball and jingoistic military jingles.

Friday night Joba Chamberlain was masterful in taming the Sox, holding them scoreless in his 7 innings with an incredible array of hard stuff and wicked curves. This was the 2,000th regular season game between the two rivals, and a nasty Chamberlain heater thrown near the head of Kevin Youkilis ensured that this rivalry is likely to thrive well into its third millennium of games.

Tarp is on the field, according to Suzyn Waldman, so there will be a rain delay of some length before the game begins. That's what is so dumb about Sunday night baseball. But then again it allows us to catch up.

Yesterday Yanks won going away, 10-3, behind solid pitching by Andy Pettitte and continued hot hitting by Robinson Cano. Two new Yankees, courtesy of the big trade with the Pirates, played their first game: OF Xavier Nady and P Damaso Marte, who came to New York for pitchers Ross Ohlendorf, Dan McCutchen, Jeff Karstens and OF Jose Tabata.

My immediate reaction when the trade was announced during the broadcast Friday night was great trade for the Yankees, bad trade for baseball. The rich get richer. Now, will I still root for the Yankees? Of course, because modern sports makes hypocrites of us all. Also, keep in mind that teams make seemingly lopsided trades like this all the time, and then the prospects turn out to be real good, as in recent deals made by the Florida Marlins and Minnesota Twins. Time will out.

Ironically, Marte was a Yankee signing originally, but was traded early in his career for the immortal Enrique Wilson. But when you have an unlimited payroll, you can just get him back later, and that horrible deal is erased. It's good to be Brian Cashman, as good as your last deal that is.
WFAN's Mike Francesa spent a good deal of time Friday afternoon -- probably way too much time if you were to poll his listeners -- hoping the Yankees would make a trade with Pittsburgh that would bring back the Pirates' lone all-star, Nate McLouth. Francesa carried on with a fervency bordering on the homoerotic before crossing right over into cringe-inducing physical idolatry:

"I love him. He's got bronze hair that flops around under his helmet. He's got a good look to him. I like him. I'll give you a lot for him. I love him. I love him. Boy, I love him."

Now, Francesa is probably still a big Yankees fan, but let's just say one gets the feeling it won't be quite as enjoyable without young Nate, ahem, arousing Mike on a daily basis. He'll have to get by with his well-worn Tom Brady scrapbook for another year.

Rangers' Josh Hamilton already over the 100 RBI mark, with 103 as of 7/26. That's a mind-boggling 25 more RBI than the runner-up in the AL, Chicago's Carlos Quentin, who has 78. In the NL, only 10 RBI separate the top two slots.) Hamilton's got a shot, but only that, to make a run at Hack Wilson's all-time mark of 190, which may never be broken in our collective lifetime. And Hack is such a great baseball nickname that he deserves to keep the record himself for that reason alone. Another run batted in for Hack!

Mets P Johan Santana finally pitched a complete game today in a win versus Cards, which has become a big topic here on the sports talk circuit, his inability to finish what he started. In fact, I saw an interesting stat the other day, or was it the day before that? In any case, it came to my attention that Toronto's terrific Roy Halladay had 7 complete games already this season, while Santana had only 6 for his career (7 after today)! The kind of baseball statistic you can only shake your head at, which I did with a certain insouciance for which I have lately become known.

I usually like Keith Hernandez as a broadcaster. He has a relaxed air about him, and of course can provide insights only ex-players can provide. But he continues to take subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle digs at ex-manager Willie Randolph. Today he couldn't resist saying, "They've got fight and spirit now. Another beautiful crowd to see Jerry Manuel's Mets. I'd pay to see them this team now." Enough, Keith. Try to stay classy, because your broadcast partner, Gary Cohen, has proven he's a spiteful hack and shameless homer who wouldn't know the meaning of the word class.

Well, Suzyn and John Sterling are back on the air, so baseball can't be far behind, nor can the agonizingly repetitive schtick Sterling uses to get through a broadcast. When he isn't blowing calls left and right, going into premature home run calls, or forcing in lame nicknames for Yankee batters after a big hit, he's supremely annoying in more subtle ways. But we're stuck with him for the foreseeable future, so we might as well the most out of him as an object of derision. It's the least we can do here.

Tonight's pitching matchup features Sid "The Squid" Ponson against perhaps Boston's best hurler the last month or two, Jon "The Molester" Lester. Obviously this would seem to favor the Sox, but Yanks got a little mojo going now, maybe a lot of mojo. Getting this game would be gravy, and who among us doesn't like gravy.

Man, You Should Have Seen Them Kicking Edgar Allan Poe

CALL IT FUNNY, IRONIC, EVEN STRANGE, but lately I've rediscovered my baser fictional urges. I'll come right out and say it, getting to the point uncharacteristically early: I sent one of my very own short stories out to two very prominent publications today, embarking on a dubious strategy of starting at the top of the pyramid and working my way steadily down.

This is the first thing I've sent out in a long, long time. I'm not sure where it even came from, the sudden interest in literature and fiction, especially the short story. For years and years, I read nothing but history and biography and other forms of nonfiction. No novels, poetry, plays, short stories. Whereas in my youth, and I am quite old enough now to speak of my youth in such a detached way, it was almost the polar opposite, at least when reading for pleasure.

Been reading a ton of Poe the last few weeks: his own work, literary criticism about him, a bio. Lovin' me some Poe right now, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

What's amazing about old Edgar is that his influence has remained so intense and so lasting, yet when you really delve into his work, I believe if anything his true greatness has been underestimated. The short stories in particular are so sound technically, so bursting with ideas and hidden textual meanings, that they can be read on so many different levels. For instance, next time you pick up a Poe story, keep this insight in mind while you read, from a critical biography by James Hutchinson:

"Poe was always keenly interested in the way between mind and body. Poe believed that the tension between these opposing selves made it impossible to achieve a harmonious, fulfilled existence. Characters like (William) Wilson typically deny one element of their selves--here, the mind. Wholeness thus cannot be achieved. Man needs to reintegrate the opposing forces of his personality, Poe seems to say, and thus achieve unity."

Elsewhere, Hutchinson writes that in his trademark horror tales, "Poe develops what is probably the animating principle of his aesthetic and his philosophy of life--the idea that mankind is forever searching for what Poe called Oneness, or the Original Unity, and that dysfunction, anxiety, aberrant behavior, and psychological perversions are the result of humans' separation from their other selves."

Sometimes Poe's very popularity and confining Gothic reputation somehow detract, or at least work against, appreciating the thoroughly modern and existential nature of his preoccupations. T.S. Eliot, Henry James and D.H. Lawrence, among others, belittled Poe, saying his work is best appreciated by a juvenile mind, among other barbs. (They're all on my shit list now.) But there is an obvious direct connection from Poe's shaken, unreliable, unreasonable narrators to Dostoevsky's angst-ridden Underground Man and Raskolnikov. In Poe's stories, the extreme mental states, phobias and obsessions of his deeply flawed characters bring to mind nothing so much as the psychological theories and insights that half a century later would consume Sigmund Freud to a similar degree.

Anyway, let's get back to me now. I know at some point I stumbled on the story in question, obviously re-read it, and was sufficiently impressed to want to share it with other people. I want to work on some new ones and get them rolling on their way. But first I want to "flood the market" with some revised old ones and see how that goes.

I once sent a short story to an anthology called The Crescent Review in North Carolina. This was a good 10 years ago, maybe more. (Just looked them up on Google; they don't appear to still exist.) Not sure how I found them, but I did get a nice rejection letter, if that's not an oxymoron. It was part form letter, but then under the title of my proposed story, "Broken Field," there was a handwritten paragraph signed by a "GN":

"This is a powerful piece. A, first speaker (questioner), is okay. B, main narrator (protagonist), moves along a confusing narrative line, mainly in third person, but occasionally in second person; mainly past tense, but occasionally in present. In our opinion, the story needs technical and mechanical shaking down, but has great possibilities."

Like a fool, I never followed up and resubmitted the story after revising it. Of course I still have the story, so it's never too late, and still not out of the question that I will send that story out again. I'm not done yet. Don't bury me cause I'm not dead yet. And don't mess with my monitors.

I remember that "Broken Field" was structured in a question and answer refrain between two characters, one ruminating on his past, expressing all kinds of regrets over decisions he had made, while the "interviewer" egged him along or moved the narrative in certain directions. I was greatly influenced by a terrific novel by Manuel Puig (Blood of Requited Love) that used the same technique. Using it, I remember it was relatively easy to write for long stretches, because of the relaxed conversational tone the story employed.

It's time-consuming to get the stories out there. Most publications want physical submissions, as opposed to online email. So you've got to make copies of the stories, write a brief cover letter, provide the old SASE (self addressed stamped envelope) and get them in the post as they used to say. There are also short story contests, but those involve a fee of some sort, usually 20 or 30 bucks. That's out. I'm still a novice, feeling my way through this.

For now, I'm not really interested in the money, although obviously now that I'm out of work again, officially on the government teat for at least the immediate future, I can use all the fundage I can attract. It's really much more a matter of fame in all honesty. Now if you'll excuse me, it's quite late, and I really must be on my way...

Wednesday Weirdness

What can you say about that disastrous Mets loss to the Phils last night at Shea? In their 100th game of the season, the Mets gave their fans a bad acid flashback to last year's epic meltdown. As the back page of The Daily News put it: MEET THE MESS. The New York Post simply said NIGHTMARE.

The Flushing Nine's crippling collapse in the 9th, giving up 6 runs to blow a 5-2 lead, was the end of the 2007 season in a cracked nutshell. In bas relief. In media res. In through the out door. And maybe Gabba Gabba Hey, but definitely not In a Gadda Divida. Ask your parents about Gabba Gabba Hey, your grandparents about In a Gadda Divida.

With no Billy Wags available to close out the game for the Mets, and despite throwing only 105 pitches, Johan Santana never came out for the top of the 9th inning. Instead four Mets relievers combined to blow the 3-run lead, and the Mets got back only one run in the bottom half, and it was Adios Amigos and Katy Bar the Door. Ask your Spanish friends about the first reference and your great grandparents about the second.

To say this kind of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory may take a toll on the team psyche would be an understatement of near British proportions. I have no idea what that means, so it won't matter who you ask.

But oh the humanity! You know Mets fans are already on the ledge, this kind of game will have them teetering on the precipice. And we know how painful that can be. The Mets have some kind of bad karma going now. That 10-game win streak means about as much as an old New York subway token. That and a Metrocard will get you on the train.
You know Willie Randolph must have enjoyed this fiasco. Probably broke out the wine coolers and put his feet up while he watched it over and over on Sportscenter. And who could blame him? The big hit in the 9th was a double by Jimmy Rollins that drove in the winning runs. That had to make it about six times as painful for Mets fans, seeing Rollins clapping his hands and then pointing to the sky gods while he stood triumphantly on 2nd base.

Or maybe Willie missed all that while watching his real ex-team take their 9th straight home game, an 8-2 win over Minnesota that put the gutsy Yanks just 3.5 games behind division leading Tampa Bay. They play two more against the Twins, then head north for a weekend tilt against you know who.

The Yankees keep losing parts but find ways to fight back, like the Knight in Monty Python who gets his arms and legs cut off but still taunts his adversary. Losing Posada, Matsui, Wong are mere flesh wounds. Of course, I'm pretty sure that Knight ended up decapitated, but still. He fought back, and that's a lesson for all you little ones out there.

We've got Richie Sexson now playing the hell out of 1st base. Baseball's hottest hitter at 2nd, Robbie Cano, batting over .500 (13-24) since the All-Star break. Jeter will get hot at some point in the second half, and A-Rod despite the Madonna bullshit will carry the team for a few weeks starting any day now.

Yankees pitching is now 3rd in AL, behind only Bosox and the T.B. Rays. I think the pitching will hold up, but with a week left in the trading deadline, I would give up a young arm on the farm for a lefty bat. But all I'm hearing about is a deal for a starting pitcher, I assume to take Darrell Rasner's spot, because Sid Ponson has been pretty good so far, knock on wood. Ask a carpenter about that one.

Yanks-Twins playing a day game as we speak. Sweet-swinging Robinson Cano just got another hit. He's now 14-25 since the break. It's uncanny how Cano couldn't buy a hit the first few months and now no one can get him out.
Unbelievably, Justin Christian, the 28-year-old Yankee rook, just doubled in two runs, giving Yankees a 2-0 lead. He's the guy who fell down the other night while trying to steal 2nd. This is his biggest hit as a Yankee, according to John Sterling, and since Christian was just 4-19 with 2 RBI going into the at-bat, all I can say is, Ya Think?!

Monday Madness

LOOKS LIKE my reverse Yankees curse has worked to perfection. Just about a week after writing off their season with extreme prejudice, my boys have turned it around and now sit at their high-water mark: 53-45, 8 games over .500, and just 4.5 games behind the first-place Rays.

Just heard on WFAN that Jorge Posada may be headed back to the disabled list, and his season may be over. This is the main reason I was against signing him to a new contract in the offseason. The guy will be 37 years old next month, so how can it be a surprise when a catcher with that much age on him starts breaking down? Posada has never been a defensively gifted backstop, but the last few years he's become a major defensive liability. This season he's cut down just 3 of 37 runners.

That leaves us with Jose Molina, who is the mirror opposite of Posada: can't hit a lick but is excellent behind the plate. This year I believe he leads all catchers in throwing out base stealers. Now Cashman faces a quandary of either playing Molina every day and suffering his weak bat, or finding another catcher who can hit. And since catchers who can hit are as rare as the duck-billed platypus, good luck with that search, Brian.

Let's face it: the Yankees have not been the same since Homer Bush left town.

And why no Oscar Gamble Day at Yankee Stadium? Give out huge Afro wigs to the first 20,000 fans and let the hilarity ensue.

Funny moment in yesterday's Mets game. Jose Reyes lets an easy grounder go right through his wickets, and Gary Cohen says: "That is so unlike Reyes, but we've seen it about six times this year." Huh?! If it happens that many times, then maybe it's a trend, Gary. I will never understand how everyone seems to think Cohen is some kind of gifted baseball broadcaster. He's more of a homer than even Phil Rizzuto, but nobody calls him on his absurd home run calls in meaningless situations, and lately he's been having a field day with low-class shots at departed Willie Randolph. I can't stand Cohen, and it's more than my anti-Met bias, trust me, because I loved Bob Murphy, and I thought Cohen consistently treated Murphy with something less than the respect he deserved. Best pitched game of the year was Roy Halladay 2-hitting the Yankees last week. Now, the Yankees have not been tearing the cover off the ball for long stretches this year. But Halladay looked like vintage Tom Seaver with an unhittable array of pitches. He pitched another complete game shutout, and if he had to go 18 innings, the Yankees still wouldn't have touched him for more than a couple of week singles.

Texas Rangers CF Josh Hamilton put on a show with his Home Run Derby performance. Even when going for the long ball, his swing was so smooth and unforced that it brought comparisons to guys like Ted Williams and George Brett. His 95 RBI at the break were 22 more than the next runner-up, Justin Morneau, and that kind of disparity at the top of a major statistical category is just not supposed to happen.

I realize we're knee-deep in baseball here, but football training camps are opening all across this great nation of ours. And with the start of football comes the first of many ridiculous columns by Gary Myers, for some reason the lead football writer for the New York Daily News. Considering that the paper still employs Bill Gallo in its sports section, perhaps we shouldn't be surprised that Myers, such an obviously untalented, unoriginal writer, has managed to hang on for as long as he has.

Sunday's column, Rising To The Challenge, about the 10 teams likely to challenge the Giants for the Super Bowl this year -- a premise absurd on its face because never in the history of major sports has such a fluke team managed to win it all -- was full of typical Myers inanities and absurdities. If Myers had even a thimble full of talent, perhaps it wouldn't be so offensive, but he doesn't and so it was.

Myers typically takes cheap shots at all things Dallas Cowboy, because he thinks that plays into how New Yorkers view football. And he's probably right. But to play to the peanut gallery with such relish bespeaks of a lack of character on his part. How else to explain Myers' opening salvo of the 2009 season:

"The 'Boys are loaded with talent, but it would be nice if Tony Romo, the celebrity quarterback, had more on his resume than being Jessica Simpson's boyfriend and inspiring a hilarious tear-filled defense by T.O. of Romo's mediocre playoff performance against the Giants."

First of all, Romo is known as something other than what Myers cited by large portions of the population. A free agent who came from absolutely nowhere to take over one of the marquee positions in all of sports. I will take Romo over the next 5 or 6 seasons, the Giants can have Eli Manning, a first overall pick who struggled for years, dropping his first two playoff games before getting hot in last season's playoffs. We'll see who has more overall success in their careers.

Last season, all Romo did was have one of the best statistical seasons in the history of the NFL. In 2007, Romo was 335 for 520 for 4,211 yards, with 36 TDs against 19 INTs. Manning was 292-529 for 3,336 yards, with 23 TDs versus 20 INTs. Romo's QB rating was 97.1, Manning's 73.9. What would Manning be known for today if he didn't benefit from a great running game and a shut-down defense?

Do I have to go through the postseason career of every quarterback not named Tom Brady or Ben Roethlisberger to find examples similar to Romo? I will, but most casual fans without an agenda will admit that even all-time great QBs like Peyton Manning, Roger Staubach, Dan Fouts, Joe Namath and even Brett Favre have had far more playoff heartache than success, even if they managed to win the ultimate game once or twice. It's the nature of the sport.
Second, football is the ultimate team game, so laying playoff failures at the feet of one player in most cases is not only disingenuous but patently unfair. And that makes Myers an ugly human being in my book, and I'm not even speaking here of the picture that unwisely peers out from his byline, but rather nothing less than an ugliness of the soul that is visible in all of his subpar football columns.

In two seasons, Romo has made two Pro Bowls, has a 19-7 record in 26 regular season starts, and is only 28 years old. I think he's a little closer to the top of his chosen profession than Gary Myers is to the top of his. Just a hunch, but that Pulitzer Committee isn't gonna need Myers' number any time soon. Romo is even a better golfer than Myers is a writer, and more than one talent usually can be found in talented people, I'd be willing to bet Romo is a better writer than is Myers, but that's not saying much.

If it wasn't for Tom Brady's once-in-a-lifetime season last year, Romo might already have one MVP trophy in the case. As it is, he's got to be a leading contender for one this year. But don't expect the cheap shots to cease from the Gary Myers of the world.

Just like Derek Jeter in another sport -- and this is not to compare Romo to Jeter, who might be one of the most clutch postseason performers in baseball history -- people are moved to take unnecessary digs at Romo. The words envious, jealous and bitter come to mind when describing such people going out of their way to degrade the success of another, but don't go far enough in describing this phenomenon. A new phrase -- to be a hater like Baldwin -- may be close to emerging that does more justice to it.

Chris Baldwin, like Myers a completely talent-free hack, writes for something called Travelgolf.com. This preppy-faced nothingman managed to sink sports talk to a new level. Indeed, no one would have ever heard of this golf dweeb, and rightly so, were it not for his highly personal attack of Tony Romo a few weeks ago. The Dallas Morning News picked up on Baldwin's blog, which went beyond the pale even on the scale of invective for which pro sports "journalism" is known. Under the unwieldy and typically juvenile headline

Attention whore Tony Romo falls into a pond at Lake Tahoe Celebrity Classic, how typical of dunce Dallas Cowboys quarterback

Baldwin displaces his all too obvious shortcomings onto the star quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys, in what is sure to be a textbook case of penis envy for our future football Freuds to refer to. For the crime of falling into a pond during a tournament in which Romo finished 3rd in a crowded field of former football players and current golf pros, he was subjected to barbs of the following sort:

"The guy just can’t help himself. He’s going to find a way to make himself the center of attention while showing the lack of smarts that stops him from ever winning a single playoff game" and "Being stuck with his guy couldn’t have happened to a better set of bandwagon fans. And it must be nice for Jessica Simpson to feel like she’s the smart one in a relationship. No wonder why she doesn’t want to give Romo up."

I mean, even in the depths of the leaguewide Eli-bashing last season, did Cowboys fans call up WFAN and ever get this low? I hope not. But was Baldwin finished with his abuse of Romo? Of course not. Correctly sensing that this was his last/only chance to seize the limelight -- an opportunity that simply was never gonna happen due to an accomplishment of his own -- followed up the original Romo article with a post about the reaction he got from Cowboys fans. In another wordy post title that shows his awful Website exists without the assistance of either proofreaders or copy editors --

Dallas Morning News writes about TravelGolf.com Tony Romo blog, but homers forget to mention that Romo choked in yet another sport --

Baldwin takes pride in being a wise-ass, the first refuge of the spoiled brat so prevalent in our MTV-molded culture:

"Interesting how the Dallas Morning News failed to note how Romo choked in another sport this weekend though. That’s right, it turns out that Jessica Simpson’s dimmer half doesn’t just freeze up in football when something’s big on the line. He gags in golf too."

and

"This guy couldn’t win a Scrabble tournament against a 3-year-old if he was given a 500-point lead. Heck, Romo couldn’t beat a blind man in tag. (Though that blind man could probably intercept one or two of his playoff passes). There’s a reason Tony Romo has lost every playoff game he’s ever played, including this last year when everyone knew he had the best team in the NFC.) It’s 0 for 2 and counting for Tony Romo in playoff football, set to be 0 for 3 this winter with PacMan "it’s not Adam, it’s Adam” Jones screaming at him. And it’s 0 for and counting for Romo in big celebrity golf tournaments too. You know when he’s not just playing against Matt Lauer and true class act Justin Timberlake."

My first guess, like yours, is that somehow Romo snubbed this nobody when he asked for an autograph or insulted him in some other way. But his venom runs a bit deeper than that. That's for the mental health professionals to worry about, not me, and for that I am thankful.

It's almost embarrassing to have to wade through Baldwin's column again. But his editorial superiors should be the embarrassed ones for first employing and then retaining him. The only thing worse than Baldwin the person is Baldwin the writer, although I admit it's a tossup as to which is more noxious.

After 15, 11 Straight For AL

DID YOU NOTICE that none of the New York Five -- Jeter, A-Rod and Mariano for the Yanks, Wagner and Wright for the Mets -- exactly distinguished themselves in last night's All-Star Game? Jeter got a cheap infield hit, then hit into yet another double play, seemingly the only thing he might lead the AL in this season; A-Rod was 0-2; Rivera gave up 2 hits but no runs; Billy Wags gave up the tying run that sent it into extra frames; Wright had a hit but struck out twice.

Now, none of them were Dan Ugglia ugly -- 3 errors, 3 strikeouts, half-a-dozen men left on base in the game for the Marlins 2nd baseman -- but the worst night had to belong to Red Sox closer Jonathan Papelbon. He had set off the crowd long before he entered the game in the 8th last night and proceeded to give up a cheap run that really wasn't all his fault. But Papelbon had the nerve to say on Monday that he should be the one closing the All-Star Game, not the venerable Mariano in his home park. Then Papelbon, who has reliably proven to be a cringe-inducing egomaniac even by professional athlete standards, predictably backed off his comments later, saying he was misquoted, etc. To top it off, Papelbon used profanity to express to a reporter that he was pissed off about New Yorkers yelling stuff at him and his wife in public. He was roundly and soundly booed by the capacity crowd at the Stadium with every pitch, even though he was technically after all on the American League's and, thus, the Yankees' side, such was the hatred pulsing through the crowd. You'd like to believe Papelbon -- a remarkably talented closer -- would think twice next time, but that would imply that he thinks at all before opening up his big yapper in the first place.

Yet as right as the crowd was to defend the honor of the Great Marinao and let Papelbon have it, there was no call for a chant of Let's Go Yankees! when Rivera entered the game. That's bush league. First of all, the chant only makes sense when the home team is at bat. Second, it's the kind of thing you'd expect from Red Sox fans, or Mets fans.

Why was there nothing about Bobby Ray Murcer last night? Not a mention, except for the Bleacher Creatures, who chanted his name in their roll call last night, more than the stuffed suits of Fox or MLB managed. I guess they couldn't find a fucking sponsor in time, unlike everything else connected to the game, in a typical classless, tasteless MLB/Fox display of rampant, crass commercialism. Joe Buck is the perfect ringmaster for this kind of crap, and that is in no way intended as a compliment, in case you were wondering where we stand here.
Murcer, like Donald Arthur Mattingly, had the poor timing and misfortune to play their peak seasons during lengthy fallow periods in Yankee history, missing out on the postseason parade that just followed. Thus the big stage eluded them both. Mattingly retired in 1995, following the Seattle series where Ken Griffey Jr. ripped out the Yankees hearts. The next year Buck Showalter was also out, replaced by Joe Torre, and the glory years that followed.

Bobby Murcer came up just when Mickey Mantle was hitting his down years, and there would be no playoffs for Murcer's first 8 years with the Yankees. He was then unceremoniously traded to the Cubs, only to watch in agony as the Yankees made the postseason 5 out of the next 6 years, winning World Series in 1977 and '78. Murcer did rejoin the Yankees for the very tail end of that run, but by then he was on the last legs of his own fine career.

A moment of silence for Murcer was not warranted at some point in the endless pregame ceremony of hype? Not to be cynical, but it's probably because nobody stood to make a buck from it, so it was therefore overlooked, what with all the hideous product tie-ins we were inundated with throughout the game. It was all Fox could do to catch the first pitch of an inning.

I shut the damn thing off after 9, switched on the radio as I got ready for bed, and then fell asleep with the game still tied. Most of the reserves were in at that point anyway. I got up around 1:30, and the game was still going on, 15th inning. I was too sleepy to care at that point, and found out this morning that the AL had won an incredible 11th straight All-Star Game. But after such a streak, and after a resoundingly dominant interleague advantage in favor of the AL, maybe it's not a shock anymore.

I had somehow forgotten that homefield advantage was once again on the line last night, with the American League winning the right to host the 7th game if the World Series should come down to that. Not that I think this is gonna affect the Yankees in any way, because I really don't see them making a playoff run this season. Just too many injuries, too much age, too many other good teams for the Yanks to sneak in there again this year.

But I know enough to know that I don't know which Yankees team will show up in the second half. Will they make a trade for a corner outfielder if Damon and Matsui can't come back? They've been shut out 3 times in the last 20 games, and have had trouble scoring runs all year. The kid they brought up to play left, Brett Gardner, is batting just .167 (6 for 36), proving the old adage that you just can't steal first. Gardner is quick as a flea, but unfortunately has about as much pop as a small bug.

The only player who came close to stealing 1st base was Rickey Henderson, whose ridiculously low crouch -- where his chest was almost touching his knees -- reduced the strike zone to the size of the baseball itself. Henderson, a true Walking Double, drew more cheap walks than any other player in history, and once on first he wouldn't be there long before he was headed face first for second. Good times, good times...

Poe Eye For The Straight Gent

WE ARE NOTHING HERE at Warden's World if not eclectic. Some would say we are nothing period. Nihilists. In any event, a few months ago I bought an old book at The Strand on 12th Street, which I found outside the store where all the discount stuff is priced to move.

It had a worn green cover, with a beaten-up spine, and I could barely make out the title. On closer inspection, it was a copy of The Works Of Edgar Allan Poe. I immediately looked for a date on the title page, nothing there, and then looked for it elsewhere. Still nothing. But this sucker looked really old and I couldn't believe it was only one dollar. I would have paid at least two!

When I looked inside, I found it was actually Volume VIII of a 10-volume set. Another page indicated that I was holding No. 581 of a limited thousand-copy set published in New York by Henry W. Knight. Knowing a little something about old books, I'm gonna say this edition dates to 1910 or 1914. Just has that feel.

I guess the editors of this edition front-loaded all his best-known tales and poems into the early volumes, because Vol. VIII contains mostly lesser-known work of uneven quality. Among the short stories are The Oblong Box (about a mysterious coffin taken aboard a ship), The Man That Was Used Up (about a literally broken war veteran), The Business Man (a satire on the self-made man) and The Sphinx (a gimmicky short horror story).

Also included in the volume are a few nonfiction pieces, including one on a mechanical chess player in Richmond, Virginia, that generated a strong response (according to Wikipedia) when it first appeared in 1836.

But my favorite piece in this volume is Philosophy of Furniture, a strange little treatise that bluntly, sometimes hysterically, outlines Edgar's strong feelings about the art of interior decorating. In our modern vernacular, Poe takes no prisoners. You'd hate to see the man's powers of description unleashed on a studio apartment furnished by, say, Ikea or Gothic Cabinet Craft if he ever did return to life and subsequently started his own blog.

As in most of his more familiar prose, here Poe becomes very excitable about the subject, almost overwrought at times, and as a result we get a liberal use of dashes and italics scattered throughout as he goes about decrying the startling lack of taste found among the new nation's nouveau riche. He begins, however, by engaging in a sweeping generalization of other nations' predilections in this regard, a pattern which continues with an offhand stereotyping of America's lower rabble. Here are some highlights:

"In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little sentiment beyond marbles and colors ... The Dutch have, perhaps, an indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are all curtains--a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish ... The Yankees alone are preposterous.

To speak less abstractedly ... first, wealth is not, in England, the loftiest object of ambition as constituting a nobility ... The people will imitate the nobility, and the result is a thorough diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the coins current being the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display may be said, in general, to be the sole means of aristocratic distinction; and the populace, looking always upward for models, are insensibly led to confound the two entirely separate ideas of magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of an article of furniture has at length come to be, with us, nearly the sole test of its merit in a decorative point of view--and this test, once established, has led the way to many analogous errors, ready traceable to the one primitive folly.

There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an artist than the interior of what is termed in the United States--that is to say, in Appallachia--a well-furnished apartment. Its most usual defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room as we would of the keeping of a picture--for both the picture and the room are amenable to those undeviating principles which regulate all varieties of art; and very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits of a painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber.

A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the several pieces of furniture, but generally in their colors or modes of adaptation to use. Very often the eye is offended by their inartistical arrangement. By undue precision, the appearance of many a fine apartment is utterly spoiled.

Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen, in respect to other decorations ... Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but we still very frequently err in their patterns and colors. The soul of the apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the hues but the forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an ordinary man; a good judge of a carpet must be a genius ... The abomination of flowers, or representations of well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured within the limits of Christendom ... As for those antique floor-cloths still occasionally seen in the dwellings of the rabble--cloths of huge, sprawling, and radiating devices, stripe-interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among which no ground is intelligible--these are but the wicked invention of a race of time-savers and money-lovers--children of Baal and worshippers of Mammon--Benthams who, to spare thought and economize fancy, first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established joint-stock companies to twirl it by stream.

Glare is a leading error in the philosophy of American household decoration--an error easily recognized as deduced from the perversion of taste just specified. We are violently enamored of gas and of glass. The former is totally inadmissable within doors.

In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false principles. Its leading feature is glitter--and in that one word how much of all that is detestable do we express! Flickering, unquiet lights are sometimes pleasing--to children and idiots always so--but in the embellishment of a room they should be scrupulously avoided ... The huge and unmeaning glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which dangle in our most fashionable drawing-rooms, may be cited as the quintessential of all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly.

The rage of glitter--because its idea has become, as we before observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract--has led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We line our dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we have done a fine thing. Not the slightest thought will be sufficient to convince any one who has an eye at all, of the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and especially of large ones ... In fact, a room with four or five mirrors arranged at random is, for all purposes of artistic show, a room of no shape at all ... The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so bedizzened, would be instantly aware of something wrong, although he might be altogether unable to assign a cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the same person be led into a room tastefully furnished, and he would be startled into an exclamation of pleasuse and surprise.

It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that here a man of large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. The corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manufacture. As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty.

It is therefore not among our aristocracy that we must look for the spirituality of a British boudoir. But we have seen apartments in the tenure of Americans of modern means, which, in negative merit at least, might vie with any of the or-molu'd cabinets of our friends across the water. Even now, there is present in our mind's eye a small and not ostentatious chamber with whose decorations no fault can be found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa--the weather is cool--the time is near midnight: we will make a sketch of the room during his slumber."
Poe closes the essay by detailing the contents and arrangement of an idealized room that would suit his high standards. Let's just say Poe would have made a perfect Felix Unger if he had been born a hundred years later. One would think long and hard before rooming with Ed Poe for any duration.

This piece was first published in May 1840 in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine, a Philadelphia-based publication where Poe contributed stories before becoming a co-editor starting in 1839.

Ball On A Wall

THAT JOHNNY DAMON PLAY yesterday during the 6-4 loss to Boston at Yankee Stadium -- the one I excoriated play-by-play man John Sterling for getting wrong on the radio broadcast -- was more than just a little freakish. Damon went back to the wall, leapt for the ball hit by Kevin Youkilis, had it in his glove, snowcone style, only to lose it when he hit the wall. What Sterling and really almost everyone else didn't know, including Michael Kay on the TV side, was that the ball was somehow resting for a few seconds on the ledge of the wall, which can't be more than a few inches across.

I got on Sterling for first saying Damon made the catch, then, seeing Kevin Youkilis standing on 3rd base, changing his call to a triple. Sterling had blown so many calls the last few seasons, one or two a game it seems, that I thought this was just another case of his bad eyesight. But Sterling would've needed Superman-type vision to see the ball resting on the wall hundreds of feet from the Lowe's Broadcast Booth, one of about 7,000 sponsors name-checked into the radio broadcast of every game.

Damon crashed to the ground on his back, dazed, not knowing where the ball was, until a fan yelled at him and pointed to the baseball atop the wall, which was poised to either fall back in play or fall over to the other side of the fence for a home run.

In the Times story headlined Ball Sits on Wall, and Yanks Have Great Fall, Tyler Kepner wrote how:

"...everything changed with one play in the third inning — one bizarre, painful, and possibly season-turning moment. Damon crashed into the left-field wall as he gloved a high drive from Kevin Youkilis. The ball popped out, resting perilously atop the fence before dropping back onto the field.

The Yankees had lost the lead on the tying triple, and soon enough, they lost the game to the Boston Red Sox, 6-4, at a soggy Yankee Stadium. More significantly, they might have lost the engine of their lineup for a while."

When you see the play, you realize it's a once-in-a-lifetime, defying-all-laws-of-physics kind of play. The baseball gods seem to save this kind of stuff for Red Sox-Yankees games, knowing these miracles will thereby get the biggest exposure. Even gods like good ratings for their miracles.

After this latest feeble loss, Yankees are now 2-35 when trailing after 7 innings. You can hardly do worse. But then again, Yankees are gonna be without their 2nd best overall hitter, Hidecki Matsui, with Madonna's newest boy toy, A-Rod, being their best hitter...when his head isn't up his own ass. Or up Madonna's no-talent, Kabullah preaching, washed-up old ass, I guess.

Matsui ain't coming back any time soon, not soon enough to save the season at least. You only miss his kind of consistent excellence when it's missing from the lineup. The guy is such a serious, professional hitter that he would probably commit hari-kari if he ever failed to hit .300 or drive in 100 runs for a season. I can think of a few Yankees I'd like to see follow suit and do likewise.

Yanks are now fully 9 games behind the Rays, 6 behind the 2nd-place Red Sox, and technically behind even the Baltimore Orioles, also known as the perennial laughingstocks of the AL East. Yet I still get the feeling this isn't the lowest your Yankees will be sinking this season. I wish I was wrong, but I see more humiliation ahead. Maybe the curse of the new stadium. Call it a hunch...

Yankee Futile Dandy

YANKEES GETTING BESTED once again by Red Sox this afternoon, 6-3. For anyone still so untroubled by factual evidence to need even more proof that the Boston curse has indeed been reversed, and that this is again just not the Yankees year, like the 7 or 8 previous seasons, these two games -- last night's lifeless 6-0 loss and this afternoon's almost predictable blowing of an early 3-run advantage -- should suffice to dampen even the most optimistic Yankees fans' spirits.

For example, the Yankees had managed to load the bases against Josh Beckett in the bottom of the 4th, but then up to the plate strode the human groundout, Jose Molina, he of the perpetual 0-3 hitting collar. No surprise that he bounced out meekly to 2nd base to end the threat, nor could there have been much surprise that in the next frame, top of the 5th, with journeyman Darrell Rasner (4-6, 4.42 ERA) on the mound, the Sox took their 3-run lead on a HR by Mike Lowell, former property of the Yankees in a long-gone era.

Molina is a sorry excuse for a major leaguer, one of Cashman's typical pickups in recent years. In 150 at-bats, Jose, the worst of the many Molinas in major league baseball, is hitting .230 with as many HRs as I have: zip, zero, nada. There are American League pitchers who I'd rather see come up with men in scoring position. Anyone with a bat in his hand, I'll take my chances over Molina, as close to an automatic out as you will find in modern baseball.

Melke Cabrera is also killing the team lately. He hasn't hit a HR since mid-May, his average is down to .244, and in 290 at-bats, he has just 17 extra-base hits. That punch-and-judy act won't cut it as a centerfielder, a power position. He's killed a ton of rallies hitting into double-plays, and it's time for another direction. I've seen enough of this guy to know he's not the long-term answer.

Speaking of not getting it done, I think I just heard the worst radio call in John Sterling's long, long career of mis-calls and butchered plays as a Yankees play-by-play man. I know worst is saying something, considering the number of wrong home run calls he's blundered over the years, all because of his hurry to go into his whole "It is high, it is far" schtick. This time, it was 3-1 Yanks, and the Red Sox had men on 2nd and 3rd when Kevin Youkilis hit a long drive to left. "Oh, great catch by Johnny Damon!" screamed Sterling. I had time to pump my fist and think, alright, out of the inning, still got the lead.

But then seconds pass and finally Sterling sees that the ball is in fact rolling on the grass, and Youkilis standing on 3rd base, and tells us it's a triple, 2 runs in, tie game. Of course Sterling goes into excuse mode, couldn't see where the glove was, blah blah blah. You would think a guy with his history of getting it wrong would just wait a beat until he was sure what the hell was going on before conveying information to the millions listening on radio. But nooooooooo....

To add injury to insult, Damon is shaken up on the play and is forced from the game. Sterling should be fired after this year, and he can take his companero Suzyn "Oh My Goodness" Waldman with him. Sterling's got a great trademark game-ending call after big Yankees wins, I'll admit that, but it's the 3 hours of absolute ineptitude leading up to it that he should be forced to answer to.

Tampa Bay keeps winning, 20 games over .500, in first place, all with a $43 million payroll. Cashman has roughly 5 times that amount, and yet Yankees fans are subjected year after year to the likes of Molina, LaTroy Hawkins (5.94 ERA), Kyle Farnsworth (39 hits and 15 walks in 37 innings), Kei Igawa (13.50 ERA, 13 hits in 4 innings, millions of wasted dollars), Ross Ohlendorf (50 hits and 19 walks in 40 innings)...
Another thing while I'm at it, and no one has ever been any more at it, at least not to my knowledge. Major League Baseball, as it usually does, really blew it this year with interleague play. I have always been a big fan of it, but this year it just came way too early. We had the first 3 Mets-Yanks game way back in May, and then last week the second set, and now that's it for the year. Nothing after the All-Star game except a make-up game with the Pirates. That's just dumb. Nothing to look forward to.

Not only that, but this was easily the worst slate of games the Yankees have been handed, with no real ties or rivalries to speak of. Okay, so the Pittsburgh tie-in with the 1960 World Series was legit, but the Astros, Padres, Reds. There's the 1976 World Series with the Reds, a 4-0 sweep by Cincy, not a happy memory for Yankees fans, and the 1998 W.S. with San Diego, a capper to the Yankees incredible 125-50 season. But those are stretches, and I don't see any connection whatsoever with the Astros, except that Pettitte and Clemens pitched there for a few seasons.

Well, still 6-3 Sox, but Yankees fans just had the best news we could have hoped for: rain. John Sterling gets a chance to shut his mouth for a while, listeners get a break. And Yankees get a chance to line up their pitching rotation to make a run at the Sox and Rays. Look out world, here comes Sidney Ponson. Maybe Cashman still has David Wells' number somewhere.

But in all seriousness, this series with the Sox could be the proverbial nail in the coffin for this Yankees team. Yes, it's still technically early, but all that means is things could just as easily get much worse before they get any better at all. I know they're not catching the Red Sox, but what odds would you give they catch Tampa Bay, which sits 3 games ahead of Boston and has all the earmarks of a special team having a special season. In fact, the team the Rays remind me of, and the National League style ball they play, is the 1996 Yankees: a hungry, fast, aggressive, complete club that played with an edge. Can you say anything of the sort about the 2008 version of the New York Yankees? Of course you can't. Case closed. Season over. Yankees, at least this year, do not win.