The Sound of the Suburbs

To paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld, rooting for a sports team means rooting for laundry.

Or as Bill Maher said, you're wearing another man's jersey.

Fandom (short for fanaticism) usually originates in geography; I was born in Tulsa therefore I am ... a JJ Cale fan.

I was born in Long Island and grew up a Yankee fan. I suffered through many bad years (Horace Clarke/John Ellis/Celerino Sanchez etc.) and good (Munson/Guidry/Lyle/O'Neill/Jeter/Williams/Posada/Rivera etc.).

I still love the uniform, and I am a total capitalist but still ... I just can't find it in my heart to root for Mark Teixeira and Alex Rodriguez. They're just ... mercenaries. Yet for some reason I have no qualms with Sabathia or Swisher.

Why IS that? I just don't know.

And who cares anyway. I am an ink blot on the giant canvas that is Team Yankee. George Steinbrenner ... The Man. His sons ... arrogant pricks.

I offer absolutely no defense or rationale for my irrational line of thought.

Because the Yankees are simply unstompable. They may be beatable, but no one, not even the Phillies, will put the Ubangi Stomp on them.

They're just too rich, too privileged, too good.

So paradoxically, I like when they win but I'm secretly rooting against them.

But then I ponder a cat like Jorge Posada. What is he, 38? What a MAN. What a PLAYER. What a STUD.

He always calls a great game, then comes up with two down and a man on third and rips one to left for yet another clutch RBI. Jason Varitek in his prime (long gone) was good but no Posada. And that has proved to be the difference between Evil Empires.

Jorge Posada has not only shown zero signs of aging but cut a classic ESPN spot and then continues to get it up. And out.

He has joined the catcher elite in Pinstripe history and left his mark: Dickey, Berra, Munson, Posada. All clutch hitters. All great fielders. All men who helped elevate the likes of Allie Reynolds, Don Larsen, Ron Guidry and El Duque Hernandez to greatness.

Hall of Famers one and all.

So how can I NOT root for him? I do. I can. I will.

Look out Texas or Tampa (Texas). Here they come.

I Feel Like A Wog
People Give Me The Eyes
But I Was Born Here
Just Like You You You You
Don't Call Me
Don't Call Me
Your Golliwog
Yes, I'm off to Blighty for a week of RNR as in Rock N Roll, Oxford/Cambridge/London for the last three nights of UK Tour of the greatest band ever to plug in, The Stranglers.

The Stranglers are The New York Willis Reed/Bill Bradley/Dave DeBusschere/Dick Barnett/Clyde Frazier/Red Holzman Knicks of rock n roll.

Their first record, Rattus Norvegicus, circa 1977 made me put away AeroKiss as I awakened to a greater truth in music.

I was there at the fabled Rat Club in Boston when they landed on American shores, just like Paul O'Neill sweeping into right field for the Bombers.

England is a curious sports country. I was wondering today if they have even heard of baseball and basketball. The answer is NO.

It's all about soccer and cricket in the UK.

And we Americans have no clue about either of those endeavors, particularly cricket (Cricket? Crickets!).

Nonetheless I am looking forward to a journey to Blighty, despite the fact no one will be mourning the loss of Merlin Olsen.

What a D-line that was. The LA Rams of Roman Gabriel never won it all but they were a blast to watch, and Olsen was a big part of that, along with Deacon Jones.

They're all dying off now. Football players die early for a good reason. They played the most intensive, brutal sport since the Gladiator days of Rome, and the beatings take a toll.

I doubt any cricket players die early. And that's not a knock, no pun intended.

The fact is American football is a collision-course sport and those who participate reduce their living odds by a major deuce.

To hear Willie Wood is a wreck pains me and all other lifetime NFL fans. Yes, these cats made their choices, but the league needs to take care of their own no matter the cost. These guys put their lives on the line for the adrenaline rush and the fans who keep growing by leaps and bounds.

Bottom line:

Don't Call Me
Don't Call Me
Don't Call Me
Your Golliwog

I'll see you in the sewer ...

Well it's only a couple of days since May Day but if George Steinbrenner was kicking (yes, he's still alive), he'd be redder than Leon Trotsky with an icepick in his ear.

The fabled New York Yankees are a game under .500, five and a half out of first and, most viscerally, 0-5 v. the hated Bosox after back-to-back drubbings this week against the team that reversed The Curse years ago and ever since has Yankee faithful wondering if the A-Rod signing was the historical corollary of the Babe Ruth trade.

It's all summed up by the fact that Manager Joe Girardi was booed the other night when he pulled Joba The Hut for Jose Veras as rain fell on the field like manna from Hell. If King George was still with us and Billy Martin was making that pitching change, he'd be looking over his shoulder towards the unemployment line.

Because this would be unacceptable.

The fattest payroll in sports, empty box seats and the last vestiges of the great Yankee core -- Jeter, Posada, Rivera -- aging quicker than Rajon Rondo on a breakaway, George would be out of his mind. Right about now Brian Cashman's ass would be so hot he couldn't sit down and Don Mattingly would be getting text messages summoning him to an urgent meeting in The Bronx.

Mark Teixeira's slow start would make him target one, followed by CC Sabathia and A-Rod. I doubt Billy Martin would be defending a tell-all book about Reggie Jackson; he'd be all about saving his own skin. Which is a backhanded compliment to Girardi, a stand-up guy and a player's manager, as the saying goes, but George would have none of that.

He'd be looking around to blow somebody up -- and I mean that old school -- because someone must be held accountable.

Sure, it's only 27 games in and the Yankees are potent, but their bullpen sucks, their defense is worse, they have zero team speed and dropping five in a row to Boston is as bad as it gets.

I was a Yankee fan since childhood but, and call me a Redcoat (sic) but I haven't been able to root for this team since Paul O'Neill retired. They just lack a certain ... spirit. Love Nick Swisher and what he brings to the team (not to mention the bullpen, yuck, yuck), but they have become a faceless corporate entity since O'Neill, Brosius and Bernie, among others, have departed.

Derek Jeter is still the purest competitor in sports, but it isn't his team anymore. The offseason signings were so over the top, particularly in the shadow of Wall Street's Nervous Breakdown, that you HAVE to root against them.

On paper they run away with the division and win about 120 games, but there's always that pesky matter of having to play the games. And the reigning AL champion Rays are for damn real, while Boston has reloaded on the fly and are as potent -- and young -- as any contender.

Somewhere in FLA, King George may just wake up in the dead of night and fight back the clock with a WTF that will be heard across Yankee Nation. As when he summoned Billy and Gabe Paul to his private office to insist, no DEMAND, Reggie bat cleanup -- with title results on deck -- The Bronx Would Be Burning (aside: if you missed the tremendous ESPN miniseries produced by the incomparable trio of Brian Robbins, Mike Tollin and Crazy Joe Davola, get thee to the Best Buy DVD section).

Despite his raging vicissitudes of emotion and bad behavior (the elevator incident during the Dodgers' World Series remains a classic in Owner Meltdowns) I think I speak for all Yankee fans when I say I miss The Man.

Hank, Hal, whoever's in charge: DO something, just to keep the barbarians at the gate. Yes, Teixeira will come around, A-Rod will return and hit solo homers against Baltimore when the game's not on the line, but unless they move Joba to the set-up role (remember the Dave Righetti principle) and find a way to play little ball once in a while, they are going down.

Where's Bob Lemon when you need him ... ?