Wasif's World

Growing up the son of a milkman and C.I.A. operative/P.T.A. treasurer mom in suburban Boston, I remember going to Fenway Park and seeing the lettering on the padded wall behind home plate that read, “No Pepper.”

Today, it’s gone, but there’s no truer statement to reflect the current state of what is frequently referred to as “the greatest rivalry in sports” and what is less frequently referred to as “so boring, I would rather watch a bird pick mites out of his feathers than tune in.” But the prevailing mindset may be shifting.

The Red Sox-Yankees rivalry needs spice! There’s no pepper, nor is there paprika, oregano, parsley, sage, rosemary, and there’s definitely no thyme.

But you know what they say, there’s no thyme like the present. [Ahem] You’ll graciously excuse my horrendous pun. Thank you.

There’s no time like the present to fix this. We know of the history and its explosive elements between the two teams, and subsequently their fans, but it quickly morphs into ancient history. And baseball is about entertaining people, correct? Unfortunately, the baseball season is so long, they’ve run out of story lines and we've become nonplussed with much of what we see.

It’s like the news. They’ve got to come up with stuff every day, which is why news bureaus send employees out from time to time to start fires or kidnap a baby or something like that.

Baseball needs to start manufacturing some excitement. Like the WWE (or the NBA) writing its own material, so, too, should baseball. In fact, why not hire their writers for a season or two to get you going?

Imagine a scenario where at one moment during the All-Star game, Derek Jeter and Dustin Pedroia are turning double plays together. They're high-fiving like best pals impressed by their grace and synchronicity.

Then, all of sudden, the next moment, when Pedey suddenly notices that Jeter’s getting more applause than he is, his jealousy takes over. The next time Jeter stands at the bag to turn two, instead of a lightly tossed ball right into his glove, he gets a rocket fired at his head knocking him out. He comes to with the diminutive Red Sox second baseman on top of him unleashing a fury of lefts and rights to his noggin as the crowd counts them out, “... SIX ... SEVEN ... EIGHT ...” as a couple of umpires stand harmlessly by pleading with the him to stop.

That, my friends, would get the rivalry started again.

Oh, and he could have like a signature finishing move where he puts a Yankee in a headlock and holds one of his rank workout T-shirts in his face until the guy turns green. He could call it “The Green Monster.”

The whole issue speaks to the flaws of the unbalanced schedule and interleague play. Back in the old days, the teams met each other a uniformed four times, for three games at a clip (barring the ol’ twi-night doubleheader). Twice at home, twice away; twice before the All-Star game, twice after. That's how it should be.

Either go with 12 games a year or 162 with no in between.

If you have the two teams face each other 162 times a year, they’ll start to hate the way A-Rod adjusts his batting gloves or Papi’s spitting will start to make their stomachs crawl or just Posada’s ears will piss them off. There will be blood.

Brandon Phillips has the right idea. He hates the Cardinals. I mean, really hates the Cardinals. You can just tell he does by the way he tells you he does.

However, it really doesn’t carry much past that. Because it’s the Cardinals. Their fans are so nice, they’ll probably offer to take Phillips out on the town to show him the amenities of their city.

The fans aren’t going to get into it. And Cincinnati doesn’t even have its own airport. It’s in Kentucky. That’s not going to be good for a rivalry. No one wants to fly into a different state just to cross the state line to go torment and harass Reds fans.

Boston fans used to believe that Yankees fans would shut their collective holes if the Red Sox won. Well, they did, and it didn’t happen. Now they’re resigned to living with them like some ingrown toenail that hurts when they walk.

And Yankees fans, well, they really haven’t changed. They’ve just ratcheted up the murder of Red Sox fans in the last decade from zero to two. So don’t mess with them.

But that’s off the field. We need to get that kind of stuff on the field. (Um, not the murder as that is wrong in most circumstances pertaining to sports.)

We need to get back to the old days. Carlton Fisk didn’t need a reason to beat the crap out of

Thurman Munson. He just needed an opportunity. Pedro Martinez probably would’ve thrown Don Zimmer down after the game in the street if he didn’t get a chance on the field.

Remember when Clemens threw a ball up by Manny’s head and Manny shouted some things to him while pointing and approaching the mound? We need that type of emotion; almost an unnatural level of emotion.

I’m just spinning here, but what if we introduced some sort of synthetically-engineered substance that causes flashes of anger along with enhanced athletic performance?

Nah! That’s just crazy talk.

Maybe add one Pakistani player to one team and an Indian player on the other. Those countries hate each other so that might start some hate. Or add a kid. When a sitcom starts to fail, they always add a kid which makes it – er ... fail faster. (OK, forget the kid.)

How about if the Red Sox name former pitcher Bill "Spaceman" Lee their manager and the Yankees can hire Graig Nettles to be their manager? “Spaceman” hates the Yankees. And he reportedly carries a baseball card of Nettles in his back pocket so the former Yankees hot corner attendant is constantly kissing his rear end. Nettles, by the way, wasn’t waiting for any invitation to slam Lee to the ground damaging his pitching shoulder. It’s just the way it was back then.

Sure, it could be cyclical, but do we really want to wait another 20 years to see an on-field battle? What would we tune in for? Baseball? Ha! Get serious.

Dustin Pedroia, what do you think?

“Let me tell you somethin’, Wasif! All the fans in all the bars in all the towns of Red Sox Nation are lookin’ for me to take out the Evil Empire. And that’s what I’ve been thinkin’ about for a long time. And you know what I’m gonna do? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GONNA DO?! I’m gonna unleash a double play combination of rights and lefts on those little pathetic pansies. Whatcha gonna do, New York Yankees, when the Green Monster comes crashing down on you?!”

Now that's some spice.

Trying to figure out my next blog to write, I looked at the calendar and realized that this week marks my one-year anniversary here at SportsFanLive. (No, please, I don’t want any gifts; your readership is enough. Besides, what would I do with a second horse’s head to go along with the one a Raiders fan sent me after one of my previous blogs?)

So much has happened in the world of sports over this time that I thought I’d take this opportunity, if you’ll indulge me, to recap the events I’ve blogged about during the past year. (If not, that’s fine too. Just reading to this point has allowed my computer virus enough time to access all your personal files and send them to me. So your readership and all your confidential information is enough.)

In order to remain consistent with engaging content, I’ve been fortunate enough to have a supportive leadership team at the website, a slew of fascinating stories to follow, but mainly, it’s been the fans who have been my rock, my Dwayne Johnson, if you will.

Yes, it is you, the reader, who have been so kind to me over the past year and I am so grateful. Your comments let me know you care. Rest assured, I read them all and please know that the comments about my mother and the female body parts that I resemble have been much appreciated. Sports and the opinions associated with it should never be treated flippantly and demand an overly critical eye toward the subjective.

I cherish our relationship. It’s because I feel so close to you that I’ve trusted you enough to bare my soul. (Or is it bear my soul? What does that even mean? Is that where Brian Urlacher tackles my celestial inner being?) For instance, I came out to you in this, the most public forum, in announcing my love for Peyton Manning, which screamed in opposition to my positive feelings for Bill Belichick. I didn’t care who knew it.

I relived a most painful experience of my being picked off second base by the hidden ball trick in what was actually a balk. So instead of third base, I was forced to sit on the pine, a most heinous crime perpetuated upon me by “the ill-informed.” Even now, it still makes me well up, but I felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable in front of you all.

I shared the tale of my day sitting amongst Raider Nation at San Diego’s Qualcomm Stadium. Instead of finding them dangerous as I had expected, I was surprised to learn that they’re nothing more than really very scary people who you don’t want to look in the eyes.

Yes, we’ve been through quite a 12-month period together, haven’t we? We’ve witnessed some incredible events like an entire tournament of curling, each time alternatively wondering why we were watching and making plans to take up curling with the goal of participating in the 2014 Winter Games in Russia; we watched the World Cup, longing for the excitement of curling; we watched a five-set tennis match that lasted longer than the Orioles season before being mathematically eliminated from playoff contention; we saw the best heavyweight battle we’ve seen in years in the McCourt v. McCourt fight (they’re talking sequel); and we saw a 28-out perfect game, which is most definitely once in a lifetime!

And we laughed together too. Remember when Mercury Morris tried to act relevant, like his 1972 Dolphins team’s 17 consecutive wins still meant something even though teams like the Patriots and Colts surpass it routinely? Or when the Philadelphia Phillies fan outran the guy with the Taser gun ... for a few seconds?

And then there was the time Mark McGwire told us he did steroids, as if it was a big reveal akin to the “Sixth Sense” or “The Usual Suspects.” Instead, it came off with all the suspense of an ESPN special to announce where Brian Scalabrine is going to end up playing next year.

This year was not without life lessons as well, like the fact that men entering Yankee Stadium are forced to check their bags across the street for $7, but then can literally climb into a woman’s purse or duffel bag and be smuggled into the park without even a suspicious glance.

We also learned that Big Papi doesn’t ask what’s in his “protein shakes” and Manny likes to get in touch with his feminine side with a cycle of drugs for women.

Oh, and we also learned that it was Derek Jeter that was leaking the names of those players on the infamous steroid user list. (Disclaimer: I’m the one that started that rumor.) (Disclaimer on the disclaimer: Or did I?)

But one giant lesson that we learned from Tiger Woods was that if you’re going to cheat, don’t text. Remember, texters never win and winners never text.

Though I can’t blame him for his mistake, for I’ve made mistakes too. For instance, I thought there was no way the Lakers and Celtics would’ve been able to “flip a switch” and start playing well through the playoffs after coasting through the end of the season. Well, like Arthur Fonzarelli, I am more than man enough to admit when I was wr--, when I was wrooo--, when I was wrrrrrrrrr--; well, nobody’s perfect.

And speaking of the Lakers, their fans were the focus of most of my attacks this year, but only because – well, they’re still around. I must apologize. I had originally planned for them to get all of my attacks. I promise that I will do better next year.

To all of you who’ve enjoyed a year of blogs, thanks for reading. And to you Lakers fans out there, thanks for finding someone to read this to you, explaining all the big words.

(See, never let it be said that I don’t keep a promise.)

Have you ever heard millions of New Yorkers laugh at once?

It doesn’t happen often. There was that time the ball dropped right on Dick Clark during a “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve” broadcast. (It took them till January 3rd to remove it.)

And of course, remember when NYC Mayor Rudy Giuliani hosted British Prime Minister Tony Blair shortly after 9/11 and took him to a street vendor for a hot dog where he unceremoniously squirted mustard into the visiting diplomat’s face.


Then there was today. It’s an interesting sound and I’m not sure what the physics are behind it. I believe it causes something of a vacuum. The air collectively escaping from Boston as in some sort of gasp and getting sucked into New York City as one does when guffawing leaves Hartford totally obliterated by funnel clouds as you would see in a tornado. It’s a true phenomenon.

So I’m disappointed. Not so much that Papi has been outed by this mysterious “list leaker.” But because the conspiracy theories behind whether or not he was a steroid user are over. And I love a good conspiracy.

I gotta say, this one really could’ve gone either way. You had your evidence that he DID take them: his numbers explosion, the gap in his teeth, his girth, his nationality and connection to all his countrymen that did it, and again, his girth.

Then there were the points that suggested he DIDN’T take them: his hitting coach, Ron “Papa Jack” Jackson, helped close that hole in his swing, he finally was on a team that didn’t want him to simply play hit-and-run, he had Manny batting behind him, he entered his prime, and he kept saying he didn’t (though without a finger wag).

To me, this was not one of those lopsided conspiracies. Look at the information surrounding the Kennedy Assassination or the events on 9/11 or even the 2000 presidential election. Those are no-brainers, putting aside any subjective judgment you may have, the evidence leans heavily to one side on all of those.

But this one kept most people on the fence ... until you started weighing each item on the lists. Then, perhaps it was pretty clear. We just chose not to believe. (Ironic for a fan base whose motto is “Believe.”)

It’s simply another blow to our innocence. My Cardinals fan friend said she has no doubt that Albert Pujols is clean. Until today, I had said the same thing about Papi out loud. But now I’m so skeptical that when another friend proclaimed that “the curtain has been pulled back on the Wizard,” I screamed, “Oh, no! NOT Ozzie Smith too!!” (Fortunately, I later found out that his flips were not chemically enhanced.)

First “American Idol” loser Ju’Not said that show was fixed. Now Big Papi and Manny. So what’s next to shake the foundation of our souls – we find out that Demi Moore doesn’t maintain her body naturally? A Republican governor in charge of a council on family values isn’t faithful to his wife? Keanu Reeves isn’t really the brilliant actor we all think he is?

I can’t take it anymore!

But the big question here is ... WHO is leaking these names?! It’s diabolical how deliberate this is being done. I picture a low-level employee at Major League Baseball, probably some kid in the copy room (“Manny Ramirez! ... Takin’ steroids! ... The Man Ram! ... Mandingo! ... Manchego cheese! ... Manny! ... Takin’ steroids!”) wearing an overcoat with a fedora over his eyes in the farthest corner of a dark parking garage somewhere in mid-town. An upstart cub reporter nervously approaches, his eyes darting around to make sure he wasn’t followed.

Though y’know ... there might just be a conspiracy in here after all. Try this one on for size: the man in the overcoat isn’t a low-level employee at all, but rather, Derek Jeter himself.

Whoa! Before all you gloating Yankees fans get outraged, hear me out – Alex Rodriguez is leaked first from the list. The two used to be BFFs. And now, there’s a rift. We’ve all heard the old saying, “Hell hath no fury like a Yankee scorned.” So he leaked him for revenge.

Then came Sammy Sosa. Well, that one’s so obvious I shouldn’t even have to tell you. (Mental note: figure out reason why Jeter would want to out Sosa.)

And now Ortiz and Manny. Just like Jeter to hold onto that information until the playoff hunt. The Red Sox are flailing right now, trying to keep up with the Yankees, but falling short. What better time to drop this bomb shell!

Of course, it’s Jeter. It’s so obviously him!

Who’s next is the question? Pujols is the favorite right now. If the Cardinals make the World Series again, Jeter can drop that name then. How about Halladay? If he goes to a team besides the Yankees, Jeter will let that name out. Or perhaps even Jeter himself is on the list. [insert ominous music here] And we certainly don’t need to ever find that out. He’s got a Hall of Fame induction ceremony to prepare for in about 10 years.

So there you have it – Jeter is not only leaking the names ... he’s also on the list.

Good. Now we have another conspiracy to occupy our time. I feel better now.