Wasif's World

Ho! Ho! Ho! (Do you always equate that phrase with Santa Claus or are you like me and follow those words placed adjacent to one another in quick succession with the phrase “Green Giant?” Just wondering.)

As the yuletide season descends upon us, complete with bowl blowouts, playoff pushes and foot fetishes, I’ve managed to get a sneak peek at Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick’s bag o’ gifts for those sports figures we know so well that have been nice, and for some who have been naughty. (Damn liberals always have to make sure no one’s left out.)

So now without any further ado, I present to you the 2010 Christmas list for members of the sports world:

To Randy Moss, a Bill Belichick blow-up doll for him to have on hand when he can’t get the real thing.

To Michael Vick, a Snoopy stuffed animal. (You gotta start slow, Michael. Start slow.)

To Barry Bonds, a little more free time before he’s thrown in jail on perjury charges.

To the New York Yankees, Derek Jeter at shortstop for another three years. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Hahahahahahahahaha!

To Rob Ryan, a giant Rex Ryan wig to cover Rex Ryan’s ego.

To Rex Ryan, a pedicure, so he can enjoy his own feet without so much attention being paid to his personal activities.

To Mark Sanchez, an offensive touchdown.

To LeBron, a trip to the Eastern Conference semifinals with your new team ... and another loss there, just like with your old team.

To Carmelo, a team on the East Coast. (Might I suggest Syracuse? You’d still have three years remaining, wouldn’t you?)

To the New York Knicks, a trip back to relevance, but still no championship.

To the New Jersey Nets, four future first-round draft picks that still won't get you Carmelo.

To Eli Manning, sliding lessons.

To Vince Young, a new coach, a new team and a new attitude.

To David Stern, the intelligence and guts to contract eight teams so that your sport will be enjoyable again for all cities again and not just the four cities that have a legitimate shot at winning a championship.

To Brett Favre, a rocking chair ... with arm and leg straps on it to keep him in it.

To the New Orleans Saints, the “S” placed back at the beginning of their name after decades of futility. (That one arrived early thanks to Air Favre’s shipping service.)

To Cam Newton, a better business manager than his father.

To Greg Oden, an NBA career ... maybe, someday.

To the Portland Trail Blazers -- another chance to pick Kevin Durant instead.

To Yao Ming, new legs.

To Allen Iverson, “The Answer” -- and that is ... retire.

To Cortland Finnegan, some humble pie.

To the Metrodome, a better balloon roof.

To Shaquille O’Neal, a.k.a. "Tip-In O’Neal" or "The Big Shamrock," a final ring with Boston, giving him as many as Kobe, and enshrinement in the Great Personalities of Sports Hall of Fame.

To Donovan McNabb, some respect and a starting job for a full season with a new team.

To Tom Brady ... nothing. You have everything already ... All right, you win. Another Super Bowl ring!

To TCU, a big hug. It’s a small consolation, but the best I could do.

To Peyton Manning, some personnel consistency, fer cryin’ out loud!

To “The T.Ocho Show,” a second season, this time in the jungles of Africa mixing “Survivor”-type excitement with you two talking for a half-hour.

To the UConn Lady Huskies, a loss already, it’s getting boring.

To Geno Auriemma, some updated stereotypes about women.

To Brian Wilson, anything you want. Quite frankly, you frighten Santa.

To Jerry Jones, a team in the Super Bowl! (In other words, one share of stock in the Atlanta Falcons.)

To Tiger Woods, just a little bit of the mojo you used to have.

To Coach John Wooden, a team in heaven.

Enjoy your presents, everyone! And may I wish all of you a very happy and healthy holiday season. Thanks for reading and see you in the 2011, for a full slate of major league baseball and ... well, with labor disagreement looming, that’s about it! Ho Ho Ho! Green Giant!

Hello, New York ... wait, wait, don’t close this window! I just wanted to talk to you for a moment.

I know you’re going through a rough patch right now and the last thing you want is a Boston fan rubbing it in. But I’m not here for that. Really! (There will be plenty of time for that in the coming months.)

This is more a time for me to extend to you my deepest sympathies. I’m from Boston. We’ve been there. We’ve felt the sting of rejection, of failure, of the ship leaving the port without us. So we can relate to your current situation.

It is certainly an interesting twist. Call it fate, a deviation from the standard, climate change, whatever; it’s not something we’re used to seeing.

The Yankees lost out on a player, who took less money to go somewhere else. Usually an agent will use other teams to drive up the price on New York! The Yankees are usually the last one an agent calls. In this case, the phone rang almost two hours away, in the home of the Liberty Bell.

So you lost out on Cliff Lee. The San Francisco weak-hitting Giants shelled him. You don’t need that kind of pitcher. Save your money. Heck, we’ve all seen CC Sabathia pitch on three-days rest. Just have him do it all season. (For what he gets paid, you should pitch him on no days rest.)

I mean, that was pretty harsh, when Lee chose tens of millions of dollars less to not sign with you. The nerve of that guy! He thought your fans were worse than Philly fans. That’s outlandish! (Most reasonable people just have you two at a statistical dead heat.)

Think of that for a moment! To say that Yankees fans are thugs and then sign with Philly fans?! (Apparently, he’s never been immobilized by a neck injury and booed for holding up the game.) Word is his wife didn’t like your fans and the way they treated her; all for a little spit and bile. Some people can be so sensitive.

And even those New Yorkers who are not necessarily Yankees fans have been affected by this news. Mets fans, I know you had been hoping for winning the division sometime again this decade, but well, success is overrated. Lots of pressure comes with it. Remember the flack you took when you blew that division lead in September a couple of years ago. Now, when you get mathematically eliminated in June, no one bothers you. That’s the life! Just think extra long vacations.

There are those who hoped a “Cliff-Lee-to-the-Bronx” report would put a sheen (Martin, not Charlie) on an otherwise tarnished outlook for the rest of the city’s teams, such as the Jets. They started out strong, but now are so lacking that they need their strength coach to help out on special teams. And Mark Sanchize is back to being an almost was.

But Rex Ryan’s good for you. He’s brash, he’s conceited, and he promotes a tough, no-nonsense attitude. It’s just that his team wears the Jets uniform. That thing works like “the Mask” did in that Jim Carrey movie (“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”), only in reverse. Any incredible things you may do are dulled by futility.

Oh, and to you Knickerbocker backers, Carmelo is coming ... maybe, someday. For now, you’ve got Amar’e and the team has won seven in a row (at press time, though that was sure to come to an end at the hands of Boston on Wednesday evening).

Hey, let’s not forget about the New York (football) Giants who still have a shot at the Super Bowl, just as long as Eli Manning doesn’t try to run for a first down.

Now might be a good time to start following one of the lesser sports leagues. There are the New York Red Bulls (even though they’re in New Jersey), the WNBA’s entry, the New York Liberty, and the New York Titans of the National Lacrosse League. They are all very, very competitive in their respective –- what’s that? ... oh, the Titans moved to Orlando? ... well, they sucked anyway, right? Good riddance to bad rubbish.

The point is that this isn’t the end of the world. The Yankees will still make the playoffs (a 70/30 chance), you’ll still get chastised for your indignant and entitled attitude, people will still annoy you by deriding your team’s overspending, and you’ll still berate and verbally abuse visiting player’s wives when they sit nearby. Nothing really has changed ... well, except your odds of winning a World Series before the Red Sox and Phillies do. That hope is pretty much deep in the sewers of Manhattan.

Chins up, New Yorkers. Just think happy thoughts and try to put that lump of coal to good use. Happy Holidays!

Derek, what are you waiting for? Just sign with the Yankees already. What, are you thinking your talents are best-served in Houston? Perhaps you’re tired of playing in front of people and would rather sign with the Marlins.

You can sign now and still not have to do any training. This isn’t football. You don’t have to report to camp the moment you sign. I’m sure you’re aware of that. You can still have your “MT” (Minka Time).

You’ve got three choices –- you can take the highest offer on the table (the Yankees’) and no one will even consider you caved in since it’s still twice what your current worth is.

Or take a lower offer from another team. Show the Yankees you are not to be trifled with. You are Jeter, dammit! Sure, it’s biting your nose to spite your face, but again, you’re Jeter, dammit! (Gumby reference anyone?)

Or keep playing hard ball. The Yankees aren’t going to give you the amount you’re asking for since it’s ridiculous and will throw the entire salary structure of baseball off. Elvis Andrus and Troy Tulowitzki will look to you and say they deserve at least $15 million. (What’s that? ... Tulowitzki signed for how much???!!! ... Oooof, that may stick a monkey wrench into things.)

What, do you not have enough money?! Remember, having money makes doing your taxes tricky. With all of your houses, you may forget which house you listed as your primary residence.

Has being around the Yankees clouded your mind? $20-$25 million for a middle-tier shortstop and

a .273 hitter? Yes, you’ve got excellent leadership qualities. So does Jason Varitek and it didn’t stop the Red Sox from giving him $5 million, then $3 million and now $2 million plus incentives. And those incentives are that he still gets a parking space inside the player’s lot.

Are you worried about your legacy? You need to stay in New York to maintain your legacy. To Yankees fans, it’s that of hero. To Red Sox fans, your legacy is that of dirty cheater (along with A-Rod who is known as a dirty, whiny cheater).

You’re one of the most hated men in Boston. I went onto Boston.com yesterday, the online site of the Boston Globe and took the Pats-Jets quiz -– 12 questions about the history between the two gridiron rivals. After completing the quiz (I did as well as I did on my trigonometry tests in high school), they show the leader board. Do you know who was holding first place? “Derek Jeter’s herpes,” that’s who!

The disdain for you is legendary. Why risk losing that? We need you. Baseball needs you in the Yankees uniform. The uniform to you is like the hair to Samson. Take it off and you’re just another shortstop fielding routine grounders with mediocre hitting stats for a team that won’t make a run in the playoffs.

(We’re talking current stats, you know, and not your career achievements, because career achievements don’t win you current games and that’s what you’d be getting paid to do.)

The Gold Glove? No one’s buying it. (Except apparently, my dedicated reader Irene who believes it’s well-deserved.) That gets you nothing in the negotiation, but it makes a nice stocking stuffer.

Now in this scenario, the Yankees have two choices. They can pay you what they’re offering you (more than they should) or they can find a more productive player for less the money and use the remaining cash on another player who may also be productive.

Yes, the Yankees have bottomless pockets and overspend to players that haven’t given even a fraction of what you have to your team, let alone the game. But they were also being courted by other teams ... and most of them were younger ... and were coming off better years.

Would the replacement player be more productive than you? Perhaps. You’ve seen, as have we, that players’ stats don’t always translate under the lights of The House Next To Where The House That Ruth Built Was. (Seriously, how many times are they going to keep putting Javier Vasquez on the mound?)

Barry Bonds never went through this as he was somehow still playing at a very high level deep into his 40s. Hmm, so has Mariano Rivera. Coincidence? Conspiracy theorists, discuss.

You’ve made it blatantly obvious that you’ve done things the natural way. And this is how nature treats people who adhere to their rules. Nature pays them less than when they were 28.

Derek, Bubbie, I’m a Red Sox fan, so I don’t like you. I know you’re dirty, I just don’t know how. I’ll dig up something on you, even if it’s unreturned library books. Or if you’ve never taken a book from the library, I’ll expose your illiteracy. But I’m trying to help you here.

I will say it’s kind of fun to see you and the Yankees play hardball. It’s like Hank and Hal deciding who had to ride on the hump in the Steinbrenner station wagon during family road trips growing up.

But we also know the outcome. It’s really the only outcome there should be –- Jeter and the Yankees, the Yankees and Jeter. Keep your hair, Samson! Otherwise, you’ll just be another bald shortstop who used to be hated by his enemies. *Author's Note: Derek Jeter signed a 3-year, $51 million deal with the Yankees within 48 hours of this posting, so obviously, he reads "Wasif's World" and is influenced by my opinion.

Stevie Johnson won the game for the Buffalo Bills. That’s what Geoff Hangartner thought when he turned his back the moment the ball landed perfectly in Johnson’s hands and he rushed to quarterback Ryan Fitzpatrick to celebrate. “Perhaps a little dance, perhaps I’ll throw the signal caller on my back and gallop around for a little bit; maybe just a simple helmet bump,” the Bills center thought.

Fitzpatrick, by that time, had already gone from celebration to mourning, clutching his helmet in disbelief. The Harvard-educated quarterback knew the degree of the ball’s trajectory, the force with which he threw it, and the speed of the wide receiver all came together to make the perfect throw. He also knew the odds that such a perfect throw would be dropped were low, yet still feasible. And he knew the likelihood that what he was seeing was real and not a philosophical manifestation or existential occurrence.

Stevie Johnson was not so cerebral about it. He just knew that he had [bleeped] up. He did catch the ball perfectly on the bounce though, so he had that going for him. But that didn’t count and someone was to blame. Who would have thought that it was the Lord?

After the game, the wide receiver tweeted, "I PRAISE YOU 24/7!!!!!! AND THIS HOW YOU DO ME!!!!!" YOU EXPECT ME TO LEARN FROM THIS??? HOW???!!! ILL NEVER FORGET THIS!! EVER!!! THX THO"

Is God even on Twitter? Not that HE couldn’t figure it out, but HE may have deemed it as a waste of time. I mean, after all, if HE was spending time on the site, do you think HE would’ve finished the world in only six days? HE’s very into time management.

But that’s besides that point. One thing we do know is that God has a sense of humor. It’s why some men have hair on their backs, but not their heads. It’s why we still need orthodonture work done throughout our adulthood after getting a half dozen teeth pulled and wearing braces for two years during adolescence.

Have you ever lost your keys and looked in your coat pocket without finding them? Then you’re back to your coat pocket later in the day and the object reappears? That’s God. You can thank him for replacing your keys. Of course, you could also blame him for taking them in the first place.

Though an omniscient being, do you think God gets the sarcasm at the end? “Thx tho.” Or was Johnson being sincere? “Oh, yeah, thanks for those times you didn’t screw me. I wouldn’t want to see ungrateful. But for this particular time, you’re on my list, buddy.”

Players frequently thank the Lord when they win the game or make a great play. This would be the first time in recorded history where the “Big G” was publicly thrown under the Crosstown Heavenly Express Bus (the #8 for those with a heavenly bus schedule).

But what hand does God actually have in the game? There’s this old gem from a couple of years ago:

God was giving Yankees manager Joe Torre a tour of heaven. He showed him a little run-down, two-room house with a faded Yankees banner hanging from the front porch. God said, “This is your new home, Skip. Most people don’t get their own house up here.”

Joe looked at the house, then turned to see the house on the top of the hill; a huge two-story mansion with white marble columns and plush patios under each window. Boston Red Sox flags lined the sidewalks and windows and a huge Red Sox banner hung between the marble columns.

“God, with all due respect, let me ask you a question: How come I get this little house with a torn Yankees banner that proclaims our 26 World Series titles while Terry Francona gets a huge mansion with Red Sox banners and flags flying all over the place?”

God smiles for a moment then replies, “That’s not Terry’s house, that’s mine.”

And you can replace the Yankees with the Patriots or Duke Blue Devils, whatever you want. The truth is God doesn’t have a favorite. HE just has a sense of humor. HE loves that joke. HE loves when you tell it to make your team feel like they are chosen. HE also loves when your team screws up. It’s funny. Ever see those blooper reels on the lighter side of sports? God’s got them all (on Blueray, of course).

HE’s certainly not biased toward one team or another ... (although there is significant evidence to indicate HE’s not a fan of Cleveland). But scholars spend so much time focusing on the existence of God and his effect on games that they neglect his most significant nemesis, the Devil.

Remember, the Hades resident exists as much as he’d have you forgot about him. “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” That’s from “The Usual Suspects” and doesn’t give away the ending, though if you still haven’t seen it by now, I should ruin it for you just based on principle.

I find it strange that El Diablo doesn’t get more due. He’s behind lots of things. But winners praise God, who is probably amused by the attention, while the Devil is ignored. It would make just as much sense, if not more.

Take the 1990 NY Giants after the kick by Buffalo’s Scott Norwood’s sailed wide right sealing his team’s fate –- why don’t players get into the locker room after the game and say to the reporters, “Phew! The Bills played tough out there tonight, but we had Lucifer on our side. Thank the Devil. Super Bowl Champs, Baby!!!”

God, quite frankly, is not a sports fan. Do you know how trying that would be on HIM? “Have you ever seen a World Series baseball game on TV?” Of course, you haven’t, few people have. Sorry. Stupid question. Any sport will do, really.

If you had, you’d see all these people sitting in the stands, hands clasped deep in prayer. Most of them swear their butts off and are probably cheating on their spouses, so they’re not really very religious. During these times, God gets deluged with requests much like a city’s septic system does during commercials of a Super Bowl broadcast.

Philosophers have struggled over this for centuries, back when the first rock slipped through the first caveman’s hands or a sword fell out of a Gladiator’s hand just as the lion was about to pounce, or the sun got into a knight’s eyes enough to obscure the angle of the attacking knight’s lance.

The issue has haunted the likes of such great minds as Kirkegaard, Newton and Vegas bookmaker Joey “Muffintop” D’Angelo who theorized that God was a fan of Rollie Massimino’s animated coaching style and thus made a fortune on the 1985 NCAA Finals.

Nope, Lucifer just knew a good opportunity to screw a lot of bettors. “No. 8 seeds never win.” Heh heh. Yeah, we’ll see about that.

The Devil is the sports fan. He loves messing with things. God has better things to do. If God cared, do you think the Yankees would really have 27 championships? Would a team named the Blue Devils win so much? How would that look? (Actually, that’s exactly the kind of humor God goes for. He’s an ironic dude.)

Of course, there is the less-publicized theory that a couple of guys at Buffalo Wild Wings who weren’t ready to head home to their wives used their connections to the Rich Stadium grounds crew to keep the game going. But like I said, it’s only a theory.

What do I know anyway? Until now, I thought Newton spent all his time creating a delectable snack cookie made from figs.

They've started to announce the awards for the 2010 season in Major League Baseball. As you may know by now, the Gold Glove winners were voted on by the managers and coaches. Most notably, they selected as the Gold Glove winner at shortstop in the American League 36-year-old Derek Jeter, who is virtually immobile at the position. But many people don't know that they didn't stop there. Other categories were on the ballot and so, these judicious and astute men selected winners democratically for them as well. Through my connections, I got a look at the winners, before you see them reported by the major media outlets. Here they are now:

Cy Young Award (NL) Roy Halladay, Philadelphia Phillies

Cy Young Award (AL) Cy Young, deceased

Manager of the Year (NL) Fredi Gonzalez, formerly of the Florida Marlins

Manager of the Year (AL) U.L. Washington, Texas Rangers (they probably meant Ron Washington)

Rookie of the Year (AL) Buster Posey, San Francisco Giants (National League)

Cookie of the Year (NL) Cookie Rojas (due to a typo that no one picked up on)

Most Valuable Player (NL) Derek Jeter, NY Yankees

Most Valuable Player (AL) Derek Jeter

World Series Champion New York Yankees

Owner of the Year Frank McCourt, Los Angeles Dodgers

Most Cost-Conscious Executive of the Year Brian Cashman

Best Fans Florida Marlins

Best Broadcaster Joe Morgan

Umpire of the Year Jim Joyce

Derek Jeter Award for Handsomeness Beyond Reproach Johnny Damon, Detroit Tigers

Victor J. Steele Good Grooming Award Brian Wilson, San Francisco Giants

Best Beard on Someone Named Brian Wilson Sergio Romo, San Francisco Giants

Okay, this whole exercise was done simply to mock the selection of Derek Jeter as a Gold Glove winner. If coaches and managers can argue with umpires, couldn't umpires get in the faces of these "career baseball men" and shout, "ARE YOU BLIND?!" I think it's only fair; certainly more fair than giving Jeter the honor.

So New York Yankee demigod Derek Jeter’s contract is finally expiring after this season. Remember when he signed the monstrous 10-year, $189 million deal? He had just won his fourth and final World Series championship (unless you count the one in 2009), he was entering the prime of his career, and he was a hero all the way from the Eastern-most tip of New York to the Western banks of the Hudson River. (The rest of the country hated his guts.)

Now here we are, 10 years later and Jeter still looks the same, with pinstripes cascading up and down his body; he’s dating the “sexiest woman in the world” (or a sexy “beard” to Red Sox fans), Minka

Kelly; and he’s finding that his age, at 36, is catching up to him, much like it will to Mariano Rivera in a decade or two.

After starting out the season ablaze, he quickly cooled off and became less and less dependable at the plate and in the field.

Conventional reports say a man of his talents (and not his legacy) would go for around $6 million per year on the open market; nothing to scoff at ... unless you’re pitcher Gil Meche of the Kansas City Royals who has a career .503 winning percentage and is signed for $11 million this year. He scoffs at pretty much everything these days.

But why would Jeter want to end his career somewhere else? Did Joe DiMaggio spend his “Favre-years” patrolling the outfield in another city? Did “the Mick” booze it up after games in another uniform? Did Babe Ruth? (Oh, wait, Babe Ruth did. Fine, forget I mentioned him.)

Jeter was made for New York and New York was made for him. (New Jersey, on the other hand, was made for dumping toxic waste and bodies.) His whole life is there, even though his taxes are down in Florida. So we can be pretty sure he wants to re-sign there.

But what’s the offer going to be? It won’t be $18 million even though the Yankees have that kind of money stuffed into their couch cushions. And $6 million is sort of an insult for the man who reinvented the way non-Yankees fans hate one individual. You gotta figure $10 million is a nice round number where everyone can be happy, right?

But what does he do for them? Is he their shortstop? Their DH? Their Robin Yount, being herded into the outfield? Do you move him to third base? A-Rod could probably move back to short for a couple of years. It’s not like he’s going to be able to screw up any more in the eyes of Yankees fans even though he’s already won them one World Series.

The point is, they don’t have an upstart shortstop coming up through the ranks so at this point, there won’t be the kind of torch passing as there was from the Yankee Clipper to the Mick. So unless they sign a free agent shortstop (or every free agent shortstop), they’re stuck with a semi-mobile living legend who may hurt them defensively, and offensively, too, if the current trend continues.

That’s not very Yankee-like. Sure, fans will turn a blind ear and a deaf eye. There will be murmurings in the bars, the barber shops, and the talk radio show circuit, but no one will allow him to go.

Imagine letting him go and then watching him flourish somewhere else, perhaps beating the Yankees in a crucial playoff series before then flashing them the finger as he celebrates from the visitor’s dugout. (Of course, the fans would blame A-Rod for that gesture.)

Convincing him to retire? That’s an option. Do you think Hank Steinbrenner will take Jeter to his compound and show him the grounds during a heart-to-heart discussion?

“So Derek, how’s everything? Good? Everything’s good? That’s good. ... Y’know, Derek, playing careers don’t last forever and I wanted you to know that whatever role you want in this organization when you’re done, whenever that is, it’s totally all ri — Hal, get him!”

And then Hal jumps out from behind a giant shrub shaped like Yogi Berra and whacks Jeter in the knee.

More than likely, it’ll be up to Jeter himself to decide. And he may still have other things he wants to accomplish and may not realize that he’s slowing down. (Look at all the athletes who don’t.) Or he may not want to admit it. He may have the No. 40 in mind or want to outdo Mariano who will pitch til he’s 50.

You have to know what’s best for you, but not let your lasting image be that of someone who’s held on for too long. When people think you’re better suited for the Old Timers game than the All-Star game, it might be time to hang them up.

I’m guessing it won’t be for a few years, but we’ll see if it will be a few years too late.

So during the negotiations with the face of their franchise, do the Yankees play hardball? Of course, we’ll find out soon enough, as they’re one Cliff Lee start away from being eliminated from the MLB playoffs. At that point, he'll have Minka to comfort him. So what the heck does he care what he signs for anyway?!

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.

Baseball enters its final phase – the pennant race. Now that the trading deadline has come and gone marking an end to all trades (except the ones that happen after the trading deadline), we can focus on the matter at hand – watching the Phillies and Yankees make it to the World Series.

I mean, seriously, is there any doubt of that? Oh, right, the Padres are going to “shock the world.” First of all, the local news barely covers that team, how is the world ever going to hear about it? Secondly, the team scores less than Cliff Clavin did (yet still more than the Dodgers).

Oh, but the Braves have some good, young talent.

Oh, but the Braves have some good, young talent. That’s me mocking you in my high-pitched italic font. You’re so naïve, it’s really quite adorable.

We all knew that only six teams had a chance to win entering this year. It’s how you can tell the difference between baseball and basketball; one is built for six teams to have a chance to win and the other only has four potential winners on a yearly basis. (Oh, that and one sport has more black people.)

Even those odds were too great for the big market juggernauts in New York and Philly. They had to narrow the playing field. The Phillies were a mess earlier which is the only reason other teams are still in it. And they got rid of Cliff Lee! If they had him, they’d have sown it up by now, which is why they picked up Roy Harvey Oswalt. (His middle name’s not “Harvey,” but doesn’t it feel like it should be in there?) They didn’t like having to work so hard.

Now they have Cole Hamels, who was the only lefty better than Lee until last year, and is an ace on most other teams; they have Roy Halladay who has already thrown one perfect game this year; and now, they have Oswalt who pitched the Astros into the World Series by himself in 2005. Where’s the challenge in that?

Then we have the Yankees. As if their lineup wasn’t enough to support their pitching staff (they did win the World Series last year, y’know), then they upgraded in centerfield, DH, and added more pitching.

They lost a few games and decided they needed to upgrade even further. So they got Lance Berkman. Naturally. And Kerry Wood. Of course. And Austin Kearns. Why not? The All-Star team didn’t have as many big name players as the Yankees do.

The Yankees hit the deadline like Paris Hilton hits the mall. “I want one of those and get me one of those and I’ll take ten of those ... and I want another dog to have something in my Milan estate when I visit.”

Oh, but their middle relief is “suspect.” Who cares? In October, your middle relief is Andy Pettitte and Javier Vasquez.

The Red Sox are among the six who go into each year with a shot at the crown, but have been so decimated by injury that they only have the fifth best record in the league right now. Imagine if they had more than five regulars among their starting nine and more than two pitchers healthy for the entire season.

Hey, what about the Angels? They added Dan Haren.

Again, that’s adorable. And the Dodgers got Scott Podsednik. Well, at least he can show them his ring, cuz they sure as heck aren’t getting ones of their own.

Can we just cut to the chase here? C’mon, Selig, start the World Series now. The NFL has started training camp and the closer they get to the season (the Hall of Fame game is next week!), the lower your numbers get. It’s downright embarrassing. Save some face and play your ace-in-the-hole now.

You’ll have two major markets with passionate fans driving ratings through the roof while the only talk right now is what Terrell Owens and Chad Ochocinco talk about during their lunch break.

The window is small, Bud, and it’s shrinking fast. Summer playoffs; I like it! That would make you a forward thinker. You came up with the wild card and that seems to be a success (after foolishly expanding to increase the need for the wild card system, but that’s another story); you came up with interleague play; and you implemented steroid testing only ten years too late ... so let’s go for the Grand Salami here!

Right now, Phils and Yanks, best-of-seven (starting in Philly this year thanks to Joe Giraldi’s decision not to pinch run for David Ortiz), let’s give America what they’re waiting for ... well, before football.

Sure, you won’t carry the Baltimore market ... or Cincy ... probably not anywhere west of Cleveland ... oh, that reminds me, Cleveland won’t watch either. But you’ll get New York and Philly ... and Boston (whose only desire will be for both teams to implode by some sort of scientific phenomena caused by the excess gaseous vapor generated by both sets of fanatics).

It’s your only hope. With basketball’s popularity in the ol’ dumper, America wants baseball to do well. Otherwise, we’ll be stuck watching jai alai matches on ESPN Doze to pass the summer months until ... well, until right now.

Did you hear Albert Haynesworth didn’t pass his conditioning test? Or that Darrelle Revis is sitting on his island instead of participating in training camp? Of course you did, because it’s football season!

Did you hear relief pitcher Scott Downs stayed put in Toronto? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

That’s all I’m going to say. Tom Brady’s talking to the press about what it’s like to be a father. I’ve got to watch.

On Tuesday July 13, 2010, George Steinbrenner, the most prolific owner in American sports, passed away at the age of 80. Love him or hate him, or really, really hate him, he turned baseball into what it is today – a sport symbolizing everything that makes America, more specifically, capitalism great to Yankees fans, and the downfall of American society, more specifically, a flaw in the free-market system to fans of other teams, including the Yankees' many Triple A farm clubs, i.e. the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Kansas City Royals, the Washington Nationals, et al.

Though he was typically known as an irrational, reactionary blowhard, the man was undoubtedly a great business man and a huge baseball fan. His desire to win at all costs (reaching more than a billion dollars throughout this past decade) proved to be successful after the 1994 work stoppage and subsequent Collective Bargaining Agreement that we now adhere to came into play.

His oversized personality was on wide display for all to see, yet most people really don’t know the reasonable man beneath the harsh veneer. Here, for your education, is the biography of the one they called Mr. Steinbrenner:

STEINBRENNER: The Unauthorized Biography*
*Number of sources used in research (0)

George Michael Steinbrenner III was born on Independence Day in 1930. Known best as the principal owner of the New York Yankees, he was also known as “The Boss,” “the guy who ruined baseball,” “Steinfuhror,” “Darth Steinbrenner,” “****sucker,” and “Tiny” to his friends at the golf club.

Born in Rocky River, Ohio, young Georgie grew up in a suburb of Cleveland during the Great Depression. During those lean years, he was forced to sell apples off a cart to help his family make ends meet. But other vendors complained when he would steal the best apples off of their carts and put them with his own.

Known as a shrewd kickball captain in grade school, he always found the best players by giving them more cookies than the other captains. His teams set records for best offensive production for a team and consecutive wins (42). Most of the fourth-graders on his team were later found out to be between 12 and 14 years old, thus requiring an asterisk by their records.

As a young man, he matriculated at Williams College where he ran track while majoring in Business Ethics until he flunked out. Given another chance, George changed his major to sports management. After flunking again, he settled on poetry; coming in third in his fraternity’s annual dirty Limerick contest.

After graduation, he joined the United States Air Force and became the first enlisted man to put an offer into the government to buy the Air Force, thereby forcing the government to discharge him dishonorably, burning his records and disavowing any knowledge of his ever participating in the armed forces.

He returned to his home state where he coached high school basketball and football in Columbus before becoming an assistant football coach at Northwestern University. He was relieved of his coaching duties after one morning when he got into a disagreement with the head coach and fired him. When the Athletic Director informed Coach Steinbrenner that he did not have the authority to fire other coaches, George fired him too.

Deciding it best that he focus more on a family at that point, George married Joan Zieg, in a small civil ceremony in 1956. They divorced in 1958, remarried in 1959, divorced again six months later, remarried, divorced again the following spring, and then remarried. The third marriage was not recognized however as he failed to realize that she was married to someone else at the time. Finally, they remained married for almost 50 years consecutively.

With his wife locked up in a long-term deal, he went back to work, this time joining his father’s struggling business, the American Shipbuilding Company, a year later.

Stealing some money from his daughter’s Girl Scout troop’s hedge fund kept for a trip to Disney World, George bought the Cleveland Pipers of the National Industrial Basketball League. The team went bankrupt and he went back to the ship company, eventually buying it.

After failing in his bid to buy the Cleveland Indians (whom he continually referred to as the “Cleveland Whateverthey’recalleds”) he joined a group of investors to buy the Yankees for $10 million in 1973.

After announcing at his press conference, “I won’t be active in the day-to-day operations of the club at all,” he changed his tune quickly. In his first year as owner, he ordered the carpet pattern changed in his office a record 16 times, prompting the facilities department and maintenance staff to go on strike for two months in mid-July.

During games, he would routinely pull vendors aside and criticize their selling technique. This prompted the Concessionaires Union to fine him $20,000 and ban him from the concession stands during games.

At this time, free agency was becoming popular in the major leagues. It proved to be a boon for Steinbrenner for in 1974, he bought Catfish Hunter, then he bought Richard Nixon, then, during a particularly wet spell that summer, he bought the weatherman and ordered him to stop the rain. That latter maneuver got both him and the weatherman suspended for two years.

Upon return from his suspension, his team won the first of seven World Championships under his reign. But the fans’ arrogance and their growing familiarization with winning began to show after losing the ALCS in 1980 and the World Series in 1981 as they became disenchanted with his ownership. After Game Five that year, George got into a scuffle with two Dodger fans in an elevator that left him with a broken hand, a fat lip, and a bruised goiter. The fans, Mildred Schuster, 93, and Catherine Dinovio, 89, were unscathed in the scuffle.

Continuing with his random day-to-day decisions, the team saw a steady stream of stars flee from what had now been tabbed “The Bronx Zoo.” Hall-of-Fame outfielder, Dave Winfield, was one of the few who turned down a trade away from New York to the Mighty California Angels of Los Angeles in Orange County’s Anaheim in exchange for pitcher Mike Witt in May of 1990. Steinbrenner rewarded Winfield’s loyalty by refusing to pay his charity foundation the $300,000 guaranteed in his contract, then trading him anyway.

Later that year, Steinbrenner confessed to also paying Howard Spira, a small-time gambler, $40,000 to dig up dirt on Winfield. This was the final straw for baseball (and for Winfield who claimed he was worth way more than $40,000). Commissioner Fay Vincent suspended Steinbrenner for life. Evidently, Vincent, a huge animal lover, interpreted that to mean the life of his pet hamster, DiMaggio, and reinstated Steinbrenner three years later.

Since then, Steinbrenner put his business savvy to work purchasing a new cable station (The YES Network), five new championships, and a new Yankee Stadium, one that charges $7 ($7!) for bag check.

And shortly after New York blew the three-game lead over nemesis Boston in the 2004 ALCS, “The Stein” went out and purchased fireballers Randy Johnson and Carl Pavano, as well as all present and future residents of Cuba, Puerto Rico and the island of Okinawa. He was also rumored to have put the Dominican Republic on lay-away.

His recent purchases of Mark Teixeira, CC Sabathia, and A.J. Burnett finally earned him the championship he’d been lacking for nine long seasons.

In the days leading up to his death, Mr. Steinbrenner could be heard regularly cursing and randomly firing people on the streets of New York. He leaves behind him some family, a few enemies, and one baseball team that has either ruined or saved baseball, depending on your point of view.

Rest in Peace, King George! Even Red Sox Nation will miss you.

[Excerpted from “How to Talk to a Yankee Fan” (Seven Locks Press, 2006)]

The miracle team of the year has been the Boston Red Sox, or should I say, the Boston Red Cross Sox because of their inability to stay off the disabled list. Their manager, Florence Nightengale a.k.a. Terry Francona, continues to piece together the framework of a team from used rags and twine. For much of the season, their outfield has consisted of their utility infielder and two minor leaguers.

Currently, their starting left fielder is out, courtesy of a collision with their third baseman; their backup outfielder is out; their second baseman and the Papi-noted “heart” of the team broke his foot hitting a ball off it; their starting catcher caught a foul tip on his thumb breaking it; their most successful pitcher up until now, after getting his first major league hit, couldn’t decide whether he wanted to break up the double play at second or just cede the out so he pulled up lame instead with a hyper-extended knee; and two more of their starting pitching staff have been on the D.L. most of the season. Oh, and their best middle reliever has a strained right forearm and is now on the D.L. too.

Everyone of the injured who doesn’t pitch has a broken bone. And their starting right fielder, J.D. Drew (or “D.L. Drew” as someone corrected me while I attended the Red Sox-Giants game last week), gets a hamstring pull twice monthly.

In the past week alone, they’ve lost three of these players, including both of their catchers. Even football players are reading this and saying, “Golly, they sure get injured a lot in baseball.” (Because that’s how footballers speak.)

The season, especially this past week, has been like a horror movie where some mysterious entity is killing off everyone, one at a time. OR ... is it being done by someone from within?! [Dun dun duhhhhhh!]

You’ve seen the story before – a group of friends walks into the woods and then one of them has to “drain the weasel,” so he goes off. A few minutes later, when he doesn’t come back, another guy says, “Oh, what a clown. He’s just messing with us. I’ll get him.” Then he doesn’t return. This causes someone else to get suspicious when he realizes something weird is happening.

One of the girls lets out a little whimper and moves closer to the brave leader of the group (also the most handsome), who suggests that everyone stays together right before deciding to split into pairs to look for the missing hikers. (Apparently, staying “together” can be done separately.) So when one pair loses a member (usually due to that person’s clumsiness and perhaps some rudimentary squirrel-catching device), the remaining member runs back to join the other pair, only to find that THE ENTIRE TEAM IS BASICALLY MADE UP OF CAREER MINOR LEAGUERS AND SOME JOURNEYMEN!!!

At the beginning of the year, everyone thought it would be a “bridge” year, a season of futility before their highly-touted prospects (one of whom recently had brain surgery after doctors discovered a cavernous malformation in his brain stem) were ready for the show.

They adopted a philosophy of pitching and defense, which is now coming to fruition, only the inverse of it. They are tenth in the America League in E.R.A. while their hitting and offense puts them first in runs scored. Explain that one, Bill James!

To give the appearance of competition, they signed defensive whiz Adrian Beltre (who leads the team in errors), a 37-year-old centerfielder who began the year by passing a kidney stone and then getting a sports hernia, and a shortstop who had a career year in 2009 at 33 years old (who’s second on the team in errors).

Through all this, with a lineup consisting of only two regulars from last year’s playoffs-reaching team, they are knocking on the door of the Yankees for the best record in the division, let alone the entire major leagues. How is this possible?

These Red Cross Sox never cease to amaze us. They’re constantly writing tales of the incredible, from the 2003 playoffs to the 2004 playoffs to the off-season their general manager Theo Epstein had to leave his office in a gorilla suit, stories that any self-respecting Hollywood producer would quickly say, “No one would believe a word of this! It needs more monkeys and midgets!” (Because that’s how Hollywood producers speak.)

They’re like a beer commercial.

It is said their walk-off home runs can feed an African village for a week.
The sun rises in the East, unless the Sox are on a West Coast swing.
News channels follow them twenty-five/seven.
They can sell out Fenway Park on a travel day.
New born babies are named after the team’s equipment manager.
They are ... the most interesting team in the world.

Voiceover: “I don’t always drink be-ah, my friends, but when I do, I drink Sam Adams ... and a lot of it ... with a cup o’ chowdah.” (Because that’s how Bostonians speak.)

I had the honor and privilege the other day to meet a real pioneer, a hero to many, and one of the most judicious legal minds out there – Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor, the first Latina named to the court.

I found her to be an extremely wise and charming woman, personable and down-to-earth. Knowing she’s from the Bronx, I told her of (READER ALERT: SHAMELESS PLUG COMING) my new book Red Sox Fans are From Mars, Yankees Fans are From Uranus (due in stores April 25, but available on Amazon now).

The lifelong Yankees fan responded with a smile, “We’re nicer fans.”

What?! Well, of all the ignorant, judgmental, biased statements ... “Are you saying Red Sox fans are more aggressive and reactionary than Yankees fans?!” That’s ludicrous! I should have punched her right in the – er, uh, what I mean to say is, I think her viewpoint is slightly askew.

“Objection, Your Honor!” I would like to appeal your decision to a higher court ... what’s that? ... Oh, YOU’RE the higher court? Crap. Well, what about Justice Breyer? He’s from Boston. Maybe he’ll compose the majority opinion on the matter. Where is he now? ... What do you mean he’s recused himself because the bullpen blew another lead?! Can he do that?”

All right, so I guess I must present my case alone. And such is the story of how the case of Nation v. Empire was finally heard by the Supreme Court. Allow me to commence:

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court,

Are fans of the Red Sox and Yankees different? Fans of Boston will respond “no,” whereas those backing the Bronx Bombers would say, “Hell, no!” thus exhibiting the only similarity betwixt the two.

When speaking of major market teams, these two really are unparalleled. They represent the crème-de-la-soul. Yet their payrolls are roughly $44 million apart (depending upon which figures you use), more than the entire payroll of the Pittsburgh Pirates who reside in the No-Chance-in-Hell-of-Winning Division. And the Yankees claim they spent more responsibly this year, “lowering” their payroll to a mere $206 million.

As Oakland GM Billy Beane said (and I’m paraphrasing here), “That’s like cutting calories by having a five-course meal, but passing on the dinner mints.”

The Yankees are the instigators. Meanwhile, Boston merely has a responsibility to keep up with the Yankees, so the Red Sox went out and signed John Lackey. Of course, New York had to keep up with Boston’s two championships by buying Teixeira, Sabathia and Burnett last year. Hmm, let's just strike that from the record, shall we?

It is only with a comparison of the other 28 teams when you see that these two are similar. But are the fans?

Again, many would see them as cut from the same cloth, but anyone who has spent time with both can clearly differentiate. Those who think they are the same are uninformed.

Yes, there are obnoxious fans on both sides, as there are those of the fair-weather variety, but the same could be said of the White Sox, the Angels (those that show up), the Phillies (they’re in a league of their own), the Mets, et al.

One might claim that Red Sox fans are, indeed, more rude, crude and aggressive (I’m looking at you,

Sotomayor, don’t act like you’re looking for your gavel), but I contend that until two Yankees fans are killed by Red Sox fans, it’s a moot point. Yes, in 2004 and again in 2007, the rivalry turned homicidal.

Forget about 27 championships, how about mentioning the two murders?

Now, I don’t condone trying to even this score. The worst I’d suggest is using my book to give them a paper cut and pouring lemon juice (sold separately) on it ... but only if they really ask for it.

I think there lays the most glaring offense – a Yankees fan’s claim of 27 championships. It’s like an introduction for them. “Hi, my name’s Dave.” “Hi, Dave, I’m a fan of the 27 Championship Yankees.” The only thing that would be more egregious is if they had trumpeters announce their arrival and team’s accomplishment.

But how many championships have each of these individuals been around for? The next time a Yankees fan says that to you, ask him or her how the 1932 team compared to the ’58 squad (the ’32 team was the last of their first run of crowns and featured Babe Ruth’s alleged “called shot”); or who the manager was in 1947 (Bucky Harris); or where the parade was held in 1961 (Mac Goldberg’s Upper East Side townhouse)?

The beauty of any championship is the nostalgia, the memories created by a successful conclusion to your team’s season, the seeds of loyalty blooming ceremoniously for you to enjoy the fruits of your support.

Just showing up and claiming victory isn’t right. Who else does that? But I invite Yankees fans to claim anything they’ve experienced, even if they were too young to consciously remember it. For instance, if one was born in 1970, then he gets to claim seven championships. Only those seniors born prior to 1923 are allowed to talk about all 27.

Joe Girardi doesn’t help matters by constantly changing his uniform number to the next championship it would be should they win again. I think he could cut the animosity shown to him a little if he changed his uniform number to $206,000,000. At least then people would say, “Well, at least he understands the major reason he’s winning.”

Red Sox fans are whiners (note the payroll crack one paragraph earlier), which can become annoying, but we’re not obnoxious. Yes, there was the potential for the Nation to usurp Yankees fans as the most hated in the league in 2008 as their 21st century trophy count ballooned to two-to-nothing over New York, but given the torment we’d been put through, we ask the court to disregard any transgressions we may have had.

When the Sox won in October 2004, people asked the question, “What will become of Sox fans’ identity?” And there are many Sox fans today who don’t follow the team with the same desperate nature of previous campaigns; because it’s been done. The quest has been achieved.

Many believers (die-hards, not just “pink hats”) would not have minded if baseball just closed up shop and went home after 2004. Let the Sox be the first and last winners of the World Series. And so now, the goal isn’t to win once to shut Yankees fans up, but it’s to consistently keep Yankees fans from crowing. Any poor qualities we may show are done as a reaction to those of the Empire.

Then from 2004-2008, the Yankees were floundering (floundering being a relative term) and the Red Sox were doing well. Others outside the Nation and Empire began to confuse the two fan bases. Again, there are similarities, but still differences which must be acknowledged by outsiders. There was the threat of Red Sox fans “becoming” Yankees fans, in the sense that they would exhibit the same entitled attitude.

But alas, it didn’t happen. Boston fans always had it in the back of their minds that there was another shoe to fall. It’s how we were bred. And that shoe did fall with a Game 7 loss to the Tampa Bay Rays and a Yankees World Series victory last year.

And so with a Yankees team on top and a Boston team positioned as the perennial challenger, we may seem similar, but one still comes up short in terms of the most-hated fan base. And that fan base is drinking Sam Adams.

In conclusion, Your Eminences, I believe I have proven without a shadow of a doubt (and with no help from Breyer) that it is, in fact, Red Sox fans who are nicer and less obnoxious, even if only by the width of the foul line, than Yankees fans.

The defense breasts.

There have been rumors floating around recently that Major League Baseball, in an effort to maintain a competitive balance, is considering floating realignment which, as I understand it, will rotate the teams in each division based on a number of factors.

Now, as much as I think the competitive balance is fine -- all six pro teams like Boston, New York, Philly, Los Angeles, Chicago have a legitimate chance to win every year, and if they can't, they have no trouble grabbing a player midseason from one of the 24 farm clubs out there, such as Pittsburgh or Kansas City -- I decided to look into this.

So I got a hold of the proposal from league offices. These aren't the final plans, mind you, just a version considered by the think tank that is the mail room staff at MLB in NYC, but it seems to make a lot of sense. And the theory behind the plan is quite simple.

Here, let me explain in layman's terms (as I am a layman much as my father was a layman before me and his father was a layman before him and his father's father before him was a blacksmith) the rules of realignment:

First off, the Yankees will be in their own division; the Red Sox will as well. The Red Sox will still be in the AL East, but the Yankees will move to the AL Not-Quite-As-Far-East.

The Pirates will be moved to the International League in Triple A and will be the farm system of the Phillies. The Phillies will be the farm system of the Mets.

Detroit will be in the new AL South Division every other year and the rest of the time, it will be in the Western Division of Major League Soccer.

Depending on record, the best team in the NL Central will play in the AL West the next year and the winner of the AL West will get a year off.

Both Chicago teams will play in a league that only faces both Los Angeles teams and both New York teams.

The Texas Rangers will align back to Washington and the Washington Nationals will realign back to Montreal.

Los Angeles and San Francisco will switch places.

Kansas City and St. Louis will compete in the new "Baby Back" Division. Pitchers on their teams will be able to use barbecue sauce in lieu of the rosin bag during games.

Expansion teams will be in a division all their own, but will need to be contracted. After contraction, baseball will introduce these teams as new expansion teams.

Some divisions will not be set until the season is underway. For instance, the last team to win ten games will realign into the same division as the first team to reach 30 wins.

All teams with animals, reptiles, birds and fish will be in one division while teams named with colors or geographical land masses are to be in another.

Teams with Cuban defectors on their active rosters are put in the Cuban division.

Cursed teams, likewise, are put there. This division will not be eligible for the playoffs ... or food rations ... or toilet paper. They must live in squalor.

Teams with offensive mascots such as the Indians and the Braves must play in their own division. They will be allowed to open and operate casinos at their stadiums, however.

Should a team have three rainouts in the first month of the season, it will be realigned to a sunnier division.

And finally, as payroll is a constant issue among competing teams, the highest salaried teams will be scheduled to play each other 100 times a year and will play the remaining teams twice a year.

If this passes (and I gotta tell you, at first glance, it makes a lot of sense) I predict we'll see some much more exciting baseball, especially during the playoffs ... except for the teams in the Cuban division, but that's only common sense.

Allegiances are funny. They make you see things that may not be there. They make you feel emotions that you wouldn’t otherwise feel. They change you.

For instance, take the words of one less-than-intelligent sports talk show host in Los Angeles as he proclaimed, after the recent gold medal hockey affair, that the Canadian coach was a “coward” for employing a “trap” defense for much of the game.

Really? A coward? For utilizing a strategy that earned his country a gold medal? That’s the kind of coward I want coaching my team.

The statement was less a swipe at the coach than it was a self-proclamation by the host that he was upset his team had lost. If the U.S. had employed that technique and won, it’s a safe bet that he would have been fine with it.

And that’s what allegiances can make you do.

I was born in Canada. But I grew up in America and have lived here most of my life (save for those three sordid months in a Turkish prison precipitated wholly on a classic misunderstanding, but that’s for a different blog post). So when the gold medal game was upon us, I was on the fence.

I figured I’d go with the northerners on this one since they’re always being made to feel inferior to the Americans. They needed this medal. And honestly, if America wants it so badly, they can always invade Canada at a moment’s notice and steal all the golden discs back.

I walked into the bar with a minute to go. Perfect timing, as I wanted to be around fellow hosers for the final horn. (Truthfully, I’m not exactly sure what a “hoser” is and if I am one, but I like the connotation.) Of course, I walked right in on a Zach Parise goal and the crowd started bellowing, “U-S-A, U-S-A.”

I realized that chant can be pretty annoying and obnoxious when you’re cheering for the other side, especially when the other side doesn’t have a comparable chant. No one goes, “CAN-A-DA, CAN-A-DA.” ‘Tis a silly chant.

In fact, it dawned on me that the pioneering papas like Jefferson and Hancock decided to name their new, “more perfect union” (seriously, how can something be more perfect?) the United States of America solely on the basis that the initials would make a good chant. And that’s the only reason.

But I would’ve been chanting that same thing if Canada wasn’t playing. So it got me thinking how the Olympics shake things up, twist things on their ears, throw a monkey wrench into the works.

When I was cheering for the U.S. team, I was alongside the likes of Yankees fans, Lakers fans, Colts fans, and Rai – well, I can’t say Raiders fans because I was nowhere near a prison. My point is ... my mortal enemies had become my brothers-in-arms.

A few weeks ago, they were idiots, incapable of holding a simple conversation without drooling on themselves. And now, they made more sense than anyone.

“That was a horrible call! He was offside!”
“Yeah, they obviously don’t want us to win!”
“That’s the only possible explanation.”

But being on the wrong side of a U.S.-heavy crowd (and with the rising rates of obesity, “heavy” has a double meaning here), I saw just how perceptions could change based on which side you’re on.

It changes how we view one another. At a local level, your high school team is valiant and heroic while the squad from the neighboring town is riddled with thugs; then you end up at the same college with these thugs and you realize they’re not that bad. In fact, they make a lot of sense when discussing the merits of your team versus the disgusting derelicts playing for the state school across the river.

But when you and the derelicts are slated to face those bums over the state line, it’s clear from whence the toxic waste smell has been emanating. It’s from the knuckle-draggers living in that other commonwealth, with whom any conversation is as contentious as can be. How can it not be? They are simply reprehensible cretins without a logical bone in their bodies; morons, the lot of them. The world would be a better place without them.

Until our country faces another country like in these Olympics, and we are seated next to those cretins, in which case they’re actually pretty good eggs that you’d like to share a beer with ... and not that imported swill, but a good domestic, tastes-like-water lager that will bring you arm-in-arm to the urinary trough together while belting out the national anthem, messing up the words to the point where most within earshot think you’re singing a Mariah Carey song.

That’s when the nationals from the other country make you sick with their weird way of talking and the lack of aglets on their shoes, which doesn’t seem bother us anymore on that day when the aliens come down to earth. For that is the day when we side proudly with the hosers, the limeys, the uppers, the trolls, the jets, the sharks, the Mujahideen, the infidels, the insurgents, the guerillas, the democrats, the republicans, the liberators, the oppressors, the Hoi Polloi, the proletariat the geeks, the dweebs, the nerds, the fatties, the dummies, the rednecks, the green thumbs, the blue bloods, the yellow bellies, the purple people eaters, the Black Panthers, the Brown Hornet, and my Syracuse Orange in order to defeat these evil beings from a foreign planet even if they’ve only come to impart upon us the secret recipe for their Universe-famous out-of-this-world (literally) Triple Fudge Chocolate Mousse Cheesecake as demonstrated on their top-rated show “So You Think You’re a Top Chef Alien that Can Dance?” and is available at their famous chain restaurant The Cheesecake Planet.

Because that’s what allegiances make us do! U-S-A! U-S-A! So you can just suck on that, Bahamas!

Patriots fans are worried. As well they should be. Is this the end of their magical run of greatness? The team that dominated the decade, the team that set all sorts of records, the team that set a new bar of perfection in a season over which other teams must now jump has suddenly become (gasp!) mortal.

Unthinkable as it may have once been, it’s now a reality. I mean, we’re talking about a team that put itself in the same conversation with the Steelers of the 1970s and the Walsh/Montana, Seifert/Young 49ers.

New England won three championships, but was essentially four minutes away from five in seven years. If Reche Caldwell (he of the googly eyes) catches the wide-open, coverage-breakdown pass and runs into the end zone versus the Colts in the 2007 AFC Championship game, New England more than likely goes on to beat Chicago in the Super Bowl. And, of course, there were the events of one year later, during their undefeated season, when they lost the Super Bowl on a miraculous catch from David Tyree. (I mean, seriously, who catches a ball against his helmet?)

Then Touchdown Tom Brady gets hurt, the potent offense grows somehow stagnant, they sputter into the playoffs with all sorts of things wrong with them, and here we are; they’ve gone from perennial Super Bowl favorite to once-was, apparently with no more bullets in the chamber. It’s the classic depiction of the rise and fall of a dynasty.

Rome went the same way. Remember when Caesar’s offensive linemen gathered around him and stabbed him, right there at midfield, as he was about to hand off to Augustus, their scat back? “Et tu, Hog Hannah,” he uttered.

However, there’s reason to believe it may not be the end at all, but rather a hiccup in the finely-oiled machine that is the New England Patriots.

Patterns in sports are not too uncommon, as they are for imperial kingdoms as well. The Patriots, for instance, were a 14-point underdog to the purely powerful and potent “Greatest Show on Turf” one winter’s day back in 2002. They eked out a three-point win. Flash ahead six years and the Patriots

possessed a record-setting offense that was favored by 14 points. The Giants won by 3.

This is just one example of the repetitive plot lines that permeate sports. The mystery, however, is which pattern a team will follow, and that is what keeps gamblers and prognosticators on edge. To wit, I present to you, the New York Yankees. (Pardon the smell.)

Take a look at the larger picture and you may find that this certain baseball team from the Bronx serves as a remarkably similar model for Patriots fans to observe.

Picture it – the Bronx, mid 1990s; a core group of youngsters hit the scene and win multiple championships out of the gate.

And they were poised to win more. Jeter, Posada, Pettitte and Rivera had many years left in them. They were in the World Series for the fifth time in six years, in 2001. They lost in seven games, with their once perfect superstar, Rivera, blowing the save. The loss shocked the once infallible Empire.

Then came another losing trip to the World Series in 2003, and their monumental collapse to Boston in 2004. Their fans didn’t know what to make of this. That year, Buster Olney declared they were dead in his book, “The Last Night of the Yankee Dynasty.”

Sure, they kept winning games, enough to make the playoffs, but they couldn’t seal the deal as they had once done without difficulty. These Yankees weren’t the same.

But as we all know, the Yankees were not done. They were merely reloading.

The Patriots are that team now. Brady, the quarterback, and Belichick, the coach, the two most important cogs of a football squad, are still in place. But they’re struggling. It is the darkest night of their dynasty, as New York's baseball boys faced in the middle of the decade.

In baseball, free agency played a key role in putting the Yankees back over the top. They spent and spent and spent, and their investments came to fruition. It helped that they still had their core, though.

In football, the draft is the tool team executives and head coaches look to in order to replenish their gridiron warriors. And the Patriots have more premium draft chips over the next two years than any other team does. So don’t count them out.

With the addition of some studs during one whirlwind offseason to the solid foundation already in place, the team might be back on top like Navin Johnson at the end of “the Jerk.” Couple their potential draft coup with an uncapped season and you may be looking at the remake of “A Yankee Tale.”

Now, I know you’re all reacting emotionally right now – they’ve lost too many key ingredients; the league’s built on parity; Belichick’s grown too arrogant – but you don’t know the future. And neither do I (save for that one recurring vision I have of never getting a shot with Rachel McAdams). I’m just saying that a Patriots Rebirth is possible.

It looks dark now – and represents a wonderful opportunity for the Buster Olneys of the world (is there more than one?) to craft some very poignant prose about the summation of the Patriots path – but perhaps such fare is premature. Care to put money down on it, Augustus?

After rigorously defending the fact that the decade has one more year in it, I have nonetheless decided to abandon my cause and write my End of the Decade blog. (Expect another one next year.)

Though for the record, decades end in 10. Let’s review the facts: When the Julian and Gregorian calendars switched over to Anno Domini – or Adrian Dantley as is the English translation – they did so at Year One. There was no Year Zero. Hence, the first new year’s celebration was January 1, 0001. And ten years later less one day, the decade ended on December 31, 0010. So we’re jumping the gun a little bit.

Although on the surface, it seems an inconsequential argument, but look closer to witness its necessity in navigating the all-too-important matter of how many championships the New York Yankees have won this decade in comparison with the total for the Boston Red Sox. As things currently stand, the tally is Boston, 2 – Yankees, 1. (Argue this fact if you will, but as we know, the Julians and Gregorians were never wrong ... except for that whole overreaching of the Roman Empire thing ... and probably also for betting long on the Latin language instead of short selling it.)

Anyway, it’s still been nine years since the last time we looked back a ways, so it got me thinking that I should open up my time capsule (a “Welcome Back, Kotter” lunch box in the back of my closet) to look at what I said about the impending “oughts.” Here’s the letter I wrote and stashed away on December 31, 2000 (the end of the 90’s, according to the early Italians):

12/31/2000
Dear Self,

Hey, how’s it going? Are you over Becky Lantana yet? Boy, you really screwed that one up, didn’t you?

Okay, enough small talk. I really didn’t think we’d make it through the decade. I mean, how many times can one person watch the Yankees win the World Series without taking his own life in the most disgusting manner possible? It’s just not fair! Spread the wealth a little bit, huh? The Red Sox and Cubs and White Sox haven’t won in over 80 years. You would think that at least one of them could win, even if only by accident!

(Though I’m not sure, but some of those Yankees looked to be on some sort of chemical substance that helps athletes perform at a higher level unnaturally. Hmm, well, I’m sure I’m just being paranoid. The increase in offense can most likely be attributed to better training and keeping the baseballs in a humidor.)

Seriously, I can’t take it anymore! For the sake of my health and my sanity, I am hereby renouncing my allegiance to the Red Sox. I know that I do that every year, but this time, I mean it! What more do I have to give? How can one fan be so unlucky?

[Disclaimer: In the event of an ownership change and comeback from 3-0 playoff series deficit, all claims, decrees, and statements regarding allegiances are to be rendered null and void.]

Look at my track record: I follow the Red Sox – 82 years without a title. Oh, but hey, they always make sure to get our hopes up before dashing them, so that's nice.

Then there’s the Patriots – oh, that’s a real treat. They make the Super Bowl only as a punching bag for the eventual winners. And they hired a guy who resigned as head coach of the New York Jets at his introduction press conference! Oh, yeah, that instills confidence. I give him two years, tops! And didn’t this guy fail in Cleveland?

I will admit, I don’t know what the Celtics are doing these days since I won’t watch current games, but choose to pop in old videotapes of the "Big Three" from the 80’s into my VCR instead. I wish there were some channel on television that showed classic sports events from the past just to protect me from having to witness such a monumental fall from greatness.

Oh, and lest I forget, the one chance I had to pick a team on my own, one that would be mine through thick and thin – I was born in Boston so I was forced into that family – I had to go out and accept Syracuse University’s offer to attend college there. And what happened the night I sent them my enrollment letter? They become the first No. 2 seed to lose to a No. 15 seed in the NCAA tournament. If that’s not a bad sign, I don’t know what is.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m considering going to grad school just to have another team to root for. Maybe I’ll go to Notre Dame. They’re a lock to be great every year!

Aside from my own miserable fortune, there are some things around the sports landscape that have caught my eye. For instance, I’ve been very impressed with Tiger Woods. I mean, this guy is perfect at everything. Does he have any flaw at all? If he does, I’m sure we’ll never see it ... on the golf course, at least.

On the tennis courts, I enjoyed watching Agassi play his guts out in the last few tournaments, especially during his Australian Open win over Yegev -- Yevgev -- Yagenvy – uh, over Kafelnikov. Andre was amazing! He played like a meth addict out there.

And I think now that the Rams have won in St. Louis, it would be hilarious if the Baltimore Ravens would win the Super Bowl. (Take that Los Angeles and Cleveland!) But they’ve got Trent Dilfer at quarterback and we all know from last year that offense ... wins ... championships!

Not that I’m big into the whole college football scene, but I gotta say that this BCS system really seems to be taking hold. I think the powers that be finally got things right. I love the fact that virtually any team with a reasonably decent record can claim a share of the national title.

All right, that’s all I got. Enjoy New Year’s Eve in this hopeless town with hopeless teams. Just remember, tomorrow is another year and with it, more hope for a positive outcome. You know what they say, “You can’t spell hopeless, without hope.” (Or is it “Hope is halfway to hopeless?”)

Oh, and give it a couple of months. Maybe Becky will forget what you did.

Yours truly,

You