First, about the curse: I have never believed in things mystical. The curse has always been interesting window-dressing to a bitter rivalry. The notion that millions of people would really believe that some sort of super-natural entity was prohibiting the Red Sox from winning something is somewhat far-fetched. Not to mention, and more importantly, it undermines both the old truth–that the Yankees had simply been better than the Red Sox —and the new truth– that the Red Sox, today, are the better baseball team. This is why the games are played on the field, and not via message board posts.
The awful reputation that Yankee fans have earned over the past several years, fairly or unfairly, always makes me want to provide my qualifications: I began rooting for the Yankees in 1972 as a six year old boy who idolized Bobby Murcer. I can no more change the team I root for and feel passionately about than I can grow an extra few inches (and I could use them). The Yankees were an awful baseball team until 1976, had a good five year period, and then returned to mediocrity for almost 18 years. You all know what the track record has been since 1996.
Things earned the hard way—like baseball championships—taste better. This is a fact of life, and one that I’m sure most Red Sox fans would agree with this morning. The 1996-2000 period was an amazing one for the Yankees, but for their fans, it was like being on a high dose of Prozac for way too long—championships lost their specialness and became expected. The last four years, where the Yankees made the playoffs every year and the World Series twice, have consequently been “disappointing” to Yankee fans. I can see why this would be perceived as arrogance.
Starting pitching aside, at the root of the difference between the Yankees and Red Sox is chemistry. In a desperate effort to continue the euphoria of 96-2000, the Yankees have aggressively signed high-priced free agents with less consideration for “clubhouse fit” than they have in the past. The Andy Pettittes, Tino Martinezes, Scott Brosiuses, and Paul O’Neills have been replaced with Kevin Brown, Jason Giambi, Alex Rodriguez and Gary Sheffield. All boast excellent paper credentials, but are unproven as team players, clubhouse leaders, and grounded human beings. I still have my reservations about the character of the Red Sox clubhouse, but there was undeniable chemistry. The self-described idiots were willing to walk the plank together.
I believe an analysis entitled “The Law of Diminishing Returns with Free Agent signings” will be done in the near future, and that the Yankees, unless they make some strategic changes in the way they approach the art of putting together a team, will be Exhibit A. “Greed is good,” said Gordon Gekko, but it’s also misleading. The Yankees need to stop building for fantasy baseball and re-build for the game on the field.

Curt Schilling has announced that he will have his foot amputated so that he can pitch another World Series game.

“It’s the least I can do,” said Schilling. “My team needs me.” Asked what sort of prosthetic device he would wear, Schilling announced his intention to simply push off his bloody stump.

Opening bids of $20,000 were quickly posted on Ebay for Schilling’s severed foot.
Schilling has also announced his intention to have the amputation done at a live news conference, without any anesthesia. The operation will be performed by a local high school biology class.

Yes, you’ve won. You’re very proud, and you want to tell everyone about it. We understand your excitement. In an effort, though, to avoid some of the, shall we say, mistakes in judgement, that were made after the ALCS win a couple nights ago, we thought we’d offer some helpful tips to keep any future celebrations safe and healthy.

1) In general, attacking police is bad. “I was really fired up cause the Sox won” is probably not going to hold much value with a judge. Plus, remember that the police are Red Sox fans too. They may want to celebrate by pounding your skull with a nightstick after you lob a rock at them.

2) Stuff isn’t free because the Red Sox won. This one is sometimes hard to understand, but store owners still need to feed their families. Sure, it’s great to wake up with a new big screen TV, but remember, you didn’t really win anything—the players did.

3) Gravity still works when you’re drunk. Ain’t it crazy how you think you’re pretty indestructible after half a case of Schlitz? Well, we want to remind you that the Green Monster is pretty high. Some of your fellow fans found that out the hard way, when they jumped from it and their femurs came right through their knee caps.

4) Fire is hot. The desire to light things up when things are going well is one of the more perplexing instincts. Then other stuff catches fire, and, well, things get bad. If you must burn something, please do it in your own home.

5) When car-tipping, remember to lift with your legs. Hospitals were flooded with people who threw out their backs because they didn’t lift properly. When we’ve got a hospital full of drunk, fractured, burned people, we can’t spend time with people who can’t follow rules.

Thanks!The New York Yankees

During tonight’s game, The following conversation among Red Sox players was secretly taped:

Damon: Dude, I can’t, like hit anything. I’ve got to get this hair trimmed. I can’t see squat.
Millar: No way, dude. Your hair is your power. Don’t give in to the man.
Pedro: He’s right, hombre. Love your locks. You look so much better than Jeter–
Damon: - but Jeter’s hitting and I’m not…
Pedro: It’s no big deal man. Remember, 10 years ago, you were under the mango tree waiting for the bus.
Damon: I was?
Pedro: It’s true. You were there with me and Nelson, the midget. He was braiding your hair.
Damon: Uh…
Millar: I’ve got the right beard and the Nation behind me. We will rise up as one and vanquish the foe…
Francona: Shut up already, you nub.
Millar: But Terry….
Francona: Listen, we’re down 13-6. It’s over. My first post season act is going to be to trade you to the Montreal Expos for a bag of balls.
Pedro: That’s funny, jefe.
Francona: And as for you, you Jeri Curled batting practice picture, I think you might want to call Japan.
Manny Ramirez: Terry, the voices are back. And they are saying I should go to Taco Bell and get the #4.
Francona: Fine. Get me a #3.

With the Red Sox down 2-0 in the ALCS and Red Sox Nation on the verge of all out revolt, the troubled franchise could hardly withstand another crisis. But, yesterday, rumors that have circulated for years gained some credibility: Manny Ramirez talks to his boogers.

It’s widely been acknowledged for years that Ramirez is a two-knuckle nose-picker. But the fear that he was actually having dialogue with his dried snot wasn’t confirmed until just recently, when a former Red Sox player made the stunning confirmation.

“Manny used to line his boogers up in his locker, and have little skits with them,” said the anonymous player. “I mean, we all knew he was crazy, but talking boogers? I surpised him once after batting practice and he had this one booger playing Hamlet…it was really scary.”

The Red Sox have seemed to tolerate Ramirez’s booger fascination– until recently. After a particularly bad at bat, manager Terry Francona asked Ramirez why he swung at a 3-0 pitch out of the strike zone. “Mr. Booger said to,” replied Ramirez, to the stunned silence of the Red Sox bench.

Management plans to talk to talk to Ramirez about his posse of nasal discharge after the season.

Day 1: Patient, an average baseball player who played above his head for a year or so, has desire to be Cowboy. Has never been near a horse in his life. Must be a repressed childhood desire. Talks about “Cowboying up” when hypnotised. Yells “Giddy Up” and breaks stuff running around my office.

Day 2: Patient talks about “The Nation,” the Red Sox fan base. Obviously needs more love: must affirm the fan base in order to make sure they still like him. Visits bars to enjoy fan-adoration. Sad. I’m not sure I can help him.

Day 3: Patient has grown a strange beard that he strokes madly while galloping and talking about Red Sox Nation. Some sort of weird John Wayne-Abraham Lincoln self-deluded psychosis. Must get more help….

Autumn descends, the baseball playoffs begin, and America slows down yet again to see the car wreck that has become the Boston Red Sox.
At a certain point in the last two or three years, the Red Sox decided, tragically, that their key to success in excorcising the demons of the past lay in how “anti-Yankee” they could look and behave. The result has been a steady parade of synthetic rallying cries, perplexing quotes, and juvenile shifts in grooming behavior. Ironically, they resemble the “Bronx Zoo” Yankee teams of the late 70s and early 80s, with the notable exception of a championship ring.
Sometimes, people under pressure do odd things. Witness “Cowboy Up,” Kevin Millar’s pseudo-manly rallying cry of a year ago. The idea that a team from aristocratic New England (chock-full of millionaires who might own horses but most of whom never rode one) might re-define itself as some sort of humble, middle-America rodeo team was laughable. Millar, by most accounts a pretty level headed guy during his time with the Florida Marlins, had clearly been drinking the Epstein Kool Aid since signing with the Red Sox. America collectively rolled its eyes.
One might think that last year’s heartbreaking loss to the Yankees might have brought about a renewed emphasis on focus and discipline. No more corny themes, let’s try and be the best baseball team we can be. Apparently, though, the Sox decided that they simply hadn’t pushed the envelope enough. Johnny Damon, by all accounts a pretty level headed guy during his tour with the Oakland A’s, concluded that a “Cousin It” imitation was in order. Sadly, a guy who’s arguably the best leadoff hitter in baseball now feels a need to say, “I’M JOHNNY DAMON, AND THIS IS MY HAIR! SEE HOW IT FLOWS?”
The “hands-off” approach apparently mandated by Epstein must have rankled Terry Francona, by all accounts a level-headed guy prior to his arrival in Boston. Theo clearly feels that there’s a championship team buried somewhere in his collection of bohemian artists, and fears that rules might stifle their potential. Unfortunately, given their recent track record, Theo might be more conflict avoider than saavy psychologist. That’s a fatal flaw in a general manager.
Their ace pitcher, Pedro Martinez, compensates for a slower fast ball with a thoughtful, introspective side, and a head full of Jeri Curls. Pedro, by most accounts always a certifiable lunatic, now has a pocket pal in Nelson De La Rosa, the midget who starred in the Island of Dr. Moreau. Clearly, one’s descent into baseball mediocrity is much easier to stomach when you have a midget around to tease your hair and listen to your mindless ramblings about Mango Trees.
But more. Trot Nixon and Kevin Millar are clearly trying to dispel the racist allegations often hurled at the Red Sox by emulating the great Emancipator, Abe Lincoln. Is it merely coincidence that “Four Score and seven years ago” was just about 1918? Is there symbolism in their hairy chins, or is it merely another junior high locker room contest, another plea for attention, another example of previously normal people acting…strangely?
The psychosis extends to Red Sox fans, who inexplicably complain about the Yankees payroll. We call this denial. This is tantamount to a cocaine addict pointing at a heroin addict and saying, “Well at least I’m not that bad.”
In the final analysis, Pedro’s “Daddy” comment is more fitting than he probably realized. Because the Red Sox are collectively acting like insecure teenagers in need of some good role models. Thankfully, the Yankees appear ready to help out.