Before we begin... Another friendly reminder to join my "Put CM's art in Yankee Stadium" facebook page.
Ok, ok... Maybe I should call this one the past TWO weeks in pinstripes, but as I said to my ex-wife on occasions too numerous to count, "I can explain!" I had a show back home at the Jersey Shore last Sunday night, and missed the 12:22am (i.e. the LAST train) north. I ended up having to wait til the 3:58am back up here, because NJ Transit, in their extremely finite wisdom, cannot possibly fathom why anyone would be looking to travel from the Jersey Shore back up north between the hours of 12:30 and 4am.
Now, what the shit does this have to with this column and with you, dear reader? Well, as you could imagine, by the time the 3:58 pulled into Long Branch I had a few more beers in me than at 12:22, and I was DEAD tired. Half-asleep and half-drunk on a commute from Long Branch to Jersey City is a great way to lose your BlackBerry, and losing your BlackBerry is an excellent way to have no idea what the fuck is going on in the Yankees' world or the world in general.
In fact, considering I'll be on stage for a third of the games this season, and my new day job has me bartending lunches every Monday, I'm beginning to question the feasibility of this whole "let's put up a new Yankees column every Monday!" enterprise.
Nevertheless! I will soldier on for you, my readers, because I love you. And because I crave constant attention and mass exposure.
Occasional glances at the paper while I grabbed my morning coffee did tell me all was not right in Yankeeland. Like the plagues being visited on the Egyptians (topical Passover reference!) the Yankees found themselves suffering the slings and arrows of a slumping Derek Jeter, a resurgent Josh Beckett, a tired Phil Hughes, and an oblique-tweaked Alex Rodriguez. Possibly other tragedies and maladies as well, but, as I said, I wasn't paying close attention.
Actually, seeing the back pages go from "This lineup's in trouble!" to "The rotation's in trouble!" in the span of a week made me glad I lost my BlackBerry. It's good to remove yourself from the constant stream of information every once in awhile and grab a little perspective. Especially in the fevered echo chamber that is the internet.
When I first got on twitter last year I found myself following not only every writer with a press pass or fan with a blog, but a number of other Yankee fans as well. This was a mistake. Now, I always fancied myself a fairly big Yankee fan, but wading into the Yankee twitterverse was like the night I went to see The Phantom Menace. As big a Star Wars dork as I am, and as much as I know every line of dialogue and every music cue in those movies, I knew when I got on line for that first midnight showing behind the dozens of people with lightsabers or in stormtrooper outfits that there were A LOT of people who were WAY bigger fans than me. When I got on twitter, I basically found a whole bunch of Yankee fans with lightsabers in stormtrooper outfits. I may have a framed picture of myself and George Steinbrenner hanging on my wall, but I can't touch some of you people.
Not there's anything wrong with that. However anyone derives joy or pleasure in these short lives we live, or chooses to express themselves online, is fine by me. I just have no desire to read it. It turns out there's a big difference between hearing an entire crowd react at once to something that happened on the field, and reading it over and over and OVER again in your twitter feed.
I'm glad so many have formed this great online community of fans to enrich their lives, but I'm a misanthropic, anti-social cunt. The only thing I want in my twitter feed is information or entertainment. I'm really glad you're getting back to the gym and that your fantasy team is doing well. I just don't need it coming across the ticker like it's the latest update on the Fukujima reactor.
While I'm ranting about twitter, let me relay a quick message to the beat writers. I know it's been unseasonably cold this month, but we've still hovered above freezing and you still GET PAID TO GO TO BASEBALL GAMES. I walked 6 blocks in the pouring rain last Saturday just to do 5 minutes of comedy, and picked up an extra shift waiting tables Sunday so I could maybe, POSSIBLY, afford to go to a game sometime soon. Shut the fuck up and put on a heavier coat.
And, on that highly positive note, let's end this disaster of a column.
I guess I didn't comment too much on the team, so let me say that I'm not too worried about our lineup or rotation (yet). I think the Captain's still got plenty of gas in the tank. A-Rod's oblique thingy is just a minor speed bump in what is going to be an MVP-caliber year. I'm not sure what the hell's going on with Phil Hughes. With this rehab program he's going through, can he jerk off? Because I've had some vigorous masturbatory sessions in my day, and have felt a little burn in the bi & triceps after.
The one thing that does scare me is Josh Beckett suddenly remembering, out of nowhere, how to beat the Yankees. How the fuck did that happen? Did the Lantern Corps give him back his power ring? Did Doctor Octopus kidnap Mary Jane? Or did he just get fed up and go all "Ralphie on Scut Farkus"? Whatever the reason, I'm TERRIFIED.
One last note on the Yanks & Sawx, did anyone else notice the shot in ESPN's pregame of a couple outside Fenway, with a guy in a Red Sox hat holding a girl in a Yankee cap in a headlock and pretending to punch her? Yep. Nothing says "Sports Greatest Rivalry" like a good battered woman gag.
Thanks for reading, kids. Sorry it sucked this week. I'll try better next time. And, oh yeah, $45 for the Babe Ruth drawing. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org if you're interested.
Follow me on twitter at @craigmahoney
See me on stage:
Tuesday April 19th, 7pm