(EDITOR’S NOTE : despite being denied his First Amendment rights by the jerkfaces over at Yelp, consumer advocate / baseball executive Randy L. occasionally makes his presence felt at CSTB, using these pages to weigh in on the events of the day, sporting and otherwise. When Randy learned of the recent troubles surrounding the New York Mets, he offered, nay, demanded, an opportunity to reach out – GC)
GREETINGS, chumps, lumps, and the chronically down-in-the-dumps. What a difference a couple of weeks makes, am I right? It was a fortnight ago that a few of you gutless wonders had the temerity to corner me in a Citi Field stairwell and spray mustard packets on a suit that costs more than your parents earn in 6 months. Hardy-fucking-har. But you’re talking to a man that’s been around the block a few times — I know all about flashes in the pan. Shane Spencer. The Strokes. I could go on, but you get the idea. You Mets fans have had your fun, and now that your baseball season is effectively over, it’s time for the adults to have a reasonable conversation amongst themselves.
I of course am referring to a father and son duo who I have the greatest admiration and respect for ; Fred and Jeff Wilpon. I realize the New York Mets have a titular “general manager”, but we all know he’s nothing more than window dressing for the financial Hindenburg that is our crosstown rivals, much the way the Yankees’ Brian Cashman is far too consumed with leaping out of airplanes and picking up librarians on Craigslist to worry about a contractual albatross that would choke the life out of a smaller commercial enterprise. And while I’m told trades between the Mets and Yankees are a rare occurrence, I’m prepared to check my ego at the door in the hopes of finding solutions to both clubs’ problems. That’s just the kind of person I am. I’m not afraid to think OUT OF THE BOX, though please, for the love of God, make sure no one downstairs thinks I said “Jack In The Box” or Sabbathia’s gonna burst in and flip over desks looking for the Sourdough Cheesesteak Melt.
The way I see it, the Mets have more holes than one of those video emporiums we’re constantly dragging a certain radio broadcaster out of. They’re lacking offensive production, a capable big league shortstop, and most of all, they’re lacking star power (please don’t get me started on David Wright. I’m sure he’s a nice young man but he’s got about as much personality as Andrew Giuliani and he might be half as smart). And that’s why I’m prepared to make a trade proposal that could forever change the fortunes of not one, but two New York baseball teams.
Alex Rodriguez for Matt Harvey.
What’s that? You’ve fallen off your chair? You’re stunned that the world’s premier sporting franchise would take a chance on an unproven commodity like Harvey? Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the expression, “nothing ventured, nothing gained?” I mean, I’m willing to bet if you’re reading this blog, you’re super familiar with the “nothing gained” part.
I realize the youthful Mr. Harvey hasn’t won a decision since mid April. I am fully aware his current physical condition is a question mark. But that’s alright —- I see something of myself in the second-year pitcher, even if it’s just my reflection in the computer monitor. Mentored by proven winners like Joe Girardi, Larry Rothschild, Andy Pettitte, myself, etc., I have every confidence Matt Harvey has what it takes to resurrect his floundering career.
As for A-Rod, well, I cannot pretend it would be easy for us to part ways with this sure-thing, first ballot Hall of Famer. Not only has he formed an incredible rapport with his teammates, but Yankee fans around the world simply worship the guy (you should hear the way they scream at him, it’s like Beatlemania), just as I’m sure the 5 or 6 thousand remaining Mets fans will learn to once he brings his 647 career home runs (not to mention his personal strength trainer, entourage of Chyna-lookalikes and Kabbalah guru) to Flushing.
Does it pain me to imagine Alex breaking Barry Bonds’ all-time HR mark in a Mets uniform? Am I saddened to think of all the plaudits the Mets’ decorated medical staff will undoubtedly receive when A-Rod terrorizes National League pitching later this summer? Not really. When you’ve been to the top of the mountain as many times as I have, you’d like to see someone else get a chance to experience a similar thrill. And I can say for certain there are no two people in all of baseball I’d rather see experience the joy of employing Alex Rodriguez than the Wilpons.
So c’mon, Fred and Jeff. Let’s do this. A-Rod would bring instant credibility to your sinking ship family business, and if you’re prepared to act NOW, I will even throw in Michael Kay for the mere price of Gary Cohen. Again, that’s the kind of guy I am.
I look pretty good up there, right? BIG, BIG day for Randy. All sorts of international exposure. And when the world’s media wanted to know what could the greatest sporting franchise of all time bring to the table when it comes to making soccer happen in NYC? It’s pretty fucking simple, isn’t it? Legitimacy. Local expertise. Sizzle. But the most important element of them all is ME.
Let’s face it, these guys from Manchester City wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow when it comes to running a top-flight sports organization, and I’m more than happy to show them how it’s done — for a healthy fee, of course. But there’s no small irony in that Man City competes back home with a crosstown rival whose annual success has routinely overshadowed theirs. Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it?
And low and behold, guess which father-son entrepreneurial duo — currently leading the New York Mets on a straight path to contraction — find themselves on the outside looking in? FUNNY considering their own lust for a Major League Soccer franchise led them to waste time and money on lobbying to build an Indian casino in Queens. Time, they’ve got plenty of. Money….not so much.
The study in contrasts couldn’t be more stark. While the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees proudly celebrate our legacy — check out the plaque dedicated to Kevin Maas the next time you’re in Monument Park — the Mets are merely a preparatory school that graduates players like Darryl Strawberry, David Cone and Doc Gooden to the big time.
(Did you dig my prep school analogy? In an earlier draft, I suggested that maybe Luis Castillo went to CHOKE ACADEMY. You know, Choate. Choke….alright. I can see I’m wasting amazing material on a bunch of intellectual stiffs).
And I hope my CSTB followers — all two dozen of them — noticed that when it came time to consummate the marriage between the Yankees and a team no one in America gives two shits about another iconic global brand —- yours truly was front and center. Not Hank Steinbrenner. Not Hal Steinbrenner. But ME. While those two are sorting out Daddy issues and recovered memory syndrome nonsense with some $500-an-hour specialist (though not the kind in a leather mask that Sterling was caught with), I am once again, doing the heavy lifting. Making the bold moves that make me every bit as much a paragon of Yankee excellence as Mantle, DiMaggio or Ruth.
Finally, I’ve got a little advice for New York City F.C.’s newest rivals, a team that seems to think there’s something Major League about Harrison, NJ. Thank you for not mentioning us.. In fact, I’d like you to keep our name out of your stinking mouth for as long as possible. But as long as we’re defining our our respective roles, you might wanna consider changing your team colors to orange and blue.
I like to kid around with this blog’s dozen or so readers, but the real fact of the matter is that we’re pretty similar. Sure, I make a lot more money than any of you, and my position as brains of the operation for professional sports’ premier franchise is the sort of thing your average Jimmy John’s delivery schlub can only dream of. But I don’t spend my entire existence in some ivory tower looking down at the rest of humanity. I engage with the real world, just like you. I can’t wait to see what Shia LaBeouf does next on the big screen (perhaps a remake of “The Elephant Man”?). I’ve preordered The National’s new album. Podcasts? Not only do I listen to John Gambling‘s religiously, wait ’til you hear mine.
So as you can see, I’m a pretty modern guy. There’s probably no one in this organization more in touch with popular culture — certain not the self-obsessed John Sterling, who’d favor “West Side Story” over “Loiter Squad” (IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN). Naturally, I’ve been right on top of this whole Amy’s Bakery story since it first broke. And while I’m well aware there’s few things less fashionable or politically expedient these days than standing up for someone trying to run a successful business, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let Samy and Amy be torn to pieces by a high-tech lynch mob.
The parasites and cowards who insult this hard working couple make me ashamed to be an American. That Yelp provides a forum for the envious, the gutless and the anonymous to publicly smear the Bouzaglos is not without irony — this is the same company, after all, that went to great lengths to silence one of the only voices capable of articulating what separates a sleazy con game from a hard fought commitment to excellence.
So my heart goes out to Samy and Amy, a pair of proud entrepreneurs unwilling to let their dream be destroyed by the sort of internet punks who’d more than likely have their heads handed to them if ever ventured into the bleachers at the New Yankee Stadium. I mean, that’s not likely to happen given that most of these scumbags would require an advance payday loan to afford a ticket, but you get my point. The Bouzaglo family business reminds of the one I used to work for….at least before it was inherited by a pair of goofballs who seem to think a handsome salary makes my wiping their assess any less undignified or unfair.
I don’t make it out to Scottsdale very often — that’s where people go to die, right? —- but I would like Samy & Amy to know that if they are ever in the New York area (my friends at Fox’s “Red Eye” think Amy has serious potential). there’s a table waiting for them at NYY Steak. Perhaps we can cut loose and swap war stories about what it’s like try to feed and entertain a bunch of uncultured boobs. But what am I gonna do? Michael Kay’s entitled to an employee discount!
(Editor’s Note : Though the Thought Police over at Yelp.com have unfortunately shut down the account of our good friend, Randy L. of the Bronx, he’s graciously offered to weigh in a subject that’s bound to dominate the tabloids and talk radio tomorrow morning – GC)
Greetings, mouthbreathers, premature ejaculators and social networking enthusiasts — or am I being redundant? Much as I’d love to talk about the splendid job Joe Girardi has done keeping the New York Yankees in contention despite the ineptitude of our oversexed GM and the routinely poor judgement shown by our disabled third baseman, once again, there’s a distraction to deal with. Fear not, Yankee Universe, I’ll not allow this latest family spat to derail our attempts to capture a 28th World Championship. But given that Hank Steinbrenner is unconscious at this hour (most hours, actually) and the aforementioned Brian Cashman is too busy updating his Christian Mingle profile, ONCE AGAIN, it comes down to yours truly to clean up the shit pile.
I’m sure I’ll get no arguments from even a cynical bunch of creeps like yourselves when I call Mariano Rivera the classiest individual who ever set foot on G-d’s earth. The Anti-Michael Kay, if you will. Mo has long exemplified what it means to be a great competitor and a wonderful, humble human being (though to be frank, it’s not hard to look like a relative saint when you’re sharing a locker room with the likes of Jason Giambi and Nick Swisher). If I had a son, I’d want him to grow up exactly like Mo — though developing a second pitch wouldn’t hurt. If I had a daughter, I’d also want her to grow up like Mo, though I will grant you he’d make a somewhat homely girl, and given all the terrible bullying problems we read about each day, maybe her path to becoming as successful as dear old dad would be a little less rough if she could resemble, say, Fox News’ Megyn Kelly. When you really think about it, having the values of Mariano Rivera and the good looks of Megyn Kelly would be quite the winning combination. Hey, what d’ya say, scientists?
Let me make this perfectly clear for you, Mr. Chamberlain. Your teammate, the great Mariano Rivera, is going to enter the National Baseball Hall of Fame & Museum on the first ballot. You, on the other hand, stand a very good chance of making the Arby’s Frequent Customer Hall Of Fame, that is, if you don’t choke to death on their grey “meat” products that you so gleefully shovel into the trash compactor you call a mouth.
So let this be a warning the next time you even think of looking at The Great Mariano Rivera sideways. It would be a pleasure to rid the New Stadium’s otherwise perfect clubhouse of your flatulence, and don’t think Cashman can save you this time. I’m calling the fucking shots around here and the sooner you get that through your misshapen skull, the better. You’re no Mariano Rivera. You’re no Megyn Kelly. And you’re sure as shit not Nadia Comaneci.
(Editor’s Note : Earlier this month, we received word from Yelp.com that sometime CSTB contributor, baseball exec and tireless consumer advocate Randy L. of the Bronx, had been banned from the site for a second time, with his most recent reviews of NYC restaurants and merchants lost to the digital ether. However, with the assistance of a team of forensic specialists from M.I.T, we have successfully recovered one of Randy’s most recent essays, a March 30, 2013 critique of the elite NYC gym, Peak Performance – GC)
I’ll start this review by making it clear that I have never personally made use of Peak Performance’s facilities. Between my important work in the Bronx and my charitable efforts on behalf of Teach A Labrador To Read, I don’t have a lot of time for primping and preening in front of mirrors like some desperate male hustler. Don’t get me wrong, physical fitness is great — I wish someone would explain the concept to CC Sabathia — but much of what passes for self-improvement is really an all-too-predictable manifestation of terrified male insecurity.
All of that said, I have sincere respect and appreciation for the ownership and management of this gymnasium ; if any of them would like to try their hand at an internship with America’s Premier Sports Franchise, I’d certainly keep an open mind. Why am I so bullish on Peak Performance? I’d be violating a confidence (and possibly some right to privacy laws) if I told you the full story, so instead contemplate the following, purely hypothetical scenario (if you’ll humor me for a moment) :
Let’s imagine there’s a fabulously successful professional sports franchise, and despite cosmetic appearances that suggest a pair of genetic lottery winners are the club’s brain trust, the operation is actually being run by a man with the initials “R.L.” (an executive, I should stress, of the highest intellect and capacity for caring). This baseball executive has long suspected one of his most highly paid employees of dabbling in illegal performance enhancing substances, and with the assistance of a towel boy at an exclusive Manhattan health spa, has obtained crude, hidden-camera footage of said employee being injected in the buttocks.
(Also, there’s a video clip of him taking human growth hormone, too)
Most establishments upon learning of such nefarious video taping measures, would be susceptible to a bribe rather than destroying the evidence and having the towel boy deported. But not the spa in this story. Those guys know how to stand up for their customers, even the ones who have personal “trainers” that look like Wendi Richter with a zucchini in her pants (not that you were staring).
Though I am sure the executive (who must remain as nameless as he is brilliant and handsome) regrets being unable to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement with this gym (or shall we say, “wellness center?) at least there’s someone in this G-d forsaken world with an ounce of integrity left.
Greeting, Dipshits, drones and other followers of the sexless, directionless existence that seems to consume this blog’s readers (if not its contributors, advertisers and web hosting companies). Under normal circumstances, a 1-4 start for The World’s Premier Professional Sporting Franchise would be of major concern, especially in the Tri-State area where the daily travails of the New York Yankees tend to dominate the waking thoughts of media and easily manipulated consumers alike.
Not this week, however. The abusive acts of Rutgers’ Mike Rice have rightfully maintained center stage, and I think I speak for the entire Yankee Universe when I ask, “why couldn’t the tape have been leaked on Opening Day?” Not only would we have been spared nearly as many shots of a near-empty New Yankee Stadium on the evening highlights shows, but hours devoted to Rice firing basketballs at the heads and crotches of his young charges would’ve left little time to showcase quotes from a useless fraud who isn’t fit to wear the Yankee uniform.
There is no question in my mind that Rice had to go, and if the school president continues to insist he was thoroughly unaware of what was going on, well, it wouldn’t be the first time that a brilliant young executive had to take the heat for the incompetency of his bosses. Sure, I could well be describing a regular occurrence in offices that look very similar to mine, but I’m also talking about Rutgers AD Tim Pernetti falling on his sword in a manner that strikes me as unnecessary as it is noble.
The brief hit to Rutgers’ reputation is nothing compared to the vast sums of money at stake with the school’s TV deals and move to the Big Ten, none of which could’ve been achieved without Pernetti’s leadership and real-world expertise. So he initially mishandled the Rice situation —- why punish future generations of New Jersey student athletes by removing a visionary department head?
I realize that amateur athletics and professional sports aren’t always analogous. For starters, the former are far more exploitative (though we’re trying very hard to catch up!), but there are some lessons that can be learned from the professional ranks. Let’s say, hypothetically, there’s a world class baseball franchise, one far more decorated than their pathetic, creatively and financially bankrupt crosstown rivals (not to mention their alleged divisional foe some 200 miles north). What if that franchise had a general manager who made national headlines when cheating on his wife with some mentally insane librarian, leaving him with almost zero credibility within the organization? What if the same general manager suffered a serious injury shortly afterwards when jumping out of an airplane, the very sort of foolhardy stunt that would cause us to void the contract of one of our players (if we could get away with it)?
Would that GM’s immediate superior be within his rights to demand a resignation? Would the team president accept said resignation and subsequently pull the plug on his own glittering career to save face for a pair of siblings whose combined IQ probably isn’t even half of that of Robert L. Barchi? You’re telling me because one jackass has brought unwanted attention to his institution, the person chiefly responsible for keeping the lights on needs to suffer the same fate? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MINDS?
Within days, someone will have done something so monumentally stupid, Pernetti’s transgressions (if not those of Rice) will be long forgotten (my money’s on Doug Gottlieb). Meanwhile, someone of far lesser qualifications will swoop in and the reap the spoils for all of Pernetti’s hard work. Thank fucking G-d a certain 27 Time World Champion baseball team isn’t run that way, right?
Tim, if you’re reading this (and I know you are), I firmly believe that one error in judgement (ie. your failure to lower the boom on Rice ages ago) doesn’t call for another (your gutless decision to leave Rutgers). That said, I also believe that persons with your skill-set deserve a second chance in the sports industry, and if you’re interested in a position as Michael Kay‘s Personal Taster, I’m pretty sure we can work something out.
GREETINGS, finger-sniffers, rug-humpers and fantasy baseball enthusiasts — or am I being redundant? I trust you’re all enjoying your NCAA bracket competitions as much as I am, though I thank you in advance for NEVER MENTIONING YOURS AGAIN. There’s very few things I’m less interested in than how you’re performing in some low-stakes gambling enterprise (though if you have hard evidence of A-Rod’s participation in one, by all means get in touch). The fate of your bracket matters as much to me as the results of Nick Swisher’s latest STD test, which is to say NOT AT ALL.
But I digress. Monday afternoon brought news that a man I’ve long regarded as a peer in the local baseball wars, Mets VP David Howard, is leaving the Temple Of Doom known as Citi Field, instead opting for one of the least attractive jobs this side of manning a mop at Kinematics (ask John Sterling), running business operations for Jim Dolan.
However, anyone with an ounce of common sense realizes there’s no long-term future in working for deadbeat Fred Wilpon or his sickeningly entitled son. Granted, there’s some kindly, washed-up caretaker types in Flushing (Alderson, Collins, etc.), but you’d have be a borderline mental defect to make a serious commitment to that organization. But enough about David Wright — sometimes when G-d is handing out the good looks, he’s a little stingy with the brains.
So with all that in mind, here’s wishing David Howard all the best in his new position. Not only will he experience the glamour of trying to find an emergency NA meeting for Gregg Allman at 3am and the morale-building hijinx that make MSG such a great place to work (gluing cock pics to Wally Sczerbiak’s eyebrows, calling security on Baron Davis every time he unlocks his own car), but he’s dodged the biggest sports business bullet of them all ; constantly having his performance measured against that of yours truly.
Let’s face it. No matter how adept David Howard was at lying on behalf of his boss, regardless of how convincingly he shilled for owners of a baseball franchise that doesn’t give a flying fuck about history, their players or the fans….he was always gonna be New York’s Second Best. Glad he eventually figured it out and got of baseball with his nuts intact. Best of luck in the new gig, David, and if you ever need tickets for a Yankee game….call Ticketmaster. I’m told there’s plenty of good seats left for Opening Day.
(editor’s note : tireless consumer advocate / baseball executive Randy L. continues to see his indepth reviews of products and services censored by the Thought Police at Yelp.com. Given CSTB’s long-standing commitment to free expression, it only seemed fitting to give Randy the floor – GC)
if you’ve ever considered using the online backup service OpenDrive, here’s a helpful hint : DON’T. Their upload speeds are slower than George Kennedy Chris Snyder chasing a purse-snatcher. Their customer service staff are as helpful as an ebola virus on a submarine (or a Nick Swisher with a pen and paper). To paraphrase my old buddy Arnold Diaz, FUCK THESE GUYS.
HEADS UP, dweebs, shut-ins and similar losers of the sports blogotopia or whatever you’re calling it these days. Nice to see CSTB finally has as many advertisers as readers — keep up the good work!
When I got the phone call the other day telling me that a dear member of the Yankee family had jumped out of an airplane, I’ll admit my first thought was, “please G-d, let it be Michael Kay”. Upon learning, however, the would-be daredevil was our handsomely compensated General Manager, my mood immediately darkened. Coming on the heels of Brian’s highly publicized marital problems, it would take some doing for him to find a more embarrassing way to make the tabloid front pages, but FUCK ME if he didn’t manage it.
So with that in mind, Brian, I’m asking you to exercise better judgement in the future. If you’re still having some kind of mid-life freakout, maybe Waldman would be willing to role-play as that lunatic who tried blackmailing you. If that’s not enough and you’ve still got the itch to take a flying fucking leap from a great height, I think I speak for ownership and the entire Yankee Universe when I ask, nay, beg, that next time YOU TAKE A-ROD WITH YOU.
First of all, I’d like to wish everyone in the Yankee Universe the most joyous of holiday seasons. I don’t suppose Eddie Nimibutr of Austin, TX is a Yankee fan, but I’d like him to know that I’m fully in his corner. It’s a crying shame that some people try to use Yelp to advance their own vindictive agendas, especially when at it’s best, the site can be used to foster understanding and help consumers become better informed. And the trolling of personal Facebook profiles HAS TO STOP. It’s not journalism, it’s not fair, and besides, Human Resources tells me Waldman can post whatever photos shes wants!
I’m kidding, of course. Look, this whole “I don’t care about dead white kids” thing will eventually blow over — Jason Giambi did far worse stuff and who gives him a hard time in public these days? — and when it does, I’d like to offer Mr. Nimibutr a job as greeter at NYY Steak. We’re sorely in need of someone with his people skills and if nothing else’s he’s already demonstrated he knows how to command media attention. Given that we won’t have Nick Swisher making Page 6 for pissing himself at a Switchfoot concert next season, we could actually use some help in that department. I look forward to hearing from Eddie, and to those of you in Austin, TX who want to dine somewhere with “a greater supply of compassion and understanding”, could you try not to be such a fucking cliche’ for 5 minutes?
(EDITOR’S NOTE: it was reported this weekend that a man and woman were filmed fucking in a Yankee Stadium bathroom stall during Saturday’s Rays/Yankees tilt. “The woman sat on the toilet as her enthusiastic male partner — who wore a CC Sabathia t-shirt and no pants — climbed on top of her amid a crowd of onlookers,” wrote the New York Post’s breathless Josh Saul, and rather than concentrate on the sensational aspects of this story, we instead reached out to a close friend of the CSTB family, Bronx executive Randy L., for his unique perspective on this quintessentially New York moment. – GC)
Greetings, losers, shut-ins, finger-sniffers and Mets fans — or am I being redundant? Though I’m loathe to drop any wisdom via a blog that can’t sell one single advertisement, I’m told the publisher is a big fan of my unexpurgated Yelp reviews. Since I’m as magnanimous as I am well-endowed, here’s a freebie for the sports blog crowd. Even if this is barely one step above Live Journal.
Deadspin’s Issac Rauch — hopefully no relation to the pituitary freak stealing money from the Mets — did an adequate Mike Taibbi impersonation yesterday with “A Couple Humped In A Yankee Stadium Bathroom Stall For About Three Innings On Saturday”. Three innings! That’s supposed to be impressive? A little advice for the male heterosexual readers — it’s really not necessary to go on that long. Maybe you think you’re doing her a favor, but chances are awfully high she’s pretty eager to get it over with and get back to pretending you have any redeeming qualities.
I am certain this story is going to get a lot of play in today’s tawdry media sphere, and despite the absence of photos clearly depicting penetration, I can understand this. Publishers and editors are businessmen, not Zucotti Park-dwelling fantasists who have to smoke copious amounts of weed just to tolerate fuckin’ Tom Morello. They’re in the business of MAKING MONEY, just like me and the two genetic lottery winners I do all the heavy lifting for. I know, you’re already shaking your head, “sex sells, Randy, we know.” To which I’d reply, you’re the cynic, not me.
Unless each of this blog’s 12 readers have somehow morphed into Andrea Dworkin (and in some cases, that would be an improvement), I can’t believe I even have to spell out the distinction, but there’s a world of difference between random sexual encounters in a public place and true romance. The former are generally desperate acts committed by sad, lonely, friendless individuals. The latter? Well, it’s the sort of thing that renders almost everything else (save for 27 World Championships, a chauffeured town car and enough cash to fill the Grand Canyon) meaningless.
I know this might be the minority opinion, but the young couple filmed In flagrante delicto (that’s FRENCH, you ignorant little shits) were true romantics after my own heart. Note the guy’s refusal to dispense of his CC Sabathia tee — I like it. He’s paying homage to a lynchpin in our attempts to win World Championship #28. And if the shirt was seriously stained before returning to his seat in the Audi Club, he can purchase a replacement at the Yankee Clubhouse Store, a 5000 square foot facility conveniently located in the Great Hall right behind home plate.
How many times have you heard of a similar incident taking place at that aesthetic/commercial disaster known as Citi Field? Not once, and I reckon that speaks volumes about the building’s stench and the host team serving as the greatest anti-aphrodisiac this side of a Hammel On Trial CD. Some of you self-styled comedians have suggested we hand out condoms at the gate, and it’s an interesting idea (especially if we can get Verizon or Turkey Hill to pay for it). And we’ll look into it just as soon as our crosstown “rivals” take steps to confiscate razor blades.
That’s right. I WENT THERE. While Flushing’s embarrassment does more to keep The Samaritans switchboard busy than say, a Hammel On Trial CD, the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees are all about romance and repopulating the Yankee Universe with more exceptional young people, conceived in the most sophisticated of environments. Who amongst us can say that Saturday’s consensual encounter might not result in that most precious miracle of all, Nick Swisher saying something interesting the gift of human life? Maybe the Baby Bomber in question will someday grow up to be another Derek Jeter, another Don Mattingly, perhaps the next Joe Pepitone?
And perhaps — if he or she works very hard, uses his or her imagination and never, ever allows the intellectual shortcomings of 2 overprivileged siblings to undermine self-belief — becoming the President of the world’s most successful and universally recognized sports franchise, is within reach.
Not fucking likely, but parents can dream, right? A toast from me and everyone in the Yankee organization to Saturday afternoon’s young lovers.