Rasputin Is Alive And Well And Advising The NY Jets

Rasputin, often called “The Mad Monk” was a mystic, a healer and/or a prophet depending on who you asked in Russia at the turn of the 20^th century. Rasputin had the ear (and some say many more body parts) of Alexandra, the wife of Russian Emperor Nicholas II as well as the Tsar and his only son, Alexei who was a hemophiliac.

The Tsar considered Rasputin to be a holy man and a friend. But things got ugly for the Mad Monk during the later stages of World War I. The Russians were literally losing millions of soldiers and the war was obliterating what little wealth was left minus what the Royals drained for themselves. When the Tsar went on a trip to the front to see his troops, Rasputin used this as an opportunity to get in some sack time with the Tsarina – after all she believed that God spoke to her through Rasputin.

Well good 'ol Rasputin used his “mystic powers” over Alexandra to convince her to fill some government posts with some buddies of his. This ended up turning out badly. He ended up pissing off the wrong people at the wrong time and the whole soap opera ended up in one helluva shooting match.

Not So Merry Christmas

On December 16, 1916 Rasputin was lured into a basement by some noblemen evil-doers, much like Joe Pecsi was in “Goodfellas,” and whacked. Poisoned, shot, beaten senseless, rolled into a carpet and dumped into a river. Did he die? My theory? Rasputin didn't die-he lived and is advising the New York Jets.

“Hey, Welcome To The Big Apple Monk”

One of the first of the many tragic calls Rasputin made for the Jets happened oddly enough during the year they won their only Super Bowl. I guess Rasputin was just getting settled in.

It happened on November 17, 1968. Jets and the hated Raiders played in Oakland. Jets up 32-29 with 1:05 left. The suits at NBC were going to begin airing “Heidi” at 7:00 pm eastern standard time come hell or high water. Both came and there was plenty of both. The problem was that the game wasn't over. But it was for tv viewers in the eastern half of the nation.

Rasputin to NBC program switching geeks: “Time for Heidi. The game is over, the Jets won, time for Heidi.”

So instead of seeing two Raiders touchdowns in a span of nine seconds in the final minute, Jets fans saw a little girl on top of a Swiss mountain. In black and white no less. We were better off not seeing it, but at least we should've been able to see it. Final – Raiders 43 Jets 32.

Rasputin continued his black magic in August of 1971 during a Jets pre season game against the Lions. Jets running back Lee White fumbled at the Jets 29.

Rasputin, invisible to the rest of us, sitting on Joe Namath's shoulder whispered to him, “Go for the tackle Joe, go for the tackle...”

Namath heard him loud and clear but missed nailing Lions linebacker Mike Lucci and instead had his left knee crushed by Lions linebacker Paul Naumoff. End result – two torn ligaments, wrecked cartilage and a ruined Jets season.

Rasputin has also been highly active in helping the Jets during the draft. His most notable piece of work happened in 1983:

Rasputin to Jets brass: “Screw Dan Marino, go for the sure guy – Ken O'Brien out of Cal-Davis...”

That wasn't all. He continued his strong influence during the 1990 draft:

Rasputin to Jets brass: “Don't be a putz - you need a franchise running back and Blair Thomas out of Penn State is a sure thing. You gotta trust Joe Paterno...Cortez Kennedy is just a fatso and Junior Seau? Who knows how to play football in Samoa???...”

Rasputin had also maintained a mystical influence over the Jets late owner, Leon Hess. He told Hess to fire the up-and-coming Pete Carroll after his only season in 1994 when they went 6-10.

Rasputin to Hess: “Leon, you're not a spring chicken anymore, you need to win now. Who better to replace that young Carroll punk than with a respected former player and coach Rich Kotite?”

So at Kotite's press conference with Rasputin a shadowy figure in the background Hess came clean: “I'm 80 years-old and I want results now.”

Well Hess sure got results in a hurry. In Kotite's first game and the Jets' lone national appearance of the season, the Raiders opened a can of steaming hot boo-yah trashing them 47-10. That was the highlight of the season and they finished 3-13. Instead of firing Kotite after one season like they did Carroll, Hess stuck with him.

“Good thing,” Rasputin told him. “He deserves another chance.”

So a year later following a 1-15 white-out, Rich Kotite stepped down. And as he walked off the field at Giants Stadium for the final time, Kotite was drenched with a full cup of beer. No doubt poured by the Mad Monk himself.

And let us not forget the Bill Belichick fiasco. Before Bill Parcells resigned in 1999, he arranged for Belichick to take over as head coach. He kept the job one day. As Belichick approached the podium for his I'm-the-new-Jets-head-coach press conference, Rasputin struck again.

Rasputin to Belichick: “Shmuck, what are you getting yourself into? These guys haven't won squat since LBJ was wearing bell bottoms!”

Belichick, wasting no time, scrawled on a piece of loose leaf paper the following: "I resign as HC of the NYJ."

Rasputin took some time off and it showed. The Jets went to the AFC title game two years in a row but he returned just in time for the 8-8 season that followed. In fact he had this advice for general manager Mike Tannenbaum...

Rasputin to Tannenbaum: “Look, you need big help at right tackle – Wayne Hunter has earned the spot...”

Jets fans can only hope management stops listening to this madman once and for all. But it doesn't look like that's the case. Just when we thought Mark Sanchez was their man for the next couple of years after signing an extension, we find out that's not the case.

Rasputin to Woody Johnson, Mike Tannenbaum and Rex Ryan: “Do I have a quarterback for you! Tim Tebow is going to turn this franchise upside down! Can't throw? So he can't throw. He wins! And he'll push this lazy bum you got so maybe you won't need him except for an occassional wildcat formation. And the best part? He'll pray at the drop of a hat. Just like me!”

Lenny Dykstra Alias “Nails” Finally Gets Nailed. Way To Go “Dude”

Lenny Dykstra and Art Schlichter have to be the top train wrecks in sports. The former Ohio State and Baltimore Colts quarterback was in the top six of Heisman Trophy balloting in his final three seasons and almost led the Buckeyes to the national title in 1979. As it turned out his game-losing pick by Clemson's Charlie Bauman in the 1978 Gator Bowl which led to Woody Hayes assault and next-day firing was a sign of things to come.

The fourth overall pick in 1982, Schlichter had some serious gambling issues. He ran up at least $700,000 in gambling debts in his rookie year alone. The NFL later suspended him for gambling and his career was snake eyes five years later. No, blowing a career millions would happily give their left testicle for wasn't enough. Schlichter later said he committed more than 20 felonies. He spent the equivalent of 10 years in 44 prisons.

Last September Schlichter was sentenced to 10 years in prison for his involvement in a million-dollar ticket scam. He tested positive for cocaine while serving a house arrest sentence on his fraud charges on January 19, 2012. This story sure ain't over and will no doubt end up with quotes like, “If only we knew...”

My second choice is former Mets and Phillies outfielder Lenny Dykstra. He played 12 years in the majors and was a three-time All-Star. How this guy got away with what he did for so long without really being nailed is beyond me.

Dykstra, nickednamed “nails” and “dude” was the Mets leadoff hitter during their 1986 championship season. You really had to love the Mets to like this guy. He looked like your best friend's little runt brother who with his dirty face, mouthful of gum and holes in his tee shirt always wanted to tag along and get in the way. A human mosquito buzzing in the ear of a cool guy at the bar at the Plaza.

Dykstra became the heir apparent to Mr. Met with his walkoff home run in Game 3 of the '86 NLCS against the Houston Astros. He even became a poster boy posing topless in a “beefcake” shot under the “Nails” nickname.

But Dykstra's greasy ways eventually caught up with him. He was traded to the Phillies in 1989 and former teammate Keith Hernandez later said in his book Pure Baseball that one of the reasons Dykstra was dealt was because he was "on the wild and crazy side." Kinda like Titanic Captain Smith putting on an extra sweater just in case it got chilly.

Like gooey slime oozing through the walls in a horror flick, Dykstra's craziness began to come through the cracks in 1991. He took the wad of chew out of his mouth long enough to get drunk and crash his car into a tree suffering broken ribs and a broken cheekbone. And he began to look different too. All of a sudden this little runt, who would normally be good for five or six homers a year, morphed into a mini- Arnold Schwarzenegger. He hit 19 during the 1993 season as the Phillies went on to win the Series. Dykstra later admitted using steroids. In fact he boasted about it. According to Randall Lane of the Daily Beast, Dykstra said that he and Jose Canseco were “steroid pioneers.”

After retiring in 1996, Dykstra got into the stock market and ran a string of car washes. Interesting combination. Money and washing. Hmm. Anyway he managed a stock portfolio and I remember seeing articles about him in some of the most respected business publications. “Nails a respected stock picker?” I thought. Count me out. But the real fun was yet to come. A brief rundown via Wikipedia: Dykstra bought Wayne Gretzky's $17 million estate with the hopes of flipping it, but was unsuccessful. At one point, Dykstra owed more than $13 million on the house, and Lake Sherwood security guards were eventually told to keep Dykstra away from the property due to Dykstra stripping the house of over $51,000 worth of items (counter-tops, an oven, and hardwood flooring) and Dykstra allowing the homeowners' insurance to lapse on the property.

In July 2009, Dykstra, whose net worth was estimated at $58 million in 2008, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy listing less than $50,000 in assets against $10 million to $50 million in liabilities.

Among other things, Dykstra was later accused of sexual assault by his housekeeper, bounced a $1,000 check for a female escort, charged with bankruptcy fraud, and the final nail - a three year jail term for grand theft auto and filing a false financial statement. According to prosecutors, Dykstra and two others tried to lease and then sell cars from several dealerships by claiming credit through a nonexistent business.

After a dozen or so foul balls, Lenny Dykstra has finally struck out.

Put Me Down Already. Jeremy Lin Just Isn't Enough

I saw that last week in a loss in Miami when Lin looked like a shell shocked tourist after getting his wallet picked on the F Line to 34^th street. Don't get me wrong. I like his game but I can't shake the feeling that this franchise is like the coma patient who comes back to life, does a few great things and then goes back to the land of nod.

I've been a Knicks fan from the moment I saw a pass bounce off Bill Hosket's head and go into the basket during a game in Cincinnati during the early part of the 1969-70 season. I think I was changing channels looking for Emma Peel in her great tights on the Avengers. I knew nothing about the Knicks, but a header right into the hoop caught my eye. Turns out it was their 18th straight win which set an NBA record. I continued to watch and got hooked.

The season came to a glorious end when the Knicks beat the Lakers to win their first title. Willis Reed, who lived right across from me in Queens, limped onto the court with a serious hip injury and hit his first two shots to the roar of the sell out Madison Square Garden crowd.

Walt Frazier went wild on both ends of the court. Man, what a season. I got so hooked I played full court almost every day, no matter how cold or hot it was outside. After school I shot hoops at “The Lost Battalion,” a gym off Queens Boulevard where the Knicks worked out. Ahh, a new exciting sport to play and watch in a city starved for a winter-time winner.

Life was finally good for Knicks fans who has nothing to root for since they had a bunch of short hairy-backed white guys running around throwing up goofy hook shots in the mid '50s.

But the good life turned out to be a short one. Hey, would you rather have a short, exciting life or a long dull one? The Knicks chose the former. Reed, DeBusschere, Bradley, Frazier and Monroe (all Hall of Famer's) had the Big Apple by the shorties for the next three years winning their second and last championship in '72-73, once again against big bad Wilt Chamberlain (he actually had time to get out of the sack and play basketball?) and the ever-humble great Jerry West. Little did we know it would be the last one they'd win for – well, for maybe ever.

The storm clouds began to hover after the '73-74 season. Both Reed and DeBusschere retired after a disgusting playoff loss against Dave Cowens and Celtics. We were told Howard Porter would be the new “Dave D.” Man were they wrong.

Then in '75 they were about to sign ABA power forward George McGuinnis, but the deal was ruled to be illegal and not only did they not get McGuiniss (who later had his number retired by the Indiana Pacers), but they lost their number one draft pick. High scoring but volatile forward Spencer Haywood was acquired, but even when later teamed with Bob McAdoo was all gun and no fun. In fact Haywood, who was on the Lakers 1979-80 championship team was so pissed after being suspended by coach Paul Westhead in the finals that he said he "left the Forum and drove off in his Rolls that night thinking one thought — that Westhead must die.” Haywood hired a Detroit mobster to kill Westhead, but later reconsidered. The Knicks ended the season out of the playoffs for the first time in nine years.

Coach Red Holtzman, the defensive genius behind their two runs was fired after the '76-77 season and replaced by Reed. Willis was an awesome Hall of Famer but a crappy head coach.

Meanwhile their remaining greats began to disappear. Walt Frazier, who was sent to Cleveland for God knows what, came back to haunt them with a monster night in his return to the Garden. Bill Bradley gave up hit corner shot, finger tip passing and strong defense for a career in politics. Earl the Pearl's spin moves went into super slo-mo.

Yeah, Patrick Ewing gave us some real hope. He brought us to within inches of a championship in '94 if only John Starks would’ve hit a corner three-pointer in the final moments of game six.

They made a surprise run to the Finals in the lockout shortened '99 season but with Ewing and Larry Johnson hurt were exposed by the Spurs in five.

So now we have Jeremy Lin, who until a few weeks ago was used as ballast on the end of the bench running the offense. I, like most fans love the underdog. Especially when he actually does good stuff. But is this group a serious challenge to The Boyz From South Beach? We'll find out soon but it'll certainly take more than a pass off one of their heads into the basket to earn a parade down Broadway.

Is Sanchez A Marked Man?

Mark Sanchez's "New York Minute" may be up. The Jets' 29-14 loss to the Giants Christmas Eve wasn't any old loss. It was an embarrassment coming against, of all teams, their fellow MetLife Stadium tenants. And this coming just days after coach Rex Ryan said his guys were the better team over the last two years. He was right on that point. But that story turned out to be as worthless as a "Jets 2010 Super Bowl Champs" tee shirt. The game wasn't anywhere near as close as the score. Sanchez completed 30 passes on a career-high 59 attempts but put up only 258 yards and was picked twice. The Jets were also 4 for 21 on third-down conversions. No ground just pound, like in pounding headache. Rex, Sanchez' biggest supporter, was forced to eat a big helpin' of humble pie. "They were the better team today, and they're the better team this year. Clearly, I was wrong." Never a good idea to make your boss look like a clown.

"Give Him Time"

Yeah, this season we've all heard all kinds of theories about why Sanchez stinks: he's only in his third year and he needs more time; it's his lousy offensive line decimated by retirement and bad draft picks; it's dopey play calling by offensive coordinator Brian Schottenheimer. Or just maybe Jets fans' agita began two years ago when Sanchez was caught wolfing down a hot dog on the sideline in Oakland with the Jets up by 38.

But let's be real. Sanchez didn't take the Jets to the AFC Championship Game the past two seasons. He managed them there. He held his own in the wins against Cincinnati, San Diego, New England and Indianapolis. No great numbers but no disastrous interceptions or safety's either. His effort was like having lunch at KFC - filling. No health benefits but no food poisoning either. A full belly until a few hours later when the more-important dinner would be served. The problem this time is that it looks like players and fans alike will have to hibernate until next fall when dinner, or more precisely another chance at a Super Bowl will be served. According to Las Vegas odds makers the Jets have a 6% chance of making the playoffs Sunday. They'll have to win in Miami while the Bengals, Raiders and Titans all lose. In other words, "forgettaboutit!"

A Real Pain In The Neck

The turning point in the Jets' season came in mid-November. After it looked like they got back on track with a 27-11 win against Buffalo, they were exposed at home 37-16 by the Patriots in front of a national tv audience. If a challenge by the Jets on an end zone catch by tight end Rob Gronkowski failed, he would've had three td's and Rex's halftime one liner thrown at a Pats fan might've cost him even more than $75,000. Sanchez came up small in that one also finishing with one touchdown,  two interceptions and a qb rating of 64.7 (Brady with 3 td's, no picks and a 118.4 rating).

But Jets faithful stayed the course. After all Denver was up next  just four days later. Surely Sanchez could out play Tim Tebow, the hyped-up chosen one who couldn't hit the ocean with a pass from 20 yards. Nope. Sanchez couldn't even shine in that one. A claymation battle to the death between Richard Simmons and Tommy Tune would've been more manly.

  

Sure enough neither threw a touchdown pass, but in the third quarter Broncos cornerback Andre Goodman picked off an ill-advised Sanchez pass and ran it back 26 yards for a game-tying td. Tebow's 20 yard touchdown run with :58 left gave Denver a 17-13 win and dropped the Jets to 5-5. Sanchez also suffered a pinched nerve in his neck which may or may not be the reason he's been flatter than a day-old egg cream ever since.

From that point on it's been all downhill. Sanchez has regressed on down field passes this season, completing only 34.9 percent of his throws traveling 15 or more yards. In 2010, his mark was 41.7 percent. According to ESPN, Sanchez has really struggled over his last 6 games, completing only 17 percent of throws on such distances, the worst rate in the league.

Looking At The Big Picture

It really comes down to whether or not Mark Sanchez has the ability to become an elite NFL quarterback. The kind opposing players say they have to stop to beat the Jets. So far he hasn't. Aaron Rodgers, Peyton Manning and Tom Brady aren't "game managers". If he does have those tools he sure hasn't showed them to this point.Rifle arm? No. Namath-quick release? Again no. Roethlisberger ability to stay on his feet? Sheech! All that adds up to the sobering conclusion that Sunday's regular season finale in Miami could mean his New York Minute has come to an end.

And On Sunday God Told Tim Tebow To Rest

     It was the highest rated NFL game of the season and the second highest in the last 14 years. Tom Brady and the New England Patriots against Tim Tebow and the Denver Broncos. Brady, the three-time Super Bowl Champ against Tebow, the guy who can't throw but who was 7-1 since taking over for the late (in Broncosville) Kyle Orton.

     Yes, on this Sunday for awhile it looked like God was indeed comfy on his favorite cloud once again infusing his favorite football son with ungodly football prowess.

Tebow's nine-yard run (and missed two-point conversion, oops!) gave the Broncos a 6-0 lead. The Patriots came back to take a 7-6 lead on a 33-yard td to Chad Ochocinco but Lance Ball's 32 yard run regained the lead 13-7. Matt Prater's field goal stretched it to  16-7.


TV Preacher Gets Really Pissed Off

Evanagelist Pat Robertson had to be in heaven at this point especially after blowing his lid over a Saturday Night Live skit the night before. In the skit, Jesus appears in the Denver Broncos' locker room and asks Tebow to tone down the praise and pick up his game a little bit. Jesus then leaves saying,  "Mormonism? All true. Every word. All right, peace."

But that damn devil was back working his evil as the Patriots regained the lead and then some with two touchdown's and a pair of field goals.

A Lucifer-inspired Danny Woodhead 10 yard run in the third made it 34-16. And he breathed Hooter's Three-Mile Island hot wings-fire letting BenJarvus Green-Ellis jam a one yard run right down the poor throats of the angelic Broncos closing it out at 41-23.

What Conclusions Can We Come Up With?

A whole bunch. At the top of the pile would be this one: Tom Brady is a thousand times better than Tim Tebow and the Patriots are ten times better than the Broncos. Nah, that's logical. Based on rational thought. No good. Hey, we could say God took the day off! After all Sunday is His day. Or maybe He was watching the Green Bay-Kansas City game and decided to give the poor Chiefs something to be happy about by helping interim coach Romeo Crennel get a win in his first game. Or even better yet, perhaps He tuned into the Indy - Tennessee game (assuming it wasn't blacked out in Heaven) and decided it was time to punish the Titans for firing former offensive coordinator Mike Heimerdinger shortly after he found out he had terminal cancer. Hmmm. Maybe it was simply just a case of Tim Tebow not going into his prayer stance enough during his win against the Bears the week before.

And Speaking Of This Prayer Stance

Imagine your at work and Julie, one cubicle over, pulls out pictures of her kids and insists on showing them to you every time she does something good. "Nice job on that Nurmlinger file Julie," bellows the boss. And you say to yourself, "Damn it here she comes again."
"Let me show you pictures of my kids Caleb, Jonah and Mary," says a proud and determined Julie.

I know what I would say to Julie. After being polite the first time, I'd say something like, "Julie, don't bother me. They're wonderful but leave me alone." Same thing with Tebow. You love God Tim? Great. I'm not paying $125 for a ticket on my day off to see you pray. I don't care what you believe. Just throw the damn ball. Hopefully to a guy on the other team.

Sorry Tampa, But You Don't Need The Rays

There comes a time in life when you just have to put your foot down. I'm not talking about being like House Speaker John Boehner (that tan's gotta come out of a tube or a tanning bed) and his billionaire supporters who are against everything that doesn't include tax breaks for those with a net worth three times the GNP of Mexico. I'm talking about important stuff. Stuff like small market baseball teams.

Not long ago, in the days when Americans vacationed each Thursday on Gilligan's Island and each Saturday in Miami Beach with Jackie Gleason, Art Carney, Frank Fontaine and the June Taylor Dancers, there were ten teams in the American League and ten in the National.

All for the most part, like Yogi might say, big time cities. New York, LA, Chicago, Philly, St. Louis, yada, yada, yada. Yeah you had Milwaukee but the Braves were a team that won back-to-back pennants in '57 and '58 and had a pretty rich history with players like Hank Aaron,Warren Spahn, Eddie Mathews to name a few. And even they got the boot (or they gave the boot to the city) in '65 and moved to Atlanta the following year.

189,241,798

No, that's not how many silk smoking jackets Rush Limbaugh has (he probably has more), but the number of people living in the U.S. in 1963. And it seemed like a good number of them thought baseball was the only thing goin'. I'm not going to do a full expose on life back then compared to now. But the quality of baseball was better back then. The main reason is that with only 20 teams, you didn't have Double A players filling out rosters. Today we see guys in the starting rotation who back then would be spending their summer night's throwing balls at a stuffed giraffe at the local carnival.

Guys like switch-hitter Jorge Posada, well past his prime and pushing 40, is batting close to .200 against lefthanders. If now was then, Jorge would have been well into his insurance-selling career.

So I decided to take a peek at small market baseball with my own eyes. On my day off I decided to take a ride to Tampa-St. Pete from my home in Port St. Lucie to see the rubber game of the Yankees vs. Rays. Good pitching match up with 13-5 CC Sabathia facing 8-8 James "Big Game" Shields. The ride isn't for the weak - 190 miles each way right through the middle of Florida. Large stretches of no where's land where if the car decides to stop rolling you're basically a pile of skeletal remains.

My first surprise was after I passed downtown Tampa. I know, they always say "Tampa-St. Pete" but I really never took it seriously. They really are two different places. And the Rays aren't really in Tampa, they're of course in St. Pete. To get there you have to cross a seven mile bridge that runs a few feet over the Bay. Visions of tsunami flashed before my eyes, but aside from the old man in the hat doing 50 in the left lane and the Goth chic in the Jeep doing 85 in the right, things were cool.

Finally, 3 1/2 later, I peeled off onto 8th avenue. There it is, the Trop, the place Johnny Damon now calls home. You can practically sense the ghosts of Scott Kazmir and Rocco Baldelli hovering over the white Hefty Bag roof.

Parking was a breeze and for ten bucks it was worth it instead of trying to find free spot on a side street. They sure got the big boys beat on that one. I remember outside of AT&T Park in San Francisco they were charging $30 four years ago. It's probably a
half-day's pay at Yankee Stadium.

Now it's a matter of getting a ticket. I did research and found the Rays averaged about 23,000 a game against the Yankees the first time they came into town this season. So, no sweat. Actually lots of sweat. The five block walk to the ballpark left me drenched. Now that I'm here, where the hell are the ticket windows? I walked halfway around the place and couldn't find one. I see a huge line, with most wearing some kind of Yankee stuff.  Sweating like a pig under my own Yankee hat I figured I'd ask a my Yankee brethren where the ticket booth was. And sure enough, they were very helpful. Probably would ignore me up north, but hey we're in this together on foreign soil!

I asked the ticket guy what happened to the $17 seats and he tells me that price ends five hours before the game so I'm bait-and-switched to a $20 seat way up top. No biggie, twenty bucks would barely get me a hot dog and soda at the House That Jeter Built. So chalk up another one for the small market guys. But five $7.50 bucks for hot dog and $5.00 for a small Pepsi? I'll take two and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for three days when I get home.

The first thing I noticed inside the place was the lack of a/c. I know they don't draw, but please at least keep the place cool. Then I look around to see hands down the ugliest ballpark ever. This IS the K-Mart of ballparks. I didn't think they still made AstroTurf, but sure enough it's here. The sagging Hefty Bag ceiling looked like something I'd expect to see at a stadium in Budapest.

Dim lights. And try finding out how many outs there are or out-of-town scores, forget-about-it. Bare cement where there should be stuff to cover it up. And the best yet - a maze of catwalks above the field.  I didn't see one person up there the whole game but I did see a ball bounce off it into Evan Longoria's glove and play continue like it was a do-over.
Now for the fans. My informal survey showed that six out of ten males looked like Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh. And about of ten females looked like WKRP's Loni Anderson (the other six like Roseanne Barr). I got the feeling though that if an eathquake suddenly hit and everbody was running for their lives, these people would at least say "excuse me" after stepping over you. Back in the Bronx they'd just step on you. And pick up any loose change. So I'll give points to Rays fans, but I'll take them back because they basically don't show up unless the Rays are playing the Yankees or Red Sox. And even then they're outnumbered.

As far as the game went, Tampa won 2-1 with Kyle Farnsworth getting the save. Funny, he couldn't do that with the Yankees. The big dude with the heat who always got beat. Oh well.

So now I'm in the car for the long ride home and I'm tuned into the Rays post-game. The host took phone calls but constantly complained about how the small market Rays have such a disadvantage against those big, bad guys from up north. I wanted to call and set him straight but I was too worried I'd weave out of my lane and get pulled over by old smokie. So I listened to his sarcastic rants. How the Yankees just buy their way to championships (did they win any from 2001-2008?) forgetting of course their home grown players like Jeter, Rivera, Pettitte, Posada, Cano, Gardner, et al. Not to mention the dozens of free agents they did sign who weren't worth a bag of balls. And not to mention the revenue sharing millions teams like Tampa Bay get to help them stay competitive that all to often end up in the owners pockets. I said to myself, it's time to put my foot down. A sunny, lazy, laid back place like Tampa-St. Pete doesn't have to have a major league team. If you can't run with the big dogs, don't run period. If you can't pay, don't play.

Just like in 1963 MLB would do just fine if the teams like the Rays, Marlins and A's would fold.

And just like Jackie Gleason used to say, "Good night everybody!"

Jose Can't You See, You're Just Not Worth It

Is Reyes worth Carl Crawford money? No. Carl Crawford's not worth Carl Crawford money. He put on a ski mask and robbed the Red Sox out of $142 million over seven years. He's going to be 30 next month and he's batting .243 with 6 home runs and 31 rbi's. Not to mention he's coming off the dl with a Rickey Henderson-like bad hammy. Now don't get me wrong, I love to see the Red Sox get robbed. I'm a Yankee fan. Boston's a nice little town, quaint, full of history. But the people there don't need a great baseball team. They should be eating lobster, drinking Sam Adams, strolling around Faneuil Hall for overpriced chachka's and reminiscing about Dom DiMaggio instead being an annoying fruit fly buzzing around the champagne bottle of Yankee greatness. But I digress.

Oh God, What Have I Done?

Jose Reyes reminds me of a guy just out of a mental institution getting ready for a date. First day back home, getting all dressed up like nothing happened. Puts on his best clothes, great cologne, shines up the car. Fresh haircut. Looks in the mirror all afternoon making sure the smile is perfect. Like nothing ever happened. Forget the past eight years spent in a straight jacket. But an hour into the date the voices in the head return and it all unravels. "Get me outta here" screams the date. And "Get me outta here" is what the Mets will scream if they sign Reyes to a long-term mega deal.

Thanks For The Cash, Now I Feel Sick

Jorge Posada comes to mind. In 2007, the last year of his last contract, Posada was a monster. Everything he hit seemed to either end up in the gap or in the seats. From both sides of the plate no less. Posada hit .338 with 20 home runs and 90 rbi's that season. What could the Yankees do? Even though he was 36, Posada was a key member of the "Core of Four" with Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera and Andy Pettitte, a clutch go-to guy in each of their four championship seasons ('96, '98, '99 and 2000). But sure enough after signing a four-year $52 million dollar deal, his numbers dried up faster than Newt Gingrich's presidential campaign. In mid-July Posada was placed on the dl with a bad shoulder. Then a week later the team said he would have season-ending surgery. In 51 games Posada batted just .268. He bounced back in 2009 to hit .285, but dropped to .248 last season, and got off to such a brutal start this year only his name and fond memories saved him from getting cut altogether. He even took himself out of the lineup for a game against the Mets of all people and told the front office to "get me out of here," but later apologized postponing for the time being a very ugly end to a great career in pinstripes.

But with Reyes things are even worse. Like a car with cheap tires, bad things seem to happen to his wheels. When he sneezes he blows a hamstring. Very bad for a player who's entire game revolves around his legs.

His rookie season in '03 was cut short by a month because of a sprained ankle. In '04, his season got off to a slow start as he suffered a strained hamstring and came off the dl on June 19th. Throw in a back problem and Reyes finished the year batting .255. But he managed to finally stay on his feet over the next four seasons showing Mets fans there was hope after all. Reyes played in 161 games in 2005, 153 in 2006, 160 in 2007 and 159 in 2008. He batted .273, .300, .280 and .297 respectively with a combined 258 stolen bases.

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

Luckily for Jose he's not a horse because if he were he would've been put down in 2009. In May he was back on the dl with a calf injury. But while rehabbing he tore the calf muscle keeping him out until August. And just when he was about to come back he tore his right hammy. Thirty-six games played and his HMO had the best year of anyone. Then last year looked like another lost cause when he was diagnosed with a hyperactive thyroid gland during spring training. That landed him back on the dl causing him to miss the start of the season. When he managed to actually play he did pretty well batting .282 with 30 stolen bases.

So now's his walk year. Just like Posada did in his walk year, Reyes looks like a man on a mission, not a man looking to spend the rest of his career on the trainer's table. He's been a combination of Ricky Henderson and Rod Carew - 30 stolen bases through July with a major-league leading .354 batting average.
Could this be the real Reyes? One prominent ESPN reporter even did a piece proclaiming Reyes as a guy the Yankees should jump at to replace Derek Jeter. Can you see Reyes running full speed into the 3rd base box seats smashing his face up like Jeter did in a July 2004 game against the Red Sox? Or running the bases like Johnny Damon against the Phillies in the 2009 World Series? I can't. I see a Jose Reyes running the bases like a freshman at Queensboro Community College and running after a foul ball and pulling up lame like-well like Jose Reyes.

And Guess What?

Yep, he's back on the dl. With another hamstring injury, this one suffered against the Yankees. He'll miss his third All-Star Game because of injury and who knows how many games after that. Shame. Turning it on like a madman in his walk year and ending up back where he started.

So if you're GM Sandy Alderson, do you tell owner Fred Wilpon to spend Carl Crawford money on Reyes or trade him to a contender for some hot prospects? Wilpon, who's facing a billion dollar lawsuit in connection with the Bernie Madoff mess will have one helluva time finding the cash for that. The real question is whether there's a sucker out there who will overlook Jose's medical chart and see the numbers he put up in the first half.

Just like the mental patient, the GM of that other team will overlook Reyes' past history. And just like the mental patients date will end up screaming, "Get me outta here!"

Dodgers Dodge A Bullet (For The Time Being)

In the days of the Wild West, a place some of our politicians want to take us back to, snake oil salesman made their livings selling worthless elixirs and potions to the simple minded promising cures for everything that ailed them. Today we get bombarded every hour of every day by their great great children who tell us via talk radio and Fox News that it's best to let the richest of the rich, the most influential insiders in our society do whatever they want. We will all benefit. Trickle down effect. Belly laugh, guffaw...Who needs rules and regulations? When Mr. Moneybags takes more of our money through tax breaks, it'll mean bigger paychecks for the rest of us. Just keep waiting for the mailman, it's coming soon. Just like the missing hair on our heads returning via The Helsinki Formula.

I think MLB is getting a taste of its own snake oil. The Dodgers, the game's second most storied franchise is officially bankrupt. The canvass with the Duke, Jackie, Gil, Sandy and Orel just had a big bucket of stinking slop thrown at it by team owner Frank McCourt. We aren't talking about a minor league hockey team having it's books wiggled and jiggled by its owner and then everybody losing their jobs because of it like I experienced first hand ten years ago in Arizona. Buried somewhere on the back page of the Tucson Pennysaver. This is The Dodgers people! Now commissioner Bud Selig and the owners he represents should be thinking long and hard why they allowed McCourt to buy the team in 2004 without a penny of his own money! That's right, $430 million bucks and none of it his own. Kinda reminds me of those late night "Make Millions in Real Estate With No Money Down" scams. Big money. Big profits. Lots of chics. No work. Awsome!

 Big Trouble in LA LA Land

The hanky panky began in 2009 when on the eve of the NLCS Frank and his ex Jamie announced they were separating after 30 years of marriage. A week later Frank sent Jamie, who was the Dodgers CEO a letter asking her to contact human relations and work out a time to clear out her office and scram. Then according to the LA Times, a little less than a year later the Dodgers Dream Foundation comes under investigation by the California attorney general's office for payments it made to club executive Howard Sunkin. According to tax returns, Sunkin, the charity's chief executive, earned a salary of nearly $400,000 in 2007, almost a quarter of the foundation's budget. Nothing to worry about, everything's under control says the commish.

Three months later, the paper reports, the judge in the divorce case invalidates the post nuptial marital property agreement that Frank had claimed provided him with sole ownership of the Dodgers.  McCourt's lawyers said Frank would use other legal avenues to establish his sole ownership of the Dodgers, while Jamie McCourt's lawyers said she would be confirmed as the co-owner of the team because it was community property of their marriage. Ah, now it's finally sinking in. Last April, Selig appoints a trustee to see what the hell was going on. This gets Frank out of the picture as far as running the team goes.

It looked like Frank and Jamie had a deal worked out, but it all depended on Selig approving a long term, very expensive tv contract with Fox. But Selig basically says, "Frankly Frank, the deal stinks." So this unravels the agreement between the McCourts and really puts Frank on the hot seat.

The Rat Gets Cornered

Now it's the bottom of the ninth with the Blue and White down by three but there's no steroid - pumped Manny at the plate. Just a good 'ol American entrepreneur doing the best he could to keep the dream alive.
An estimated $30 million dollars in payroll is due at the end of the week ($7 million of it going to Manny who last we heard was vacationing with dad somewhere in Spain).

So what to do? The only thing he can do, declare bankruptcy. And that's what he did. But he also managed to get a $150 million interim loan. That means if the bankruptcy court approves it Tuesday, McCourt would meet Thursday's payroll deadline and could still call the shots throughout the bankruptcy proceedings.

Doesn't Matter Franky, You're Still Toast

Selig though, says the bridge loan doesn't change a thing and does even more damage to the franchise. League rules say if an owner declares bankruptcy the commissioner can kick him out. But bankruptcy court proceeding usually override MLB rules. So for the time being, Frank is still able to fog the mirror.

The bottom line is this: the commissioner and the owners want him gone a.s.a.p. So do the fans. So does every sane person who has ever been the victim of a fraud. And the guy who I really feel sorry for? Donnie Baseball, a.k.a. manager Don Mattingly who waited patiently years and years for his chance to manage. The guy who was the heart and sole of a Yankees team that finally made the playoffs for the first time in his career in the last year of his career only to lose a heartbreaking ALCS game five in Seattle. And then they go out and win it all a year later after his retirement. Now all he has to show in his rookie season on the bench is a 35-44 record and a once-proud franchise that's now broke.

Like Snake Oil Sam said, "Step right up folks...it will heal anything that bothers you..."