Recently in Media Morons Category

NEW YORK--FOX News chairman Roger Ailes denied that the network bore any responsibility for the burglary of the Ames, Iowa home of Frank Smith on Sunday. The denial came despite the fact that for the last two weeks, several FOX News hosts had wondered aloud if Smith's house should be broken into.

"We are simply reporting the news," Ailes told reporters. "The debate over whether or not to ransack Mr. Smith's house is raging right now, and we would be remiss in our duties as journalists if we didn't discuss this issue on our programs."

Critics charge that FOX News is virtually the only network to treat the potential burglarizing of Mr. Smith's house as a political issue. They also note that even fewer news organizations have given detailed instructions on how the house might be broken into.

For instance, the morning show Fox and Friends broadcast from outside Smith's home, making note of exactly when he left for work and how long he'd be there. Glenn Beck sketched out a detailed schematic on his chalkboard, pinpointing the house's major entry points and where some of the more valuable items could be located. Sean Hannity and guest Newt Gingrich discussed at length the shift schedules of the local police department, noting when law enforcement would be least equipped to respond to an emergency.

"Go back and look at the tapes," a defensive Bill O'Reilly insisted. "Nobody on this network has ever said Smith's house should be broken into. We're just talking about what everyone else is talking about! Oh, by the way, he doesn't lock his garage either. And sometimes he'll leave the keys to his Civic in one of the drawers of his tool bench."

Other news networks have been measured in their criticism. "On the one hand, FOX News clearly baited the public, then tried to act innocent," said CNN anchor Wolf Blitzer. "You could even make a case that some of their on-air personalities could be charged as accessories to this crime. On the other hand, we have to pretend there's another side to this issue for some reason."

The incident is similar to one from 2005, when FOX News devoted a week of programming to giving out several thousand social security numbers, while debating exactly what could be done with them.

I'm sorry if people were offended by my comments during a recent Nationals game. Apparently I said something about some mouthy broads who were sitting behind the plate and people got all snippy about it. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been so shocked these ladies could talk during the whole game. Doesn't matter where a woman is, the ballpark or the beauty parlor--chances are she's got her big yap open. Am I right, fellas?

Look, I know many women love baseball. And it's not just so's they can see a tight pair of polyester pants giftwrap Dib's beautiful package. Lots of female types honestly love this game. That's how great baseball is--even a buncha dumb skirts can dig it!

I love baseball because it's a game that appeals to everyone. Just look at how many Spanish guys play it! They couldn't be further away from American, but there's something about the game that just speaks to them. In some kinda hybrid English-Mexican-y language, I guess.

And you got Chinese guys like Ichiro who come over here to play it, too. You don't see them guys playing football, do ya? Probably cuz they'd get crushed to death by the linebackers. I could see an Oriental guy play punter or kicker, maybe. But they don't--they play baseball. I think I've made my point.

Speakin' of which, here's this joke I heard from Bob Carpenter. Why did Ichiro bat in the first inning, then bat again in the fourth? Cuz an hour later, he was hungry again! Get it? 

How universal is the sport of baseball? I've even seen an Indian guy at a game once. Swear to god!

The problem with you guys is you're too PC. Lighten up, wouldja? I don't get upset when people make jokes about washed-up unfunny ex-jocks, do I? Because people do. Constantly. Right to my face. Oh sure, I cry when I go home, but that doesn't mean I'm offended. Just deeply wounded.

Welcome bu-HACK to The Mike Francesa Program, New York's Number 1, coming to you live from Port St. Lucie, where spring training has begin. The period called spring training is upon us. The time of year generally referred to by most baseball fans as spring training is here. Something has started to occur down here in Florida, and that thing I'm referring to is spring training. I'm at Mets camp, where apparently they're preparing for the upcoming season, rather than throwing in the towel by Opening Day as I suggested. My first guest on the program is a fifth starter candidate and a promising young pitcher, Jon Niese.
Thanks for having me on the show, Mike.
Let me ask you a question, Jon. Didn't you have some sort of injury or something last year?
Um, yeah, I did. Tore a hamstring pretty bad. Couldn't you have just looked that up before the interview?
Where would I have looked it up, the internet? I don't trust those calculator things. They got viruses and cookies in 'em. Now, let me ask you something else: Are you a lefty or a righty?
I'm a lefty. Any other questions you want to ask me that could've been answered by the back of my baseball card?
Yes, as a matter of fact. With Damon and Matsui gone, do you think the Yankee lineup will be as explosive as it was last year? How do you think Granderson's gonna do in his first year in pinstripes?
To be honest, I haven't given the Yankees' question marks much thought, since they won the World Series last year and I don't play for them. I've been concentrating on breaking into the starting rotation and recovering from a horrific injury.
Don't get testy with me, young man. This is how it works, son. I'm the number one host on the Mets' flagship radio station, and I'm here in Port St. Lucie visiting your team. Of course I have to talk about the Yankees!
You do that. I gotta go stand over here for a while
/leaves

We are bu-HACK on The Fan, and my next guest is one of the greatest living American writers. One of the best. One of the legends. There are writers who are known as being great writers, and this is one of those writers. His name is Don DeLillo, and he's got a great new novel out called Point Omega. Don, thanks for being on the show.
Thanks for having me, Mike, though I'm not quite sure why you wanted to speak with me...
Nonsense. I'm not just a sports guy. I know a lot about a lot of things, okay? You don't get three number one shows by being a one-trick pony. I read, okay? I read books. I read a lot of books. I read a lot of printed material, material printed on paper. And your books are among the books I've read, and I enjoy them very much. I think you are one of the shining beacons of American letters, okay?
Wow, that's very nice of you to say.
But I do have a bone to pick with you. In your 1997 masterpiece Underworld, you start out the novel with an extended set piece about the famous Shot Heard Round the World playoff game between the Dodgers and the Giants in 1951.
Yes, and?
And you make no mention of Mickey Mantle.

As I wrote in a recent post, the word "hero" is thrown around a bit too freely in the sports world. However, I heard a true sports hero this weekend.

As I was scooting around on Super Bowl Sunday, I listened to Mike Francesa's "The NFL Now" program in the car, because my brain hates my ears. My beef with Francesa is well documented. Up until this year, most of that beef was confined to his agenda-driven conduct during the baseball season. I still found his football work to be at least listenable.

But as the Jets made an improbable playoff run, he dismissed all of their accomplishments in the same snide, condescending manner he uses to talk about the Mets. When they made the postseason, it didn't count because the Colts and Bengals didn't try in weeks 16 and 17. When they beat the Bengals on the road, it was because of Cincinnati's mistakes. When they beat the Chargers on the road, again it was no big deal the Jets had taken down one of the best offenses in the NFL on their home turf.

Did the Jets draw an enormous amount of luck to get as far as they did? Of course. But who cares? The sheer improbability of all should have been enjoyed for what it was by anyone unlike Francesa, who traffics in misery for a living. It was a sickening, transparent attempt to both tweak Jets fans and get fans of other teams to cheerlead him.

The most frustrating thing about Francesa is that his medium (radio) doesn't allow for any kind of counterpoints he doesn't want to hear. If he wrote for a newspaper or a web site, you could comment on his completely faulty reasoning. Instead, he only welcomes callers who will kiss his ring.

On the rare occasion someone who disagrees with him gets on the air, Francesa merely screams at the poor guy until he gives up. I heard one call a few weeks ago where a reasonable caller accused Francesa of discounting the Jets because he didn't like them, and because their continued success made him look stupid. Francesa's voice got louder and louder with each response, and his counterpoints made such insane logical leaps they could only be explained by quantum physics. Eventually, the man on the phone couldn't get a word in edgewise and had to abandon ship.

Radio also being an ephemeral medium, Francesa doesn't get called out when he makes off-the-cuff, borderline slanderous remarks. Or when he just gets things wrong, like mispronouncing the name of Colts head coach Jim Caldwell. Throughout the football season, Francesa has referred to the Indianapolis coach as CaRdwell. Not once, or twice, or even a few times. All season long.

But yesterday morning, some brave, genius soul managed to get on the air with Francesa. This man not only called him out on his idiocy, but also made Francesa look like even more of an imperious buffoon than usual, as he mumbled he didn't "have time" to bother with getting Caldwell's name right because it was early on a Sunday morning. Yes, you work a whole 30 hours a week--when could you possibly look up the actual name of the AFC champion's coach?



God bless you, Rich in Massapequa. A man can stand up!

Hat tip to the hilarious @MikeFrancesaNY for the YouTube link.

If nothing else good comes out of these MLB playoffs (and nothing probably will, as a Phillies-Yankees World Series leaves me rooting for the meteor), they may force the league to correct two glaring deficiencies. The first is, obviously, the umpiring. I am 100 percent convinced one huge game this year will be definitively and adversely affected by a terrible call. There will be no room for debate as to whether this call cost a team the game, as there was with Phil Cuzzi's brainlock in the ALDS. No, I'm talking about a blatant blown call at a critical moment in a deciding game of a series that shifts victory from one side to the other. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when.

Then, hopefully, Bud Selig will be forced to reverse his idiotic anti-replay-expansion stance. We have the technology to make replay review work efficiently, it wouldn't appreciably lengthen games (if anything, it'd shorten them, since it would prevent managers stomping out onto the field to scream about blown calls), and we could even use umpires to man the review booth/room/quonset hut. Selig is like an astronomer who refuses to use a telescope. "No way! Looking at the spheres too closely ruins their mystique! I'll just keep using my magnifying glass to view Jupiter, thank you very much!"

The second one is less essential, but just as important to fans, in my mind. Hopefully, this postseason will force MLB to get new announcers for the biggest games of the year. Because right now, the play-by-play guys they've chosen are across the board terrible.

Just like bad umpiring, fans' toleration of announcers' hideousness is at an all-time low. Read any sports-related site and you will see nothing but contempt for the men who are supposed to be the Voices of Baseball. Spend an evening on Twitter during a game, and it's hard to miss the embarrassment and anger inspired by bad play-by-play. That contempt is finally starting to find its way into the mainstream media, which gives me hope that some changes will be afoot by this time next year.

Chip Caray's gotten the worst reviews, even though this is his second year doing the playoffs. The difference this year is that he's calling Yankee games, thus exposing a large, vocal, passionate fanbase to his hideousness. Although it is somewhat curious that Yankee fans would object to Chip when they're usually treated to Michael Kay. But when picking the announcer for the tentpole games of the postseason, shouldn't you have higher criteria than "not much worse than Michael Kay"?

Joe Buck, on the other hand, receives few complaints. I think most fans feel that he's been around for so long, there's no point in slagging him. We'll never be rid of him, we realize now. He's like some small town mayor voted into office for 17 consecutive terms. No one bothers running against him anymore.

Buck and Caray are Legacy Broadcasters. They're both the sons of beloved baseball voices. Between them, Skip Caray and Jack Buck had about 700 years of play-by-play experience. Add in Chip's uncle Harry, and that's quite a bloodline. One with an unhealthy amount of Budweiser and pork. ("If the moon was made of ribs, would you eat it?")

So Chip and Joe were just sort of admitted to broadcasting, the way people are admitted to Harvard or Yale because everyone in their families went to Harvard or Yale. Merit had nothing to do with it. And just like the inbred blue-blood alumni of Harvard and Yale tend to grow up to do terrible things to our country, so too have Chip and Joe done terrible things to the game of baseball.

Here's the thing, though: If you put a gun to my head, I'd take Chip Caray over Buck. Yes, Chip Caray gets things wrong and his knowledge of players is extremely limited and his impoverished vocabulary means he uses certain words constantly (like "fisted" regardless of whether the ball was actually fisted or not and without any seeming awareness of the double meaning). Worst of all, he used to be a Braves broadcaster. But even allowing all of that, I'll take Chip over Joe, if I have to take either.

Because if Chip Caray has nothing else going for him (and he might not), when he does play-by-play, he sounds as if he likes baseball. He seems to understand that there are exciting moments in a game that should be reacted to with a certain level of enthusiasm. He can at least do this simple, obvious task.

Joe Buck can not. Because Joe Buck fucking hates baseball.

There's an old saying: The worst day at the ballpark is better than the best day at the office. Joe Buck does not understand this saying. Because every moment spent in the vicinity of the game is a torturous hell to him. He is trapped in a purgatory of his own making, and he does not rage against its walls. He resigns himself to apathy, because caring would be pointless.

When Joe Buck calls a game, he simply tells you what happened. After each pitch, he says "ball one" or "strike two". Each time the ball is put into play, he says "grounder to short" or "single to left. No embellishment whatsoever. Every second he spends in a broadcast booth is destroying him, and he transmits that horror in every breath of his chilling, soulless play-by-play work.

It's as if the playoffs are being called by a vampire. And not a sexy Twilight/True Blood vampire, either. A classic vampire, devoid of life, envious of the dead, wanting to take everyone else with him into his cold nether-region of the damned.

But I will thank Joe Buck for one thing. His complete apathy in the face of the year's most exciting games provided the best moment of the playoffs so far. It came in game 2 of the ALCS on Saturday. You'll be forgiven for missing it, because it came at a moment that you (unlike Buck) were wrapped up in because you found it exciting.

Top of the ninth, two outs, game tied at 2, Mariano Rivera on the mound in his second inning of relief. Torii Hunter at the plate. Future Hall of Famer versus dangerous hitter. Rivera falls behind 2-0, then gets two swinging strikes. The crowd is on its feet, cheering between the raindrops. Finally, Rivera throws his signature cutter, right on the inside black, and freezes Hunter. Called strike three, inning over. Mariano walks back to the dugout in his typically subdued way, a totally contrast to the fans, who are going ballistic.

This is the kind of moment a broadcaster lives for. Athletic theatre of the highest order. It is a sliver of time screaming out for either profundity or silence. What did Joe Buck say?

 

"What. A. ... Game."

I absolutely lost it. I laughed harder than I've laughed since I heard Tom Scharpling and Paul F. Tompkins discuss the Gathering of the Juggalos. It was so awkward and unsure of itself and tragically incompetent, I almost applauded.

It was delivered in the same tone as Comic Book Guy sneering "Worst. Episode. Ever." Joe Buck actually paused between "a" and "game", as if he forgot what he was going to say next, or someone clogged up his robot RAM with too much information and he was slow to process it. FATAL ERROR. SOME DATA MAY BE LOST.

Faced with an epic moment in a thrilling playoff game, this was the best Joe Buck could do. Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution rests.

Welcome bu-hack to Inside the Actors' Studio. I'm yaw host, Mike Francesa. In addition to knowing everything there is to know about spawts, I'm also a cineaste extraordinaire. This is the show where I tawk to some of the best actors in the history of Hollywood films. Some of the greats. Some of the legends. Some of the biggest stars. And I have one of em next to me right now. His name is Richard Dreyfuss. Richard, welcome to the program.
Thanks, Mike. I can hear you, but it's hard to see you past this heaping mountain of snacks you have on the desk between us.
I draw my strength from the aroma of unopened Malomars. Now, Richard, you've appeared in some of the biggest films of awl time. Some of the hugest films. Some of the real big ones. Which one was your favorite?
Oh, it's so hard to say. Movies are almost like your kids, you know: You love em all! Ha ha! There's just...
It's Mr. Holland's Opus, isn't it?
That was certainly an enjoyable film to make.
Your favorite film was Mr. Holland's Opus.
I don't think I'd say that, Mike. I mean, it was a fantastic experience, but I always come back to Jaws, the movie that really...
Jaws?! Are you tellin me you like Jaws more than Mr. Holland's Opus?
Mike, it's not really question of liking one more than the other...
MISTAH HOLLAND'S OPUS WAS ABOUT A BELOVED TEACHER FALLING IN LOVE WITH MUSIC AGAIN! JAWS IS ABOUT A SHAWK! HOW CAN YOU PICK JAWS OVER MISTAH HOLLAND'S OPUS?! YER OUTTA YA MIND IF YOU THINK THAT!!

/17 minute pause

IF YOU THINK JAWS IS A BETTAH FILM, YOU ARE LOST! LU-HOST!

/massive gulp of Diet Coke

Alright, we got Frankie on the caw phone. Frankie, what's up?

Thanks, Mike. I love the show. I worhship the ground you walk on. I cherish the six hours your show is on much more than the time I spend with my stupid wife and children.

Go on.
My question is, when Mr. Dreyfuss was making that mashed potato Devil's Mountain in Close Encounters, did he really...

Wait, you wanna ask a Close Encounters question? I have the staw of Mr. Holland's Opus here, and you wanna ask a Close Encounters question?
I'd be happy to answer it...
Did you evah see Mr. Holland's Opus, Frankie?
I think so, maybe on a plane once. I don't remember it too well.

I HAVE THE STAW OF MISTAH HOLLAND'S OPUS HEAH, AND YOU WANNA ASK HIM ABOUT CLOSE ENCOUNTERS? YOU GOTTA BE OUTTA YAW MIND! WHY DON'TCHA AKS HIM ABOUT THE TOUCHING SCENE WHERE HE HEARS HIS SYMPHONY PERFAWMED BY HIS FORMER STUDENTS?! ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT DIDN'T MOVE YOU TO TEARS?!
Um, like I said, I don't remember it too well.

BECAUSE I WEPT LIKE A BABY!
Mike, please don't yell at me! You're the only ray of sunshine in my life!   

Ridiculous. Get this guy off.

/click

Mark, Chris, Bill, whatever my producer's name is. This is the kinda question you let on the air? So that's what we're doin now. This is how we produce a show. Okay. Fine.

/dismissive snort

Alright, now it's time faw my Mawquis Quiz.

I thought it was called the Proust Questionnaire.
This first one is easy: Who scawed the first safety in Super Bowl history?
Um...you know, I'm not a huge football fan.
TAKE A GUESS, RICHARD! TAKE A GUESS!
Um...Terry Bradshaw?
TERRY BRADSHAW?! HOW IS QUAWTABACK GONNA SCORE A SAFETY?! YOU AW LU-HOST!
You seem to be running the show fine by yourself. Maybe I should just leave.
NOT UNTIL YOU SHARE HILARIOUS STORIES FROM THE SET OF "THE EDUCATION OF MAX BICKFORD"!
Hat tip to @kranepool, whose tweet inspired this opus.

It's hard to know why the media latches onto a particular narrative. Sometimes it's a naked attempt to curry favor with the audience. Sometimes it's to push an agenda (see: the entire Fox News Channel). Sometimes it's just pure laziness, because it's always easier to go with what everyone thinks they think about something than it is to actually research stuff.

Regardless of the reason, there's usually a Point of No Return: a time after which it becomes virtually impossible to change the narrative, or temper it with another point of view. If everyone says the same thing, saying anything else suddenly sounds like lunacy. It's a corollary of The Big Lie Theory. Repeat something often enough and it becomes true, at least in most people's minds.

I feel like we're on that precipice right now with Jose Reyes. If you read/listen to/watch any NY-based sports media--and even some not in NY--you will hear many different people beat the same drum. Its cadence goes like this: Jose Reyes is a malingerer who is not trying hard enough to come back from his hamstring injury, and the Mets should trade him because they'll never win with him anyway, because he's not a "gamer".

Normally, I could care less about writers' opinion of a player's work ethic and whether or not he should be traded. But this line of reasoning seriously scares me for two reasons:

1) The frequency of these "Reyes must go" features makes me think that the Mets have already decided to trade him, and are feeding these stories to the press to soften the eventual blow.
2) The Mets are extremely sensitive to the media, and also not very smart. If enough people say "trade Reyes", they may just bow to pressure and do it. Particularly since this narrative ties into another Mets-related media narrative: that the "core" of the team (code word for Reyes, Carlos Beltran, and David Wright) is not "tough" enough and therefore, one (or more) of them must be jettisoned for the good of the team.

For a prime example of what I'm talking about, see Jayson Stark's recent column on the Mets--an infuriating work given an excellent takedown by Sam Page at Amazin' Avenue. Ostensibly, Stark's column is about the "impossible spot" the team will be in next year. (Peter Gammons does not see things quite as dimly.) But really, what Stark does is cherrypick through a series of quotes from anonymous baseball executives and scouts and use them to come to conclusion that Reyes must be traded.

Of course, every reporter uses anonymous sources. And this is an opinion piece, so it doesn't have the same burdens as straight-forward reportage. But Stark doesn't have a single on-record source, so I haven't the slightest idea what agenda these nameless Baseball People might have. For all I know, these sources supplied quotes because they hope the Mets will be dumb enough to trade Reyes. (Amazingly, I find myself agreeing with Murray Chass's critique of the piece; though Chass doesn't explictly reference Stark or that column, it's pretty clear who his target is.)

I don't mean to pick on Stark. I chose his piece because it's indicative of the Current Reyes Narrative: Reyes is not a hard worker and never will be one and therefore should be traded. The line has been repeated so often that it's almost pointless to argue otherwise. The problem is, there's no serious evidence to support it.

This is not like when Carl Pavano did several very stupid things to set back his injury rehab, then refused to take a minor league deal from the Yankees when he clearly deserved no better. All of the evidence against Reyes in this case is rumor and hearsay. Not some, or much of it, or even most. All of it.

Reyes hasn't done anything--or failed to do anything--that should make anyone doubt his dedication. Hamstrings are tricky injuries. They can take weeks or months to heal. Nobody but Reyes and his doctor(s) know how much he's injured. Nobody has any right or reason to question his ability to play.

Still, they do. There's an oft-repeated rumor that his teammates think his injury might be more in his head than his hamstring. No one's ever gone on record with that accusation. There's no evidence to support it. But you hear this rumor on WFAN all the time, particularly on The Sports Pope's show. It's even alluded to often at MetsBlog. Site founder Matt Cerrone says "I'm not sure I believe that, but it's an understandable conclusion".

From 2005 to 2008, Reyes had played no fewer than 153 games at an extremely demanding position. He played in at least 160 games twice (Derek Jeter, who's always praised for his grit, has never played that many games in the regular season). Someone who plays that many games plays through pain and fatigue. That's a simple fact of baseball.

So why is it an "understandable conclusion" that Reyes could be milking his injury? Why did Reyes have to insist to the Mets' beat reporters--with tears in his eyes--that it's killing him to not play?

More importantly, why are there any Mets fans who want to get rid of Jose Reyes? I can understand that people associated with other teams might not like him. But how did we get to the point where a vocal segment of his own fan base has written him off? Before this season, this team's mantra was As Reyes Goes So Go the Mets. Now it's Reyes Must Go for the Mets to Go Anywhere.

Peep the comments below that NJ.com link, if you can stomach them. The Reyes defenders are few and far between. Instead, you get comment after comment saying Reyes is soft. Saying he didn't rehab properly, as if they've followed his every move or even know what constitutes proper rehab for such an injury. Saying he's never come through in a big spot, which is completely untrue. Saying he's never had a definitive "moment", whatever the hell that means.

Read any other local newspaper's sports site, and you'll see the same kind of comments. Listen to WFAN, and you'll hear tons of Mets fans chomping at the bit to say similar things to Mike Francesa, the baton twirler leading the anti-Reyes bandwagon. Or Joe Benigno, who, as a Mets fan, is a frightening barometer of mood of the fanbase.

They say Reyes has never "reached his potential" and never will. Keep in mind that he's put up numbers that haven't been seen since the days of Honus Wagner. I don't know what potential these people think is unfulfilled, unless they expected him to raise the dead and heal the sick.

You can look at traditional stats or the new-fangled sabermetric ones. But by any measure, he's the best shortstop in baseball not named Hanley Ramirez--and is a better fielder than Ramirez by a mile.

By more ephemeral measures, Reyes is a joy to watch. There's few more exciting things to see at a game than watching him toy with a pitcher, then steal a bag anyway. Or hit a ball in the gap and try for a triple. From a merchandising standpoint, I'm sure he's one of the top jersey sellers for the team. He's a Game Changer for this franchise in every sense of the word, on and off the field. Why is this even being discussed?!

Contrast this perception of Reyes with the general perception of Daniel Murphy. In most fans' minds, Murphy is a gamer. Murphy guts it out. Murphy works hard. The fact that he's one of the worst offensive producers at first base in the NL doesn't bother most Mets fans (if they're aware of that fact at all). Regardless of his output and overall talent--neither of which could touch Reyes's with a 10-foot pole--they appreciate his work ethic.

I have no reason to doubt that Murphy works hard. But I have no reason to doubt that Reyes works hard, either. Like a lot of Dominican players, Reyes comes from humble origins and had to overcome cultural and language barriers as he advanced through the minor league system. And he did this at an age when most American kids' biggest worry is the prom.

If you took a hundred teenagers, dropped them in a foreign land, and asked them to succeed in completely alien territory, how many could rise to the top of their chosen field? Maybe one?

But only Murphy gets glowing articles written about his work ethic. The other is labeled a "pouter" and a "faker".

I can't help but think that Reyes wouldn't have this problem if he was a few shades lighter or didn't speak English with such a heavy accent. As Can't Stop the Bleeding tweeted earlier this week, "Anyone heard Francesca suggest that JJ Putz isn't trying to come back from the DL fast enough?" The Reyes Myth has traction because it taps into stereotypes that have existed ever since Latin players first emerged in baseball. Roberto Clemente was slandered as being "soft", and that's been a rap against Latin players ever since.

Here's the thing about sportswriters: they're mostly Big Doughy White Guys, writing their articles for a largely Big Doughy White Guy audience. (I write this as a fellow Big Doughy White Guy.) Very few of them speak Spanish. Very few of them have the slightest idea about the background Latin players come from.

Sportswriters don't go out of their way to slight or misunderstand Latin players. It's just that, for the most part, they have no clue about them. Nor does a large, vocal segment of their audience. JUST PLAY THE GAME THE RIGHT WAY, they say, without recognizing that what "the right way" is depends on where you're from. For instance, Reyes is often slammed in the American media for his "dancing". This is a take that would be inconceivable in the Dominican Republic, where cheerleaders dance merengue on top of the dugouts in between innings.

The Mets once had another superstar who was inexplicably slammed for being a complainer, with all the evidence coming from hearsay, rumors, and in some cases outright lies. After a while, it became simply impossible for this superstar to stay with the team.

That's how Tom Seaver wound up traded to the Reds in 1977, and how the Mets lost their franchise player. They valued the vindictiveness of Dick Young over the good of their team. It was a move that sent the Mets into a death spiral, with hideous baseball and tens of thousands of empty seats at Shea. The team wouldn't contend for another seven years.

Mark my words: A media-induced trade of Jose Reyes would be just as disastrous for the team's future. The scary thing is, we may already be at the point of no return, where Reyes may find it impossible to stay here anymore.

There's very, very little that would force me to stop following the Mets. But something this stupid, cowardly, and racially motivated might just be bad enough.

11:08: K-Rod looked good, for the most part. Much better than he's looked in actual Mets games of late.

I vote we place a moratorium on those Bud commercials with that Jet song. The tune has approached near-"Vertigo" levels of annoying ubiquity.

Mariano sets 'em down 1-2-3, and the NL is 0 for the decade (and then some). And I shall repair to my bed, to dream of the years of senior circuit dominance gone by.

11:08: How on earth did Angel Hernandez get on the umpiring crew for the ASG? He's gotta be the worst ump in the game, by a huge margin. And a total douche to boot.

As Will Carroll pointed out, why did McCarver pick Adrian Gonzalez giving $250K to his alma mater's baseball team as an example of good-guy-ism? Lot more worthy causes in the world, Tim.

Ryan Howard strands runners at the corners. Can't tell you how many times I've seen him strike out on a total junk pitch in the dirt. Dude can not just lay off it.

10:52: Heath Bell has taken over Trevor Hoffman's role in San Diego--including melting down when it really counts. Curtis Granderson triple and Adam Jones sac fly puts the AL back on top.

McCarver's trying to sell us on the "value" of Kevin Youkilis. Is he a used car?

I considered tweeting all about tonight's exciting (yawn) All Star Game. Then I remembered that it will involve Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. And that, because the game is taking place in St. Louis, Mr. Buck will be at the height of his most cloyingly nostalgic and self righteous. (See how many times the phrase "greatest fans in baseball is used", but please don't turn it into a drinking game or you'll go blind.) It was then I knew I couldn't restrain my hatred to 140 characters at a time.

So this evening, I will live blog all the drama and stupidity that surely awaits us. Your comments are, as always, welcomed.

I never thought I'd write these words, but I'm a big enough man to admit it: I owe Wallace Matthews an apology.

Mind you, I still think he's one of the worst writers on the planet. But I also thought he was one of the worst human beings on the planet. I stand corrected. He has been dwarfed in hideousness by Howie Carr, a "writer" for the Boston Herald.

Matthews is cranky and joyless and seems to take pleasure in raining on parades. But he has not, to the best of my knowledge, actually caused anyone harm--or really wished harm on others. Howie Carr, on the other hand, wants people to starve.

Carr is a reprehensible right-wing talk radio windbag on Boston's WRKO (against his will, apparently). He lies somewhere in the Venn intersection of Bob Grant, Morton Downey Jr., and a playground bully, filling his shows with Code Word Bigotry and seething anti-gay invective.

He also writes columns for the Boston Herald. You've probably never read the Herald unless you've had to line a birdcage in the greater New England area. It's basically an angrier, more overtly racist version of the NY Post, aimed squarely at the Tommy from Quinzee set.

In this latter capacity, he authored a piece that appeared in Sunday's Herald, "Shed no tears as Boston Globe fat gets Pinched". I was alerted to its poisonous existence by the justifiably angry tweeting of BP's Will Carroll.

As you may know, there's a very good chance the Boston Globe will close down very soon. I'm ambivalent about the future of newspapers myself. And I have to cop to a snotty tweet I tapped out on Monday about how no more Globe would (hopefully) mean no more Dan Shaughnessy.

But I think we can all agree that the shuttering of the Globe would be sad. Not only because it's a storied daily with a long history, but because it would put a lot of people out of work--very few of whom are responsible for the paper's financial woes. It would also leave Boston with only one newspaper: the reprehensible Herald.

So again, I think we can all agree that the Globe's imminent closing is a very bad, very sad thing.

Wait, we can't all agree with that? Apparently not, according to Carr. He's dancing on a grave that hasn't even been dug yet. Why? Because the Globe is a liberal newspaper, owned by the NY Times Corp., and therefore is worse than Hitler in his book.

Keep in mind as you read these excerpts that Carr writes for the Globe's rival paper, and that no newspapers are doing well right now. So his insane, petty, vindictive Schadenfreude makes about as much karmic sense as the head of GM crowing about Chrysler's bankruptcy.

Are you familiar with MLB's blackout rules? You probably aren't, unless you specialize in sports law or are a masochist. They're quite arcane, outdated, and draconian.

Case in point: Fox has exclusive national rights for baseball on Saturdays from 4pm to 7pm. That means if your team schedules a game during this window, but isn't being broadcast by Fox, it can't be shown on TV. As you might imagine, most teams don't schedule games during this time unless they're being shown on Fox.

That's why there's more and more Saturday start times of 7:10 (or later). When I first got a Mets ticket plan several years ago, I opted for a Saturday plan because I liked the idea of spending a lazy Saturday afternoon at the ballpark. But in a short amount of time, these lazy afternoons turned into torpid evenings and getting home at 1 in the morning.

Technically, a team can schedule a game whenever they want. They could play at 3am if they felt like it. The Marlins decided to test this freedom in the first series of the season. They scheduled a 6:10pm start for this Saturday's game against the Mets. As a result, the beginning of this game can not be shown on TV anywhere in this country. Not in New York, not in Miami, not in Nome or Omaha or Cucamonga. It doesn't matter where you live. You will not see the start of this game.

So I'm trying to decide who I hate more right now. Is it MLB, for not restructuring their antiquated blackout rules for the new digital age? These blackout rules date back to baseball's radio days, where certain teams were assigned arbitrary "territories" (and there were only 16 teams, and none west of the Mississippi).

And for some ridiculous reason, they blackout your local team(s) on MLB.tv (based on your billing address), even though anyone watching a game online is doing so because they're someplace where the local feed (or TV in general) is unavailable. Thus, they cut themselves off from the lucrative traveling businessman/cubicle slave goofing off market.

But these rules, dumb as they are, aren't to blame for Saturday's blackout. So maybe I hate Fox, for insisting on this ridiculous exclusivity. As if your local team is "competition" for whatever game they decide to send Joe Buck to. Everything Rupert Murdoch touches, he poisons and destroys.

Then again, The Fox Rule has been effect for several years now. It's not like Bud Selig was carrying it around in his back pocket, waiting to unleash it at the most inconvenient time. So I think I'll reserve most of my hatred for the idiot Marlins, an organization that clearly hates baseball.

Apparently the Marlins also hate music. Do you know why they pushed the start time of Saturday's game up by one hour? To accommodate a postgame concert by rapper Flo Rida.

Not familiar with Flo Rida? If not, then clearly it's been a while since you were harrassed by some douche driving a car with a purple neon license plate. Surely you've bought the soundtrack to the cinematic masterpiece Step Up 2, or grooved to his monster hit "Right Round" at your local club that's totally a front for the Russian mob.

Do you know how many baseball teams sponsor pre- or postgame concerts? I'm gonna say all of them, from the smallest market teams all the way up to the Yankees, BoSox, etc. I know the Mets have a well-attended Merengue Night every year.

And I don't think a single team has moved a game start time in deference to these events. Except for the bush league Marlins, a team with so few fans that they don't care whether their games are on TV or not.

Keep in mind, they're not doing this to appease a musical legend, or even an old band/artist playing classics. They're doing it for a fourth-rate crunk "artist" who is 18 months away from the State Fair Circuit. I would call him a flash in the pan, but a flash in the pan will seem like a small eternity compared to Flo Rida's career trajectory. This guy will be forgotten in a heartbeat the second he has a flop single.

Don't believe me? Anyone hear from the Ying Yang Twins lately? Yeah, that's what I thought.

This is something a minor league team would do, sandwiched in between Dunk the Mayor Night and Ladies Named Sheila Pay Half Price Day.

If this was 1983, I could see the Marlins bending over backwards for a postgame concert by Michael Sembello.

"Listen: We're not starting this game at 7. We're starting it at 6 and that's final! If Michael Sembello wants to go on no later than 10, he's going on no later 10. Do you realize who we're dealing with here? This is the man who wrote 'Maniac'! You don't fuck with that kind of star power! And you make sure his dressing room has 16 gross of marshmallow Peeps, just like he asked for. I go in that room and there's one less Peep than that, so help me God, heads will roll!"

Hey, Marlins, wanna know why your organization is a sports punchline? Start with crap like this.

As March Madness continues, let's take a little trip down memory lane with Dickie V to this post from March 13, 2007.

"Okay, Mr. Vitale. The tape is rolling. You can start your reading whenever you're ready."

"First of all, I wanna say this is an honor. Doing voice over work for the great Ken Burns. I mean, New York, The Civil War, The Brooklyn Bridge, baby. You can't beat that with a stick. It's unbeatable, just like DiGiorno pizza. It's not delivery, baby!"

"Thank you, Mr. Vitale. Now, whenever you're ready."

"Okay, baby, let's do this! Civil War Part II! It's awesome with a capital Appomatox, baby! We're gonna make a Bull Run at another dozen Emmys! And lemme tell you, that violin theme song, whatever it's called, that is undoubtedly the most moving piece of music ever written for television. If that doesn't make you get all misty eyed, you gotta be made of stone, baby!"

"Okay, now if we could get to the script..."

"And my main man, Shelby Foote, with all of his poignant insights and Southern aphorisms. That man is a living legend. I've been around the block a few times, and lemme tell you: I've never seen a man who could drive home a bitter truth like Shelby Foote. He reminds me of another Southern gentleman: Coach K, baby! Never mind their late season swoon--the Blue Devils are going to the Final Four! That's right, folks, you heard it right--the Final Four is gonna be Duke, Ohio State, Florida, and Duke! I'd love to hear Shelby Foote's bracket picks."

"He's dead. Please start your reading."

"That's a tragedy. Almost as bad as Syracuse not getting a tournament bid. I had Jim Boeheim over at my house and he had a good cry while we watched 'Hoosiers'. Gene Hackman. Dennis Hopper. The quintessential sports movie. That high school basketball team coming back to win the state final, that's a Cinderella story for the ages, baby! Kinda like how the Union stormed back to defeat the South. Ulysses S. Grant, baby! Grant and General Lee coming together to turn back the evil forces of Boss Hogg..."

"There's a million things wrong with what you just said, but I'll ignore all of them if you'll just start your reading."

"Listen up--I gotta mention my good friends at Boost Mobile. Sign up now for Dickie V's Dipsy Doo Dunkeroo Bracketology Knowledge-y, and you can win tons of prizes. Hats. Shirts. Hats. More hats. It's great! All you gotta do is text them your phone number so you can be harassed with messages for the next seven years, baby..."

"If you don't start reading right now, I'm going to cut off oxygen to the sound booth."

"Okay baby, let's get rolling! Cue that weepy violin music, baby!"

"There's no music. For the love of Jesus, please read."

"*ahem* 'My darling Melissa: Words can not express my longing for you. My pen trembles when I call to mind your alabaster skin, your soft amber curls, and the warmth of your smile. Know that you are in my thoughts every waking moment of every day. And know that when I lay my head down on a hard, unforgiving Army cot, the only thing that can soften the scratch of the canvas and bring on the sweet respite of slumber is to whisper your name. I feel it wrap around me as if I were an infant being swaddled and cradled to his sleep. Oh Melissa, would that I could promise to return home soon. Would that I could promise to return at all! But that is for Providence to decide. All I can do is pray that He shall see fit to return me to your arms. If He does not, then know that we shall see one another again in the sweet by and by. And know above all, that with my last breath, with my dying words, I shall utter but one phrase and be at peace:' Coach K, baby!"

"The script doesn't say that!"

"I know! I'm bringing my own Dickie V flavor to the material! It's what the kids want!"

"Do any of you sound engineers have a taser?"

The Wife alerted me to the hilarious, completely unsubtle cover of today's NY Post:

C'mon, Post, you can do better than that! At least come up with some clever pun. You just stated what everyone is thinking.

I also love the irony of a paper owned by Rupert Murdoch calling anyone a greedy bastard. The term "greedy bastard" definitely applies to the clueless morons at AIG, but it should also apply to a man who owns every media outlet in the known universe.

This has to be the least imaginative Post cover since this trio:

And once again, the line between the Daily News and the Weekly World News is shaved a bit thinner.

My New Year's Resolution was to stop listening to WFAN, apart from Mets games and the occasional Schmooze. I've been tuning in to that station practically my whole life, and ramped up my listenership back in the days when I wrote a now-defunct sports blog.

But now WFAN just makes me angry. And not Dynamic Anger, which pisses you off so much it inspires to do bigger and better things. It pisses me off to hear so many ill-informed opinions and caveman sensibilities and thinly veiled racism.

And then on top of everything, they added Craig Carton to their morning program, who is made from the slats at the bottom of the barrel. The epitome of everything that is wrong and stupid and adolescent about radio.

Listening to WFAN now is the audio equivalent of finishing a huge bag of Cheetos all by yourself. You'll get absolutely no nutrition from it and you'll feel sick and wrong and ashamed afterwards. There's nothing to be gained from the exercise except orange fingers.

Here's the thing, though: I have this Pavlovian response whenever I go to the bathroom in my house. It stems from the baseball season: whenever I go to use the facilities, I flip on the radio on top of the toilet so I won't miss any of whatever game I'm watching. Except that now it doesn't matter if any game is on. I do it anyway.

I've been pretty good about curbing this impulse lately, but this Monday I wasn't, and I heard about 20 seconds of Mike Francesa that infuriated me so much that I couldn't even bring myself to write about them until today.

Francesa was talking about the inauguration, which was a big red flag right off the bat. Whenever Francesa talks about anything other than sports, batten down the hatches. It's bad enough when he talks about music or movies. He loves to pretend he's Paulina Kael, if Pauline Kael had completely middle-of-the-road taste in everything. "You know who's a pretty good director? Steven Spielberg!"

But when politics enter the picture, oh lord. I caught his show on election day, just as I was leaving work, when it was slowly dawning on everyone that Obama was probably gonna win big time. You could hear how much this realization was killing him. It was so sweet, because in his voice you could hear the panicked thoughts of every Wall Street asshole and moneyed buffoon in the land. "Oh no, now I'm gonna take home only several million dollars a year instead of many millions! I might have to sell my third house!"

All he could get out was, "Hey, Obama ran a brilliant campaign, what can I say?" He said it in the same condescending way he begrudgingly hands out compliments to the Mets (granted, they rarely give him cause to do so).

If you do nothing for the next 4 years, Obama, thank you for that moment.

So day before the inaguration, the biggest one of our lifetimes, possibly the biggest ever, what is Francesa talking about? He's complaining about all the inauguration balls and how much money they're gonna cost. How it's not right to be spending so much dough during this time of financial hardship. "Hey, I got nothing against him. He's my president too!" he was quick to add.

You know, Mikey, your argument might track a bit better if your show wasn't simulcast on the YES Network, the channel owned by the team that just spent $400 MILLION DOLLARS ON THREE PLAYERS.

I'm sure Francesa would counter with the fact that the Yankees are a private corporation. Well, they are and they aren't. After all, they just had THE CHROME-PLATED BALLS TO BEG NEW YORK CITY FOR MORE BONDS TO FINISH THEIR 1 BILLION DOLLAR MONUMENT TO THEMSELVES.

Now, to be fair, the Mets asked for (and received) extra bonds for their stadium, too. But they just didn't spend almost half a billion dollars on players before doing so, then turn around and cry poverty to the city (even though, after Bernie Madoff, Fred Wilpon can probably cry poverty). They also don't have a paid mouthpiece on their own network bitching about somebody else's "misuse" of public funds.

I don't recall Francesa saying word one about the Yankees feeding from the public trough in such a brazen manner after unloading dump trucks full of cash on free agents' doorsteps. So don't play like you're all of a sudden concerned about wastes of public money, you fat mess.

I mean, what's more gross a use of public moneys: celebrating the inauguration of a president, or making A.J. Burnett richer?

The Newspaper, as an industry, is clearly on the ropes. (As opposed to all other industries, which are doing just fine.) Every week, it seems, some paper closes bureaus, scales back its coverage, or folds altogether. Pundits wonder what needs to be done to save newspapers (which supply the precious media real estate that keeps them employed).

I'm not sure newspapers need to be saved. I get all my news online, be it from CNN or Hot Chicks with Douchebags. I don't need to read the news in a physical form, anymore than I need to watch a movie in a theatre. Newspapers aren't historic landmarks or endangered species. They're businesses. Adapt or perish, it's that simple.

Not that I want newspapers to die off. Although sometimes I do, when I read articles in them like Bono's op-ed in The New York Times last Friday.

Once upon a couple of weeks ago ...

I'm in a crush in a Dublin pub around New Year's. Glasses clinking clicking, clashing crashing in Gaelic revelry: swinging doors, sweethearts falling in and out of the season's blessings, family feuds subsumed or resumed. Malt joy and ginger despair are all in the queue to be served on this, the quarter-of-a-millennium mark since Arthur Guinness first put velvety blackness in a pint glass.

Interesting mood. The new Irish money has been gambled and lost; the Celtic Tiger's tail is between its legs as builders and bankers laugh uneasy and hard at the last year, and swallow uneasy and hard at the new.

I sense a great disturbance in the English language. It was as if a million full sentences and non-dangling participles cried out, and were then silenced...

Bono just dug out something he wrote for his high school literary magazine, right? Or maybe he was sick and asked one of his kids to write it for him? Because I refuse to believe an adult wrote this.

Remember, this appeared in The New York Times. The paper that spells out every number lower than 100. The paper that adds "Mr." in front of everyone's name, no matter how ridiculous it looks. ("Seen here at last year's Grammys, Mr. Ludicris wowed the crowd with his rendition of 'What Them Girls Like'.")

The paper I've pitched stuff to on many occasions, always receiving back polite rejection letters in return. I thought maybe somebody else was working on something similar, or my ideas just weren't good enough. But now I know better. What I really need to do to get in the Times is eat copies of On the Road and Ham on Rye, then throw up on my MacBook.

/stirring orchestral music/

Oscar season is here, the buzz is brewing, and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is...well, it's one of those movies we should be talking about right now, right?

"I was really looking forward to Benjamin Button and...I don't know, I was looking for something, and I don't even know what it is. I don't even know why I'm disappointed, I just know I am. You know what I mean?"
-- Roger Ebert

The critics have spoken, and one thing you can say is that they have expressed themselves through the use of words.

"Look, it's not like I hated it, I just..I don't think there's a word...just...meh."
-- J. Hoberman

"Brad Pitt turns in his best performance to date." Did anyone say that? No? Then what did they say?

"Brad Pitt is, you know, he's okay. There's the makeup and the cgi and...I guess I can't say anything bad about his performance. It's just...man, it's on the tip of my tongue..."
-- Janet Maslin

Critics agree: they will probably bring themselves to vote for Benjamin Button for one Oscar or another.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, what, I'm gonna vote for Dark Knight? A superhero movie wins an acting Oscar, or, god forbid, Best Picture? Yeah, sure, that's happening."
-- Jeffrey Lyons

Jay Mariotti is here, ready to light up AOL Fanhouse with his unique brand sarcastic humor and avoiding locker room confrontation. Where's my desk? Where's the cafeteria? Do you guys have a Good Humour vending machine?
Um, Jay, I'm afraid you misunderstood. When we offered you a job, it wasn't at AOL Fanhouse, it was at AOL Fun House!
AOL Fun House? What's that?
Why, it's only the most radical, awesomest house of all! And here's the guy who put the fun in AOL Fun House, J.D. Roth!

NBC's Football Night in America Wild Card Weekend Something or Other is proud to welcome former president of the Lions, Matt Millen. Thanks for being such a good sport and being with us, Matt. I have to say, though, I'm surprised your head is so big. I thought for sure it'd be canteloupe sized. Or at the very least, more of a pinhead shape.
No, no, I have a normal head.
Fascinating. So you are not legally required to wear some sort of helmet? Not even for insurance purposes? Because surely your skull is as soft as a newborn baby's. I imagine it as one big fontanel.
All the seams in my skull knitted together a long time ago.
How about a dunce cap, do you usually wear that? Or a propeller beanie? Maybe one of those floppy crowns like Jughead wore?
I don't care much for hats.

"Hey chief, this just came over the wire: Bill Cowher has no interest in Jets job."

"This is definitely going on tomorrow's back cover. Now, we just need to find an appropriate photo, something that will convey the contempt and disgust we have for a man we desperately wanted to come to NY just yesterday."

"I got one here, chief. This was snapped right after he bit into a meatball sub and got it all over his shirt."

"No, we're not going for embarrassing! We're going for nauseating! This is the first picture millions of people are gonna see this morning when they're having their breakfast, drinking their coffee, riding the subway. We want them throw up in their mouths when they see this thing!"

"I think I got one, chief. Check it out--he looks like a cross between Hitler and an orc."

"I can barely contain the vomit churning in my stomach. And you can totally see up his nose, too! This is gonna sicken millions--I love it! Take it down to the art guys and see if they can widen his nostrils in Photoshop, add some more hair up there."

"Do you want them to add some stink lines, too?"

"No, we got in trouble the last time we did that. The Dalai Lama was not happy. But I like the way you think, kid!"

Even coming from a franchise with a long history of bad personnel moves, the Willie Randolph firing really takes the cake. How could the Mets be so disrespectful as to fire their manager after three am eastern time, when I'm sound asleep?

Maybe Willie deserved to go, and maybe he didn't. I do know one thing for certain: there was no reason to treat me this way.

If the Mets were intent on firing Randolph midseason, they had numerous opportunities to do so before Tuesday. After losing three out of four at home to the lowly Nationals. After being swept in San Diego by an even worse Padres team. Even after the Billy Wagner-assisted losses to the Diamondbacks. Any of these occasions would've been better times to hand Willie his pink slip. Preferably before lunch.

But canning him in the wee hours of the morning shows a disgraceful lack of regard for my schedule.

Sure, firing Willie might turn things around. It might be the wake-up call this team has needed so desperately since the collapse of last September. It might ensure more fannies in the seats when CitiField opens next year.

But did the Wilpons ever stop to think about me, having to drive into the Daily News office on two hours' worth of sleep? No, they had no thought for anyone but themselves. Just like the inconsiderate jackasses who got into a three-car pileup on the Merrick this morning. Stop-and-go traffic from Trumbull all the way to the New England Thruway. Thanks a lot, guys.

If Mets ownership had given a second thought before bringing down the axe on Willie Randolph, maybe they should've spared one for their fans, who've been forced to suffer one indignity after another in the past year. Now, after Randolph's ill-time, badly managed firing, the fans have to contend with yet another wound on their collective psyche.

A wound almost as deep as the one on my index finger, which I got while trying to butter an English muffin this morning. I was so tired I didn't even know I'd cut myself until I saw the blood on my kitchen countertop. It really smarts.

Willie Randolph certainly isn't blameless for the Mets' struggles this year. But not enough fire has been directed at general manager Omar Minaya. He constructed a team with too many brittle veterans, one almost guaranteed to break down. He may have gotten Johan Santana, but he decimated the farm system to do so, leaving the team without serviceable backups once the inevitable injuries occurred.

He's also the person who couldn't wait until today to fire Willie. What's the rush? You could've done it first thing in the morning California time, which would've been around noon back east. That would give me plenty of time to file my column and get back home before Jeopardy starts.

Instead, I have to fix a pot of coffee at four in the morning so I can stay up and wait for the stupid beat writers to call me back with their little tidbits of info from Anaheim. I hate beat writers. Think they're so tough just 'cause they go in the locker room.

And there's nothing to watch at four in the morning either, not even on cable. I'd pop in a DVD, but then I'd have to find the right input on the TV. My kids have, like, seven different video game systems. S-Video, HDMI--I don't even know what those things mean.

Is Fred Wilpon going to explain to me what HDMI stands for?

Now my editor tells me he wants me to fly out to LA and cover the team in person during their hour of turmoil. So I have to cancel a golf game at Bethpage on Sunday. Bethpage! It's easier to get a table at Momofuku than it is to get a tee time at Bethpage.

Can Fred Wilpon explain to me how I'm supposed to squash other writers' stories from the West Coast?

This is the kind of royal screwup that can damage fans' faith in their team. In 1977, I was fresh out of college and working as a typesetter at a small newspaper in upstate New York. It was just after midnight. We'd just finished setting the sports section, and it was ready to go to press, when news came over the wire that the Mets had traded Tom Seaver to the Reds. That move decimated the franchise for years, and they would never truly recover until the mid-1980s.

Mets fans never forgave general manager M. Donald Grant, and the team's clueless ownership, for trading away their most beloved player. Me, I'll never forgive Grant for forcing me to reset the entire sports section all over again. And this was back before desktop publishing, you know! I didn't have Quark or InDesign to help me!

Maybe what this team needs isn't a new manager, or a new GM, but new ownership. Owners that know what the fans have been through. Owners who won't throw gasoline on a burning fire.

Owners who won't make me have to pound Red Bull at 11 in the morning.

For all he's done for his city, Mike Lupica deserves at least that much.

We're coming to you live from the Lowe's Broadcast Booth. Lowe's: Let's build something...to-geth-ah!

You know, baseball's a funny game, isn't it? I mean, one second the Yankees are up by three runs, the next thing you know, someone's broken the seventh seal and we're in the middle of the Biblical Apocalypse! I tell you what Suzyn, the only thing you can predict about this game is that it's unpredictable!

Of course, many of the fans have left the Stadium to flee for their lives. And some of those who've stayed have been killed by these strange flying monsters that look sort of like a cross between a dragon, a monkey, and Goose Gossage. But the players here are all professionals, and they're going to soldier on through this end of life as we know it. So if you're listening at home in your fallout shelter, loading a shotgun and rationing out trail mix, keep that radio tuned right here!

Here's the Captain, Derek Jeter, to lead off the fifth. The path to the batter's box is now swirling with molten lava and demons' blood, so he'll have to watch his step. Remember, Robinson Cano slid into that deadly pool after a close play at the plate in the bottom of the second, so the Yanks' bench is a little thin.

Remember, next Friday is Cap Day at the Stadium. All children 12 and under will receive a free Yankees hat, courtesy of Dunkin Donuts. Plenty of good seats still left, so if we all haven't been roasted to death and if time itself hasn't ceased to have any meaning whatsoever, come on down!

And Jeter takes...low for ball one. Now, if Jeter can go the opposite way and poke one into right, he may be able to leg out a double. The right fielder is not quick and does not have a good arm. Plus, it should be hard for him to judge the flight of the ball, now that the sky has turned a hideous shade of blackish red.

This weather report is brought to you by Con Edison. Well, I can't tell the temperature, since the mercury in our thermometer has burst through the top and boiled away. But I would have to say it's muggy today, even though the sun has been completely blotted out. So if you're venturing out this afternoon, make sure to bring plenty of water, and an axe to stave off all of the zombies.

And the pitch is...swung on and missed, strike one. Jeter was looking fastball on that last pitch, but he just couldn't catch up to it. He may have also been distracted by the vampires that have just swooped into left field, but I doubt it. Derek is the ultimate professional--he would never use bloodsucking corpse-things as an excuse.

Here's the 1-and-1. DRILLED TO LEFT CENTER! THAT BALL IS HIGH! MM-IT IS FAR! MM-IT IS GAHN! El Capitan! Oh Captain, My Captain! The Captain and Tenille does it again! Captain Jack will get us high tonight!

Wait, hold on. I'm sorry, folks, it seems there was some confusion on the play. The center fielder is protesting that the ball was ingested by some sort of demon. He's pointing at the beast right now as it hovers menacingly over the warning track. The demon has long, leathery wings and pointy ears. If I had to describe his eyes, I'd say they have a soulless look that just sends shivers down my spine. Boy, it's Jeffrey Maier all over again!

I tell you what, you can't predict this game at all, Suzyn! You just can't!

What's that, Suzyn? I can't make out what you're saying. Sounds like you're saying "brains". Oh, it seems Suzyn has been transformed into one of the bloodthirsty undead.

Well, to paraphrase the old musical Oklahoma, I've gone about as fur as I can go! While I look for a sharpened stick and pray for the protection of my immortal soul, this would be a good time for station identification on the Yankees Radio Network. This is Yankees baseball!

So baseball's Winter Meetings have concluded, and it looks like the Yankees and the Red Sox are about to get in a bidding war for Johan Santana. And of course, we all know that this will end with #57 in pinstripes, taking his place among the pantheon of great Yankee hurlers: Whitey Ford, Catfish Hunter, Carl Pavano...
Mikey, tell you what, Hank Steinbrenner is playing this perfectly. When you're negotiating with another GM, the best thing to do is change your mind over and over again, and talk about it publicly all the time. There's absolutely no way that could backfire and make you look like a spoiled three-year-old.
And the Mets *snicker* say that they're making a play for Santana, but we all know they don't have the horses to pull this off. I mean, the Yankees are offering Melky Cabrera, for crying out loud. What Mets prospect could possibly compare to Melky Cabrera?
You're a thousand percent right, Mikey. The Mets are NOT in the mix here. The only way I see them landing Santana is if the front offices of the Yanks and Sox are destroyed by two separate meteors striking the Earth simultaneously.
Listen, I've been talking with Omar Minaya. I talk with important people all the time. And he told me that the Twins are asking for David Wright, Jose Reyes, and Carlos Beltran's first born son. And even if he agreed to that deal, there's still NO WAY that package compares to the Yankees' offer of Ian Kennedy and some guy in the minors whose name escapes me.

It's been pretty quiet in the Hot Stove League, but there's some rumblings that the Santana sweepstakes could be ending very soon. There's reports that the Mets have become the favorites to land the lefty, which frankly, I do not believe. I have a LOT of contacts in the industry, and everyone tells me that the Twins piss on the Mets' prospects. Literally. I heard Bill Smith sent a jar of his urine to the New Orleans Zephyrs.
Mikey, the Mets are NOT gonna spend the kind of money it'll take to sign Johan Santana. We all know Fred Wilpon passed on Vladimir Guerrero, he passed on A-Rod, I've heard he wears socks two days in a row so he won't have to go to the laundromat. Mark it down: they will sign Livan Hernandez and finish in third place.
Santana will be a Yankee, make no mistake. I see him now, starting game 7 of the World Series, taking the hill in front of Rudy Giuliani, Billy Crystal, Regis Philbin, Donald Trump, Lebron James, Kevin Federline...
Things are looking bad for the Mets next year. I don't see any way they beat out the Phurlies.
The what?
The Phurlies. The Phurladerphio Phurlies.
The Phillies . Jeez, how did you ever get a job talking for a living?
Mikey, I've had to do some evil things to get ahead. Black, unspeakable things. But hey, after these commercials, I yell at an engineer!

So now we're hearing that the Mets have landed Santana, which is something I've been saying would happen for weeks now. Naturally, Santana wants to be a Yankee, but the Yanks won't give up their very special prospects. This is a good move by Brian Cashman, showing financial restraint. This is the NEW Yankees, the GROW FROM WITHIN Yankees. If there's anything Yankees fans want to see, it's guys just up from triple-A face Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz.
Excellent point, Mikey. And I tell you one thing: this is only for the money. There is NO WAY Santana wanted to be a Met. I'm sure someone told him Queens is the same thing as the Bronx. He's from Minnesota, so he has no idea about different boroughs. And maybe he's colorblind, so he won't realize the pinstripes on his uniform aren't navy blue.
Alright, let's go to the phones. Frank is on the cell phone.
Mike, did you just say that you've been saying Santana's going to the Mets for weeks? Because I listen to the show every day, and I could swear you said as recently as last week that he'd definitely be a Yankee.
Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank
What?!
Frank, let me finish!
Frank Frank Frank Frank Frank.
Frank.
Frank.
Frank.
You there, Frank? Frank, I never wrote off the Mets as players in the Santana race. I have been TOUTING them for WEEKS as MAJOR players! If you think I didn't say that, you are LOST!
I am positive that you've been saying the exact opposite. And Mad Dog, how can you say Santana didn't want to be a Met when there's a bunch of different reports that the Mets were his first choice?
Frank, lemme ask you a question: did Paul LoDuca do steroids?
What does that have to do with anything we're talking about?
Answer the question, Frank! Did Paul LoDuca do steroids?
According to the Mitchell Report, yes, he did.
And you, as a Mets fan, used to root for him, am I right?
Yes, I did.
So how can you sit there on your high horse and tell me not to root for Barry Bonds?
I didn't say a single word about Barry Bonds! But if you don't believe me about what you guys said last week, go listen to the tapes.
Frank, I promise you that the tapes will say exactly what we're saying now. At least as soon as our engineers get through with them.
You dare question us? Get this guy off the air! God, what a disgrace! Eddie, you gotta screen these calls better! I'm gonna say some horrible stuff about your wife on the air later!
Folks, here's what you gotta understand. When we use a word, it means just what we choose it to mean. So when I wrote off the Mets' chances last week, I meant that they would land Santana. When I said the Yankees would land Santana, I meant that they would keep their prospects.
War is peace! Work is freedom!
We will not be slaves to history, folks. History is a weapon, to be wielded at our command, on our terms.
The Mets are doubleplusungood!
We'll be right back after this word from the Ministry of Truth.

"Okay, Mr. Vitale. The tape is rolling. You can start your reading whenever you're ready."

"First of all, I wanna say this is an honor. Doing voice over work for the great Ken Burns. I mean, New York, The Civil War, The Brooklyn Bridge, baby. You can't beat that with a stick. It's unbeatable, just like DiGiorno pizza. It's not delivery, baby!"

"Thank you, Mr. Vitale. Now, whenever you're ready."

"Okay, baby, let's do this! Civil War Part II! It's awesome with a capital Appomatox, baby! We're gonna make a Bull Run at another dozen Emmys! And lemme tell you, that violin theme song, whatever it's called, that is undoubtedly the most moving piece of music ever written for television. If that doesn't make you get all misty eyed, you gotta be made of stone, baby!"

"Okay, now if we could get to the script..."

"And my main man, Shelby Foote, with all of his poignant insights and Southern aphorisms. That man is a living legend. I've been around the block a few times, and lemme tell you: I've never seen a man who could drive home a bitter truth like Shelby Foote. He reminds me of another Southern gentleman: Coach K, baby! Never mind their late season swoon--the Blue Devils are going to the Final Four! That's right, folks, you heard it right--the Final Four is gonna be Duke, Ohio State, Florida, and Duke! I'd love to hear Shelby Foote's bracket picks."

"He's dead. Please start your reading."

"That's a tragedy. Almost as bad as Syracuse not getting a tournament bid. I had Jim Boeheim over at my house and he had a good cry while we watched 'Hoosiers'. Gene Hackman. Dennis Hopper. The quintessential sports movie. That high school basketball team coming back to win the state final, that's a Cinderella story for the ages, baby! Kinda like how the Union stormed back to defeat the South. Ulysses S. Grant, baby! Grant and General Lee coming together to turn back the evil forces of Boss Hogg..."

"There's a million things wrong with what you just said, but I'll ignore all of them if you'll just start your reading."

"Listen up--I gotta mention my good friends at Boost Mobile. Sign up now for Dickie V's Dipsy Doo Dunkeroo Bracketology Knowledge-y, and you can win tons of prizes. Hats. Shirts. Hats. More hats. It's great! All you gotta do is text them your phone number so you can be harassed with messages for the next seven years, baby..."

"If you don't start reading right now, I'm going to cut off oxygen to the sound booth."

"Okay baby, let's get rolling! Cue that weepy violin music, baby!"

"There's no music. For the love of Jesus, please read."

"*ahem* 'My darling Melissa: Words can not express my longing for you. My pen trembles when I call to mind your alabaster skin, your soft amber curls, and the warmth of your smile. Know that you are in my thoughts every waking moment of every day. And know that when I lay my head down on a hard, unforgiving Army cot, the only thing that can soften the scratch of the canvas and bring on the sweet respite of slumber is to whisper your name. I feel it wrap around me as if I were an infant being swaddled and cradled to his sleep. Oh Melissa, would that I could promise to return home soon. Would that I could promise to return at all! But that is for Providence to decide. All I can do is pray that He shall see fit to return me to your arms. If He does not, then know that we shall see one another again in the sweet by and by. And know above all, that with my last breath, with my dying words, I shall utter but one phrase and be at peace:' Coach K, baby!"

"The script doesn't say that!"

"I know! I'm bringing my own Dickie V flavor to the material! It's what the kids want!"

"Do any of you sound engineers have a taser?"

Two words for last week's picks: Ug-Lee. Week 9 had a lot of underdogs winning, and a lot of overdogs either choking or deciding to win their games by razor thin margins. Hey, Eli Manning--Plaxico's not on the field; try throwing a pass that's not 11 feet in the air. And see if you can beat the fucking Texans by more than four points. Asshole.

The tallies for week 9: win/loss 7-7; points, 5-9. That brings the season's grand total to:

Win/Loss: 84-43
Points: 62-63

So for the first time this year, I've fallen below .500. I would blame my guest picker, but he had a hard enough week as it is. I tried to get now-ex-Senator George Allen to contribute, but he's a tad bitter about pigskin right now; carrying a football around to every damn campaign stop did him no apparent good. So instead, I turn to ex-Monday Night Football commentator/right-wing radio yakker/acceptable drug addict Rush Limbaugh.

Buffalo at Indianapolis: I admire Peyton Manning's commitment to excellence almost as much as I do his commitment to free enterprise. He's set to break Tiki Barber's all-time season record for commercial endorsements. If you remember that DirecTV ad where he tells the viewer to turn over to another, more interesting game, I think this contest will resemble that spot. Indianapolis by 8.

San Francisco at Detroit: A bet for the 49ers on the road is a bet for Nancy Pelosi and her San Francisco values! Detroit by 6.

San Diego at Cincinnati: With the Democrats back in power, expect to see a return to the revolving-door justice system of years past. For a preview of this grim new world, just look at the incarcer-rific Bengals, who've logged more trips to the pokey than offensive yards. The Chargers will be more than a match for this band of convicts, even without Shawne Merriman, a talented young man who got a bit too zealous in his self-medication regimen. Look, we've all been there, haven't we? San Diego by 5.

CHRIS BERMAN: Boomer here, barking atcha for another slam-dangle, froo-farah, mama-say-mama-sha-mama-kusah edition of NFL Countdown LIVE! Or whatever the hell we're calling it now. There's a full slate of roast-'em tenderize-'em down-ya-go action this Sunday, but rather than focusing on all the exciting matchups, we figure our audience would rather watch ex-players in suits scream at each other. The big battle this week is happening in foxy Foxboro, Taxachusetts, where the Ponies gallop in to take on the Patriot Act. Of course, my question has no real answer, and one could make a case for either side depending on personal preferences. So let's debate it as if it's a friggin' North Korean nuclear summit. Who is the better QB, Peyton "Place" Manning or Tom "Three Times A" Brady?

MICHAEL IRVIN: I wanna tell ya Chris, [unintelligible] Colts [garbled] not T.O.'s fault [possibly Sanskrit] "White House" [still garbled] so that wasn't my pipe, know what I'm sayin'?

RON JAWORSKI: You're right, Boomer, there really is no answer here. Manning and Brady are both excellent quarterbacks. Manning is a more gifted athlete, of course, but Brady has the rings, so...

MIKE DITKA: Ron, allow me to interrupt you and completely dismiss you as a human being. The NFL is about winning, unlike all other sports leagues. Brady has won three Super Bowls, while Manning's barely won any playoff games at all. Until Peyton can capture as many championships as Brady, he's a worthless piece of shit who should thank whatever horse-headed pagan god he believes in that I haven't killed him yet.

BERMAN: So Coach "I Know What You" Ditka "Last Summer", you're saying that Tom "A Very" Brady "Christmas" is vastly superior to Peyton Manning "The Torpedoes"?

JAWORSKI: By your logic, Jon Kitna is a much better quarterback than Peyton Manning simply because he rode the Ravens' defense to a Super Bowl ring.

DITKA: The ring proves it. In this league, jewelry trumps natural ability. Brady's Pats could lose 85-0 to Manning and Colts, and Brady would still be the better QB in every way.

JAWORSKI: Just so I'm clear, you just said,using your brain and your mouth, that Brady could lose to Manning badly, like he did last year, but still be better than him. [shakes his head violently]

IRVIN: I wanna tell you, you wanna talk about the championship bling, Brady's got it. [grumbling, throat clearing] interception [ancient incantation that almost awakens a demon] mink coat [an car engine backfiring] It's snowin' backstage, you feel me?

BERMAN: For the record, I think that Peyton "A" Manning "For All Seasons" is better than Tom Brady "Brook Farms Turkey", because saying so allowed me to use two more wacky nicknames.

JAWORSKI: Of course you can make the argument that Tom Brady is one of the best "field general" quarterbacks of our era. But the debate is less clear cut when you consider...

DITKA: No no no no, I will not waffle on this issue. You are dumb and wrong and you used to play for the Eagles and you're wrong. Peyton Manning will never be better than a piece of dog shit stuck to the bottom of my shoe--unless and until he wins the next seven Super Bowls on one last-second Hail Mary pass that also somehow rescues a little girl from a burning building.

IRVIN: They gonna be some Patriot Games up in Foxboro, you feel me? [irrecoverable error, some data may be lost] Cleveland steamer [static between radio stations] y'all remember that group EPMD?

JAWORSKI: Jesus fucking Christ, are all of you people retarded?

TOM JACKSON : I'm not, Jaws. I just wanted to come on the air and say that Tiki Barber is dead to me. You hear that, Unibrow?

BERMAN: Okay, when we come back, another useless, unresolveable debate: Is this the week that we finally make a passer out of Michael Vick "Of It All"?

IRVIN: Ron Mexico!

DITKA: The point of being a quarterback isn't to pass--it's to win ballgames for his team, and Michael Vick always does that, except when he doesn't. Even when the Falcons lose, he helps his team win.

JAWORSKI: [swallows arsenic tabet]