I hate Anaheim.

Almost as much as Giuliani.

I hate to be a hater. Though hating can serve a purpose as long as it's just in verbal form at the ballpark. Release the rage at a Red Sox vs. Yankee tilt and maybe you're tapped out of hate in other contexts?

I don't think I'm in the minority in saying that many Yankee fans have enjoyed this season more than any since 2001. Aaron Boone 2003 notwithstanding. The new crew is spunkier - with no sacrifice in talent. What sucks is that Torre and/or Cashman might get fired if the Yanks don't play far into October. That's the stupid side of Yankee world. No pennant = failure. I get it, but it's stupid. They'll win more games than they did in Championship 2000 and the braintrust 2007 will get canned. This after guiding the Yanks to the playoffs every year since 1996 ('95 if you count teams managed by guys named Showalter during strike seasons.)

And the Yanks are still in this - if only the Los Angeles ne California ne Anaheim ne California ne Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim in John Birch's Orange County (famed for it's Knott's Berry Farm) will at least do them the solid of holding off the Mariners. (Sorry Steve.) If that happens, the Yanks will take their chances. A 3 man playoff rotation means no worries about Mussina's slot and Hughes can replace the Henn in the pen.

Perhaps the Red Sox will even be forced to eliminate the Angels in post-season so that Selig's nightmare will rise again from the dead to reclaim it's rightful spot as the only baseball that really matters. Selig wants balance. Selig wants to see other natural rivalries flourish in the revenue sharing environment he administrates. Selig wants to see his Brew-crew make post-season for the first time since 1982.

F#@* BALANCE!
More of the Widescreen Epic saga that never ends!
No Milwaukee vs. St. Louis!
Athens vs. Rome! (Red-stater translation: Boston vs. New York.)

The only team the Bronx Bombers fear are those damned Angels - the only team with a winning record against the Yanks in the Torre era.

Anaheim is my Hotel California. "You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave" until you've been rolled by Mickey the Mouse.

Did I say I hate Anaheim?

note: 2 blogs are in the pipeline...one is a Rizzuto paean delayed by various op-ed potentialities...the other is called 'Those were the days my alcoholic baseball legacy.' Though the 2nd one sounds more interesting, the first has laughs and tears. Just a bit of spit/polish and I'll share.

Thoughts on 756 other than the ones on my Hank & Barry post of March 2nd, 2007 :

1. Lou Piniella (baseball genius) on Barry: 'He's like the action hero and the villain at the same time.'

2. Perhaps this is the period end of era cherry on top because we're finally "all full up" (says Tinky Winky) from gorging ourselves on extra appetizers, desserts, after-dinner drinks, after after-dinner drink mints, steroids, hgh, botox, gratuitous limo exeunt beaver shots and flipping real estate holdings to borrow more from Peter to pay less to Paul (while ignoring universal infrastructure concerns as defined by a pre-existing social contract)?

3. Or maybe this is only just the real starter pistol for the glib cocktail party conversation that bleeds into the the ongoing general debate about how much shortcut nip-tuck and welbutrin we should allow ourselves before we're no longer anywhere in the vicinity of real (whatever that is).

4. Or maybe we've just erased all the old lines in the sand?

5. Where were those lines again?

6. Lines? What lines?

7. Whah?

8. AND/OR: I feel big and perfect and immortal forever while I stand in this batters box with my arms stretched high to the sky. Thank you Willie. Thanks Dad. Thanks Hank. Thanks Lord Jeezuh Christuh Vishnu Buddha and my Michael Jackson nose within. I point up to you all in thanks. You are above me, but not too far above me because I'm on a Lucite Olympic medal stand now. I'm weeping now. See the 'clear' drops fall down swollen face. Now the weeping is over? Give me some space out at the mound. Step aside: I dance my 756 dance. I'm gonna pull off this tear away jersey to reveal my enormous Michelin built bulk. Then the tear away pants. Look, I'm wearing a gold encrusted jockstrap. But the cleats and sanitary socks remain. I glisten (wetly while dry). I twirl. I roar. I'm just an entertainer doing what I do best.

9. Barry says to us all: Why all the negativity?

10. My grandmother answers Barry on behalf of us all: If you don't know the answer to that one, I can't explain it to you.

One other interesting note raised by Friend Gloria Esteh-phan Loiza: Barry Bonds does not have a nickname: No Sultan of Swat or Splendid Splinter. Neither a Stan the Man nor a Donnie Baseball. I'd say this is because the only truly human characteristics Barry embodies are greed and pathos. One is wrong. The other a giant let-down. Nicknames are for the guys you can connect with - identify with or aspire to be. Though sometimes distant/cold, DiMaggio had undeniably heroic characteristics. His contemporaries found him beyond reproach - spoke of his play in hushed/reverent tones. His teams fed off of his substantial accomplishments. When he returned from his frequent injuries, he felt an even greater responsibility to live up to his promise - on behalf of his team. He said he always played the game right because he recognized that some in any pre-TV crowd had never seen him in action, might never see him again. I don't often agree with Mike Lupica's shots from the Lip but he's right in saying that, until further notice, DiMaggio's 56 game hitting streak is now the most meaningful baseball record.

DiMag's 3 well known nicknames: Joe D, Joltin' Joe and the wonderfully descriptive Yankee Clipper.