A-rod invades my space again.

A-rod makes an okay team into a contender and a contender better. He does his own product origination, sales & marketing, management - execution of deals in bulk.

Kills in Kansas City.
Owns the (Pac)Northwest territory.
Rules the Twin Cities.

He does well in any city with one newspaper, a short history or at least short memories. No memories would be best of all. Momentoland. We erased the indigenous peoples on the way west? Oh. When was that? Oh.

But A-rod can't close the deal in New York.
Or Boston.

The air is more rarefied during big town moments.

And that has to feel normal to you.

You can't get worried when hot dog wrappers start twister-ing in the right field corner.

The Poltergeists have landed.
Funky ions will be interrupting our regularly scheduled broadcast.

And THAT has to feel normal to you.
In fact, you better love it.

Everybody stands for the duration of the game.
Things will get weird.
It will matter.
You will care.
Dad and Mom will care.
The dead forebearers will care.
The forebearers forebearers who invented the team nickname will care.

Boston Beaneaters? Not bad. But we're better than that. We're Boston-Irish Kings. Royal Rooters of the Red. We wear the Red. The royal socks. SOX better than socks.

And down in NYC. The Highlanders? No, not quite right. Yankees! That's it! That's another word for the winner you love to hate or hate to love. Now bring in the wealthy beer baron to lift that Babe from Boston for the price of a mediocre musicale.

Game on. Game that never ends for all the marbles on.

So A-rod comes to the plate against the Royal Red Rivals.
And the ghosts, old team photos take the field.
All eyes alive or dead on A-rod.

In this situation, Jeter winks at the Babe, takes a gentle dig at the Scooter, does tasteful hand jive with Reginald - then puts the ball into play. The ghosts help him. Ole Mick might even enlist a kid to reel in a long fly for a short-porch homer.

But A-rod feels a ghoulish chill. His motivational Madonna tells him to take his time and carve out his own space. Wrong. Too much thinking. Not enough playing.

That works in Anaheim, because history & truth get paved over in Orange County.

In the big town, you have to fight for your right to join the party. Sweet Lou flattens Pudge Fisk at the plate. Pedro makes Babe's spirit take a dirt seat. Then Babe hits the Bloody Sock out of yard.

And they say baseball isn't a contact sport.

A-rod has all five PHYSICAL skill sets required in a ballplayer. But he's not really THAT great because he tries to step up to an A-rod moment when he just needs to add to the history of moments already in progress.

No crime. Dave Winfield was much like Alex.
Rickey Henderson didn't do much in NYC.
He'd feel the hammy tighten when it wasn't about Rickey - book his October exit strategy in August to avoid September pressure.

Is that choking?
Yes.
Not breathing when everybody is watching is choking.

The Yankees need skilled pluggers to surround A-rod. The red asses. The ones who get chapped over lapses in fundamentals, the boys who elbowed their way off the charter to Nowhereville.

Get those guys and A-rod will breath, do what he does best - pile up early game homers that DO make a difference, even look clutch on the stat sheet.

And leave the big moments to players who can share oxygen with ghosts.