It is National Judgment Day among America's scions of morality, the sentries who keep impurities out of the Hall of Fame

Cotton Mather was a punk. Those creampuffs who sent the Salem witches to the gallows, or the cranberry bogs, or whatever - they were K-mart cheapos when it comes to indignation. To be a true moral superstar, you must write about sports. And today is National Judgment Day: When the professional Gammonites of America elect their human beacons of super-purified morality to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Nothing against Greg Maddox and Tom Glavine, et al. Bravo to them. But more than likely, Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Rafael Palmeiro, Mark McGwire - and in the future Alex Rodriguez - will never see a Cooperstown plaque during their lives. After they are dead, a generation will look back on the morality cops who singled them out (as opposed to all those who were not caught) - and they will be elected. Their grandsons and granddaughters will accept the awards. We might not be alive. But it will happen. Because everybody knows they weren't created in a lab like Captain America. What separates them from many others was getting caught. I think history will judge them more kindly.

Which brings us back to Jan. 8, 2014: America's Day of Moral Indignation... The day the sportswriters' votes are announced.

Doesn't matter if you're a beat writer in New York or the featured columnist in Kalamazoo: Become a Gammonite, and in the Hall of Fame vote, morality flows from your exalted lips like recycled sewerage from a theme park waterfall. 

I've written in the past about why some sportswriters turned into overbearing morality thugs on the matter of A-Rod. And let me stress that not every writer goes this route.  Some close friends write sports. Some great people write sports. But again, I wrote news for more than 30 years, and here are my best reasons why some Gammonites become pig-headed slop-slingers.

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1. Arrested Development. In fifth grade,  every baseball nut who can finish a sentence wants to be a big time sportswriter someday. Most grow out of it. They end up covering politics or culture - or - if they're working in today's markets, celebrities.  Something keeps sportswriters from abandoning that original childhood dream. And some, at basic levels, maintain an element of childishness in everything they write. They call people names. They never think in shades: just winners and losers, villains and heroes. Worst of all, they fall down to authority figures. They automatically follow any old white guy who sits behind the big desk. It's like a flashback trip to the Principal's office.

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2. The one-stop shop. If you cover politics or war, or just profile one person, the complexities are overwhelming. You can never do enough interviews. The stresses of uncertainty never leave your belly. You're always wondering, Did I get it right? Sportswriters don't face this as often. The game is played, the stats are compiled - (actually, supplied) - and the players are trotted out to be interviewed. (It is part of their job.) Everything is laid out. Most writers almost never have to stand on a stranger's doorstep and talk somebody who hates the media into an interview. In every other form of journalism, writers make a million decisions on what and whom to believe. The sportswriter can report the score and what the jocks said in their underwear, and his job is done. The real mission is to sound wittier than they do. (And that's a low, low bar.)

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3. The press box. If you're profiling a junkie's scorched life in a housing project, odds are, no other journalist in the world is competing for your story. You are on your own. But sportswriters sit together in a press box, chewing fat for hours, in a place where civilians are not allowed. They compare notes about good guys, bad guys, managers and the free buffet. Most importantly, they can get a sense what everybody else will write tomorrow. There is a huge pack mentality here, a need to run with the herd. It's not their fault, but it's almost impossible to avoid.

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4. The economic disparity.  Most beat writers have a nice middle class gig going. But they must cover pro athletes who drive cars worth more than they'll make in a year - and some jocks can't even speak coherently. It aint right! There is a class thing here. There is a youth thing here. There is a race thing here. Yeah, that's a touchy subject, and writers are no better or worse than the rest of us. But that economic rift between jocks and writers shows up in every story about A-Rod, or LeBron, or anybody who makes too much money - which is everybody in sports but sportswriters. It's always there, whether they acknowledge it or not.

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5. The folly of humanity. Keep this in mind: Half the people you meet in life will be of below average intelligence. Sportswriters are no exception. Nobody notices an idiot taxi driver. A stupid sportswriter - woah - that's hard to ignore. The dumber they are, the more fervent they will be in their sense of righteousness.

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6. The access. If a writer's phone calls are being returned, he or she has an incredible advantage over the competition. When in doubt, you can quote the GM or the owner, anonymously, and never go wrong. Thus, Selig and his minions took batting practice on A-Rod for most of last year, until his legal team fought back and recruited their own mouthpieces. When writers quote anonymous sources, can they really act so oblivious to the reasons why those sources would be inclined to lie? Well, if they do, the guy might not return their calls. And they're in trouble.

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So today, we learn who they liked, and who they didn't like. And someday, after we're all in the ground, Bonds and Clemens will get their day in the sun. I hope their grandchildren can write the perfect words. Writing is an art, you know.

A petition to rename the Rolaids Relief Award for Mariano Rivera

I hereby support this and vow to never use another Rolaids tablet until justice is served, and the change is made.

And considering the state of the Yankees, I would expect to consume thousands of cases of Rolaids in 2014. Unless this change is made, I will go elsewhere. Somebody get me a Tums.

I would write more but - ooooh, the acid indigestion. Hear my cry, Rolaids. There is only one person who can save you.  

One New York Post writer - out of nine - voted Don Mattingly for the Hall

If there ever was a definition of Reverse Homerism, well, here you go.


Nine NY Post writers voted this year for the Hall of Fame. Here are the vote totals from that august group:

Glavine: 9
Maddux: 9

Piazza: 8
Thomas: 8
Bonds: 7
Biggio: 6
Clemens: 6
Bagwell: 4
Morris: 4
Raines: 4
Schilling: 4
Mussina: 3
E. Martinez: 2
Kent: 1
Mattingly: 1
McGwire: 1
Palmeiro: 1
Sosa: 1
Walker: 1

I understand them honoring Glavine, Maddox, et al. But it's both revealing and sad that New York writers would value Curt Schilling more than Mike Mussina, or Edgar Martinez (who never played in the field) above the likes of Donnie Baseball. 

It's the reason Roger Maris isn't in the hall. It's why Thurman Munson, Ron Guidry, and Bernie Williams will never make it. New York writers feel compelled to downplay the value of New York players. They don't want to be accused of favoring the home team. They think the Yankees get too much attention, so they self-regulate. And if your own beat writers don't support you...

Steven Seagal looks so much like Penn Gillette that you could plot a murder around it

Steven may run for something in Arizona.

I don't know anything about it.

But how do you get your hair to do that?

Yankees may lose opportunity for $45 million taxpayer boondoggle in Ocala, Florida

When Yankee fans ponder $45 million, they generally have the same response: Chickenfeed... pocket lint... bottle deposits... fifth starters... backup OF... Come back when you're ready to talk about MONEY, rather than bathwater. Forty five million doesn't shovel Carl Pavano's driveway.

So the Retrieval Empire couldn't have expected the people of Ocala, Florida, would miss $45 million added to their tax-loads. The Yankees planned to shift their Class A team (which hasn't developed a player since Brett Gardner) from cosmopolitan Tampa to the rural Ocala, thanks to the bedrock workers of Conservative America, who seldom resist the chance to subsidize a billionaire. (See SCRANTON, See KOCH BROS, See WALL STREET, See HUMAN HISTORY, see LIZARD PEOPLE OVERLORDS)

Evidently, the deal has gone kaput. (At least for now. If there's one thing we've learned about taxpayer-financed stadium boondoggles, they are never truly dead.) The political Pooh Bahs of Ocala did not imagine that folks would oppose the construction of a new concrete dog dish, simply because they'd pay higher taxes. 

The Yankees aren't the first sports team to hold small markets for ransom. (See COLUMBUS, See BUFFALO, See ROCHESTER, See MAP OF AMERICA). But let's salute the Floridians of Ocala for saying no - at least for now. Forty five million dollars is scrap metal money to the YES/Murdoch/Steinbrenner/Lizard People Overlords machine that owns the Yankees. If they want to build a ballfield in Ocala, they should do it. Nobody would stop them.

Yes, this view is simplistic: Suited pimps with MBAs and college interns in stilettos can gin up bar charts to show the "economic ripple effect" of stadiums. They do it in Syracuse every 10 years. It's the biggest shell game in America - the Carrier Dome Shell - which recently started a new round of cup-rattling for taxpayer money. In hard times - has anybody noticed the jobless rates lately? - it's sickening to imagine a city that would prop up sports teams - pro or college - that are literally choking on their own vomited wads of cash.

Here's a prediction for those in Ocala who might yield to the bar charts: In 10 years, the Yankees will be looking for a new town, a new tax base, and the people of Ocala would be bending over to find somebody - anybody - to play in that beautiful, empty field. Shoeless Joe had it right: If you build it, they will come. Trouble is, he meant  in the pornographic sense. Forty five million dollars? Wake me when you're ready to talk MONEY.

There is nothing to say until the A-Bomb hits

I never have nothing to say about the Yankees. Never.

Today, I have nothing to say. Nada. Naught.

Screw the polar vortex. It's not Glycol in the pipes that's frozen; it's the Yankiverse - stuck in a state of suspended animation, speechless and unaware, until super-arbiter Fred Horowitz rules on the fate of our dear Number 13, Awful Alex. This will happen soon, maybe today, maybe as you are reading this. Until the A-Bomb detonates, what is there to say about the 2014 Yankees other than, "Good luck with that!"

Seriously. Wanna talk pitching? Duh. Depends on what Fred says. Will we trade Brett Gardner? I dunno. Why bother to speculate? Until Fred makes a move, we might as well be talking about life forms on Alpha Centari... or that Internet sensation, The Man With Two (2) Penises.

If A-Rod is banned for the season - well, the franchise saves $27 million, which can help buy Masahiro Tanaka, Ubaldo Jiminez, a bullpen, and we can keep Gardy. But The Man With Two (2) Penises plays 3B. Plus, Alex's all-star team of lawyers will try to goose everything into federal court, for a super A-Bomb.

If Bud Selig's ban is banned - well, A-Rod gets his mad money, but at least we have a man at 3B, and considering Alex's critics, hell probably show up in shape. But who pitches? I don't think Hal has a taste for long term contracts, and some team will offer the moon for Tanaka. We might be pitching The Man With Two (2) Penises.

If it's a "wisdom of Solomon" decision, the ban cut to 50-75 games - well, we save $14 million, get A-Rod for the stretch, maybe trade Gardy... and cut The Man With Two (2) Penises in half - which is terrible to ponder, except that each still has one (1) penis.

I've got nothing to say but it's OK, good morning...

It's time for Yankee fans to ponder a future that increasingly resembles the NFL

This season will offer the biggest change in baseball since 1973, when Ron Blomberg, the first DH, stepped to the plate: MLB will use instant replays to overturn calls. Imagine "Cowboy" Joe West - mouth full of black chaw - touching his mic and announcing, "Upon furth refew, the runner beeda throw, and da caw is oturn."

Some say this should have happened long ago. Others can lament yet another blow to the humanity of baseball. It will add 15 minutes to games that already run too long. But, hey, if the Yanks lose on a corrected call, won't the world cheer the justice of it?

Because baseball will be a tad more like football.

Bud Selig has always longed to make MLB into a baseball version of the NFL - that is, a pro sport without a team like the New York Yankees.

Long ago, the NFL neutered any chance of dynasty by the New York Football Giants of Robustelli, Katcavage, Huff, Gifford, Rote, Connerly et al. (You could argue that by choosing Ali Sherman over Vince Lombardi and Tom Landry, the Giants neutered themselves.) Thus, no NFL team boasts anything like the Yankees' 27 World Championships. And no team ever will. The draft, weakened schedules and the almighty payroll cap guarantee that every NFL team looks and plays alike.

It's interesting that most pro football owners are old money billionaires, conservative in politics and ardent free market capitalists - except when it comes to their business, which they run like Karl Marx: The rules are designed to keep all franchises on near equal footing.

For years, MLB has edged toward this model. If Selig has a lasting legacy, it sure won't be in ridding baseball of steroids. Rather, it will be his constant push to institute a universal payroll cap. It caused the horrible 1990s labor strike. Ten years later, he instituted luxury taxes so onerous that they form a de facto payroll cap. This is why the Yankees are stuck so deeply with the pain of A-Rod's contract. It pushes the Yankees into a zone of incredible taxation.

But here's the reason for Yankee fans to worry: The fix is on.

When the Yankees are involved, the rules get changed.

In December, MLB's rules stated that when Japanese import Masahiro Tanaka came to America, his salary (correction: his posting fee) would not count towards the team's official payroll, and thus it would not be subject to luxury taxes. That left the Yankees with a huge advantage in the looming auction for Tanaka. But at baseball's winter meetings, this issue was raised, and the rules were changed - so abruptly and completely that Tanaka's Japanese team nearly refused to let him come to America. The new rules will push Tanaka's salary far higher - and add it to the payroll numbers. If the Yankees get him, they will pay huge penalties. The new rule changed the entire dynamics of the off-season, most notably for one team - the Yankees.

You could argue that, from a logical standpoint, the new rule makes sense. Why should posting fees be high and a player's salary low - and not count toward luxury tax? But somehow, when it was the Texas Rangers signing Yu Darvish, or other teams chasing boatloads of international free agents in recent years... well... cries to change the system were not considered. 

The latest sign of Seligism comes with a story that has made the rounds lately: The Yankees are threatening to go wild this year on spending in Latino markets. Actually, they have no choice. They squandered their draft picks, because of the (I believe dubious) signings of Brian McCann, Jacoby Ellsbury and Carlos Beltran. They need to spend their money somewhere. But MLB's reaction apparently will be to institute an international Latino draft - and then take away the Yankees first round draft picks. Basically, the move would destroy the Yankees chances to ever build from the ground.

Let's face it: The game is stacked: If every time the Yankees use their clout or money, the league changes the rules and penalizes them, eventually, we will be just like the Kansas City Royals.

Listen: I am a psychotic Yankee fan. I plead guilty. I root for the one team that throughout history has embodied greatness in American sports. (And it's not as if New York City dominates sports.) Yes, Americans are supposed to root for underdogs. But must we must usually lose? Is there not one pro team we can count on to, more often than not, lift us from the doldrums?

This is the deal: The lords of baseball will never quit until an NFL model is in place. At some point in the next five to 10 years, the Yankees will be an amalgamation of the San Diego Padres and Dallas Cowboys. They will be just another team with long-faded glory in their distant, distant past. In exchange, we will have parity - an annual shot at those one-game Wild Card weekends! Pass the meatloaf.