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.

Why the Yankees must never become the Padres

His grandfather's funeral arrangement.

Rest In Peace, "The Colonel," Jerry Coleman

He schooled Phil Rizzuto through his first days of broadcasting. He helped Billy Martin become a major league infielder. He never spoke ill of players. He brought a grace to the booth that was based on the understanding that baseball is a game, and games are supposed to be fun.

He was a Yankee second baseman from back in the days when Yankee second basemen actually showed loyalty.


Jerry Coleman died today. Even though he spent most of his life in San Diego, I'd like to think he's inducted into Heaven wearing a Yankee cap.

It's time for the IT IS HIGH A-Rod Ban Prediction Pool

Any day now, any way now, A-Rod shall be news-released.

So, let's see who's most in tune with the cosmic biorhythms of professional arbiter Fred Horowitz by putting in your prediction on the outcome. As a tie breaker, list the exact moment when the ruling comes down.

The winner will receive two (2) Fake Fact Coins, which can be played during any future IT IS HIGH debates. With these golden token, you can win any fight over Ichiro or Vernon Wells - or even Cito Culver - by laying down a false fact, which nobody can challenge. (Example: "The fact is, Wells hit 35 home runs for the Yankees last year, and most of them came after the seventh inning.")  

Post your predictions in the comments section. We need:

a) Precise number of games (if any) A-Rod will be banned, and

b) The exact time (E.S.T.) it will be announced. (This is the official statement, not a leak.)

The House Bet:
 
65 game suspension. 
Friday, Jan. 10. at noon.


Yep. I'm figuring Freddy chops Bagman Bud's suspension by a whopping two thirds, though leaving it still higher than the regular 50-game blast for first-timers. This will piss off A-Rod, but he'll probably just sit it out and get it done, rather than stretch out the process with another fight - and possibly miss leading the Yankees in the playoffs and World Series. (That's a joke.)

Final tie-breaker:

Who signs Tanaka?

House Bet: The Dodgers.

The most abused person in sports: An NFL home team fan

Beyond the fact that they pay hundreds of dollars for tickets, thanks to legalized scalping, that they endure commercial delays and booth reviews, that they pay for parking and lousy food, and that they face traffic jams and the usual fun issues that stem from drunken hordes...

They also face such kindness from the NFL.

The league scheduled its two coldest games at night, with temperatures at their worst.

They not only blackmail the home town fans with the threat of a local TV blackout, but they hold the games in the dark, rather than daylight hours. Amazing.

RIP: Phil Everly. Here is your Yankees Tribute Set List

Wake Up, Little Suzyn

Bye Bye, Tex (Hello, Overbay)

Good Golly Miss Melky 

C.C. Rider

Silver Threads and Golden Nettles

Sparky's Clown

Ichiro Eyes

Let It Be Meacham

Baseball expressions that could help describe Kim Jong Un's uncle being eaten by pack of dogs

They claim North Korea supreme leader Kim Jong Un

sicked 120 wild dogs on his uncle,  Chang Song Thaek.

Or... as they'd say in baseball, Chang Song...

Not only went yard, he's now all over the yard.
Painted the corners... red.

Took the collar, 120 of them, to be exact.

Almost hit for the Cycle 4.
Was accused of making a bonehead play.
Was eaten up by a hard chopper.
Was the meat of the order.

Took a howled third strike.

Was caught crowding the wrong plate.

Was a five-tool player, but unfortunately, not one was a trowel.

Felt not only chin music, but throat music.

 Shouldn't have been guarding their dish.

He was high, he was far, he was... chow.

Became the great former White Sox slugger, Ron Kibble.

Get used to it: A-Rod gets shelved by Hall of Fame

Move on, everybody, there's nothing to see. Go on, get. Go away!

That's the news from MLB, in case you were wondering if "independent arbiter" Frederic Horowitz would announce his A-Rod ruling today. Nope. It won't happen until at least Wednesday, after baseball's Hall of Fame gets a chance to once again spit on Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, et al - anybody with a modern taint of Schwarzenegger juice - this, of course, from the sacred touchstone that lists those saints of public decency - Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth, as charter members.

By now, it's hard to imagine that Fred hasn't reached his decision. He must be just pacing his home in sweatpants, refusing to answer the phone, avoiding windows.  It's important to shield Cooperstown from the news about Awful Al.

Supposedly, when the coast is clear, Fred will issue his proclamation through an email. Instantly, it will explode upon the news outlets, lighting up the Internet like a Siberian meteor, then hitting the blogs, and at some point - maybe a few hours later - somebody will tell me...

AND THEN I WILL RAGE AT BUD SELIG LIKE A RABID RACCOON.

Right now, I'm just warming up. Staying loose. Stretching the hammy.  Next week, I'll assume the three-point stance. I'm thinking ALL CAPS, boldface, maybe even boldface italics. Alphonso, too. I'll steal his painkillers. He'll go crazy. Next week, it's going to hit the fan. As fans, we will hit back.

Possible baseball (and other) nicknames for first Internet sensation of 2014: The man with two penises

(I'm not making this up.)

NICKNAMES FOR MAN WITH TWO PENISES

Dizzy and Daffy

Big Poison and Little Poison

Mr. October and Dr. November

Pee Wee and Wee Willie

The Bash Brothers

Mantle and Maris

Casey and the Old Professor

Abbott and Costello

Ben and Jerry

Calvin and Hobbes

Dumb and Dumber

Fred and Barney

Harold and Kumar

Itchy and Scratchy

Jay and Silent Bob

Mork and Mindy

Simon and Garfunkel

Vladimir and Estragon

Bert and Ernie

Mary-Kate and Ashley

Pinkie and The Brain

Hall and Oates

Siskel and Ebert

Brangelina

Hiroshima and Nagasaki

the Iliad and the Odyssey

Jekyll and Hyde

Push and Pull

 Before and After

  

 

Now that Robbie's gone, brace yourself for the other homegrown Yankee hitter, Brett Gardner, to follow

Yesterday, Vernon Wells went on the radio to say he'd love, love, love to return to the Yankees in 2014. One problem, though. Last year, Vernon sucked. 

These days, reports from Japan say Ichiro Suzuki is also looking forward to donning pinstripes in 2014. That .297 on-base-percentage really gets your hopes up, eh?

Why is bile directed at these aging stars clogging up a post about Brett Gardner? Because they're clogging up the 2014 Yankee roster, and unless we sign Masahiro Tanaka - (a likelihood that seems to shrink further each day) - the Retrieval Empire will be forced to trade Gardy, its best homegrown position player since Robbie Cano, for a fourth or fifth starter. We learned yesterday there is a guy with two penises. That's nothing. The Yankee outfield has six, maybe seven! We have more DHs than the French have pastry chefs, and Gardner is the only position player that anybody else wants.

According to the Internet, six teams - SIX! - have inquired about taking Gardner off our hands. Brian Cashman has held the line, advancing the sixties' LSD flashback-level delusion that Michael Pineda and Vidal Nuno will fill the back end of the Yankee rotation. He will maintain this incredibly unique view until around March 10, when he's back to dragging his metal detector over the MLB scrap heap, looking for reincarnations of Wally Whitehurst and Aaron Small. Then he will become Monty Hall and start looking to make a deal.

We have six outfielders, not counting our top 2014 "prospect," Zolio Almonte, who just concluded a great season in winter ball. Zolio might be better than the sum of Wells and Ichiro, but who cares? He's destined for Scranton next season. The contracts will dictate that the veterans stay. No way to run a franchise? Doesn't matter. It's the Yankee way, and if we've seen one thing most disturbing about this off-season, it's that the Yankees are not changing their ways.

When you field the oldest, most over-the-hill team in baseball since Bingo Long's Traveling All-Stars, there is a certain bungee-jump edginess to the idea of signing a 37-year-old OF/DH to a three-year deal. You're saying, "Last year, we almost suffered a complete meltdown due to age and injuries, so in 2014, let's get even older and more brittle!" But hey, they're the Yankees, so they signed Carlos Beltran. And right now - when other teams call about Gardner - they have ample reasons to dial the number: They know they are phoning baseball's most lopsided roster, a team that has painted itself into a contractual dead end with its toughest out and grittiest home-grown player - the only one that anybody else wants.

Teams are calling about Brett Gardner. One problem, though. They're not calling as suitors. They're calling as predators.

Yankiverse on Defcon 5 status, awaiting A-Rod decision

This level of tension may cause flare-ups within the nation's emotional grid.

Is Brian Cashman a Dr. Who-watching weenie?

The world is divided into two types: People who watch Dr. Who, and those who don't.

I do not. Never did, and - unless I'm brain damaged in a car accident - never will. When Mustang blathers himself into a Vulcan mating frenzy about the underlying social commentary in the early Who years, all I hear is Ricky Ricardo 'splaining to Lucy, "Habla, habla, habla." Back in 1963, when tourists stopped coming to see Stonehenge, or the Magna Carta, or whatever the hell they have, the Brits broke apart. Half chose Dr. No, the James Bond movie with Ursula Andress stepping on a sea urchin and getting her toes licked. (Do I have to say anything more?)  The other half preferred Dr. Who, a cheap knock off of Lost In Space - (which featured the great Billy Mumy, who at the time was vying with Ron Howard - aka Opie Taylor - as America's No. 1 red-haired tyke.)

Something happened to the planet - sunspots, maybe, or high concentrations of nitrous oxide. A lot of American kids chose the wrong path - Dr. Who - over Ursula Andress getting her foot sucked on! You want social commentary? How about Ursula Andress' foot! Frankly, you could find more meaning in Dan Blocker's left buttock on Bonanza, where poor Ben Cartwright couldn't keep a wife alive for a whole 54 minute episode...

Which brings me to Cashman.

This is an old photo. He now wears contacts (but still looks like a guy who misplaced his glasses.) Look at those frames. Is this not a Dr. Who-fan?  I wonder if he even has time to watch Yankee games. Does Joel Sherman ever ask him about this? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

My theory: Hal Steinbrenner - aka HAL 9000 - is a Dr. Who fan. Whenever Hal asks about the Yankees dead farm system, Cashman starts talking up the Time Lords, or the Daleks, the Dorktons, or the Zlobdoids, or a Clabitorinos, whatever.

But you know who DOESN'T watch Dr. Who? Tony La Russa! Joe Torre! The teams that win baseball games.

Yankeetorial: The Biogenesis scandal may be the best thing that could have happened to A-Rod

Lately, there has been a lot of blogger blather about how desperately everyone wants A-Rod banned for much, if not all, of 2014. The team will save money. Woopie. The way some talk, you'd think the money went into their pockets, instead of HAL 9000's.

I have a different opinion: The Yankees are in the best conceivable position,  considering the mountain of gold they foisted upon dear Alex a few moons ago. Think this through with me...

Last year, A-Rod's on field performance was helped by the Biogenesis scandal. He missed most of the season due to double hip surgery. When he returned, he hit .244 with 7 HR in about 160 at bats. Over a full season, that would project to 20-25 HR - not a great year, but better than anybody else we had at 3B. And, frankly, better than Stephen Drew.

So what if Biogenesis never happened?

Well, for starters, A-Rod likely would have spent more time flirting with actresses, ESPN hosting gigs, Miley Cyrus, experimental drug therapies, Kardashians, Tiger Woods, space flights, Buddhism, reincarnation, the search for Bigfoot, and maybe even the movies. (Hey, if The Rock can do it...) Think of all the distractions... which he did not have.

And now, probably never will.

Today, Alex Rodriguez has nothing going beyond the Yankees, aside from dodging paparazzi, releasing old emails, and having a cousin clip articles from the Daily News for his next lawsuit.  If banned from baseball, he won't tour with the USO or join Tea Party Curt on Sports Center. And if Alex returns, he damn well better play hard. If he hits .210, the team, the YES Network, and the fans will crucify him on his $28 million per year cross of gold.

Thus, my point: The scandal, the criticism, the pressure - they favor the Yankees. If A-Rod was ever going to add 30 pounds or cut a rap album, those options are gone. He has four years left on his contract. He must hit, he must field, he must chase the one outcome - as far fetched as it looks - that might save his name: Leading the Yankees to a World Series.

And if he's banned for half of 2014? We save the money, plus, let's face it: At his age, A-Rod wasn't going to last 160 games anyway.

No matter what happens, HAL 9000 will be paying A-Rod's bar tab for years. But you cannot pay a guy to be hungry. And all the king's horses can't buy back a reputation. For better or worse, Alex is chained to the batting cage. I bet he performs better in 2014 than last year. Thank you, Biogenesis!

Best off-season thus far: Colorado Rockies

Key players, officials and former stars

A Jay Burnett

Xander Bogart it

Brett Gardener

Mike Bagwell

Bud Selig

Dave LaRoach

Larry Duby

Herb Score

Marijuana Rivera

Top 10 Thoughts of 2014

Things I thought last year:

1. "It's a good thing they print your credit card number on your credit card, because you'd never remember it otherwise." (July 7, on phone, trying to buy tickets to Styx concert.)

2. "If humankind has learned how to put cheese into pretzels, we certainly should be able to prevent war." (April 20, watching Yankee game on TV.)

3. "If Shorty Bloomberg really wants me to come to New York City and spend my money, he should have them sell REAL Rolexes on the sidewalks for ten dollars. THEN I'll go." (March 20, to wife.)

4. “What the hell? Somewhere along the line, gerbils got a bum rap. There’s nothing sick about gerbils. Nothing. I’d get one, but what’s the point?” (Sept. 12, observing animals in pet store. )

5. “Seriously, did anyone REALLY think the Spice Girls would stand the test of time? Because I didn't. So now we're supposed to fall down on our knees for One Direction? Pass the meat loaf!" (Aug. 12, Aug. 20, Aug. 24 and at least 13 other times, sometimes without the "meat loaf" kicker line.)

6. "Jesus Christ! If Vince Lombardi got himself a rest stop, someday Joe Torre should have an entire Thruway system named after him.” (April 23, at Vince Lombardi Rest Stop on New Jersey Turnpike.)

7. “With today's technology, somebody could make a decent living by scanning people’s faces onto paper plates and selling them. You could eat food while staring into a picture of yourself eating. Think about that.” (Numerous times, to young people, whining about opportunities.)

8. "What the hell ever happened to the deviled egg? A fast-food chain could make billions - they would be practically printing money - if they brought out a decent deviled egg." (Numerous times, to everybody.)

9. “I hope the fuckin' bastard who invented boom-boxes enjoys screamer death bands who don’t know the first thing about rock. I hope on his dying day, the sonovabich is lying in a rest home, having to listen to screamer metal crapola played so loud his ears bleed.” (Aug. 12, sitting on beach, trying to hear Yankee game, next to guy playing music on boom box.)

10.  "What the hell? If they’re going to all the trouble of playing music for people who are sitting on hold, why not play decent music? You’d think they’d know that you're calling to buy Styx tickets, so why not play Styx music? Is that too much to ask? What the hell?” (July 7, on phone, trying to buy Styx tickets.)