Our Lady of Yaztremski

Just behind religion and politics, sports loyalties must be included among the things which will provoke grievous bodily harm.

That being said, the gentle reader will be advised that this is territory which is extremely hostile to the New York Yankees. Your Wandering Gentile's childhood in northern New England during the 1970's has empowered a passionate embrace of the Boston Red Sox, which is only rivaled by an equivalent sentiment for the Atlanta Braves.

It's fair. They play in different leagues.

A very dear friend of the blog is Shlomo from Lawn Guyland, New York. The friendship started with the words "Yankees or Mets." Only a true native of that part of the Empire State could correctly execute the profanity expelled in connection with Steinbrenner's Evil Empire. (Shlomo is not his real name, but I don't want to embarrass him by using his real name, Moses Horowitz.)

This is a place where your Wandering Gentile faces a conundrum. How does one reconcile The Buckner Play, and losing Tom Glavine? How does one account for the fact that his beloved Braves play in the same division as Shlomo's Mets?

It is not so hard. Our differences pale in contrast to our mutual hatred of Bronx Pinstripes, and their arrogant, self-entitled fans. Anything done by one of our teams is still not done by the Yankees. Besides, Mrs. Shlomo is a Braves fan and Mrs. Wandering Gentile has graciously accepted that I really hate the Yankees. I don't care if she lived in Jersey for 100 years.

Mrs. Wandering Gentile brought no loyalties to the marriage. Her daughters, however, attempted to convert me to the Yankees, albeit the conversion was something that was successfully achieved when the hijastras discovered a connection in heritage with several Mets and Red Sox players.

Disaster averted.

A couple of days ago, a story came across the wires that Brian Cashman of the Yankees is considering bringing Barry Bonds out of retirement. Apparently Matsui's season is over and Johnny Damon is hurt, too. The thought of Bonds as a Yankee inspired all of this rant.

Barry Bonds, New York Yankee. The thought provokes salivation as a Red Sox, Mets, or even Braves fan. He's better than perfect in pinstripes. Bonds should be rushed to the Bronx like a transplant organ, with a siren-blaring motorcade right up the Bruckner Expressway from JFK.

Bonds is the epitome of arrogance and an attitude that speaks to the idea that every action is in the pursuit of self-aggrandizement. He has 760-something home runs and zero World Series rings. His presence placed a behind in every seat in San Francisco, and they still chose to not renew his contract. In 1993, he stated that he wasn't worried about the Atlanta Braves when they were 9 1/2 games back, only to watch Atlanta take the division on the last day of the regular season.

Give me a break, and let's talk about Dale Murphy, Carl Yaztremski, and Marv Throneberry. There is a place for that class of ball player who plays hurt, gives everything, even carries his team when it would be easier to just concern himself with the business of inflating his stats and body via steroids.

Well, maybe Marv Throneberry isn't such a good example, but the point of Murph and Yaz being great players without a World Championship does need to be addressed. These were not arrogant crybabies. These were ballplayers of extraordinary skill and dedication to their teams, away from the taint of chemically enhanced records.

If anyone ever had the legitimate right to complain, Dale Murphy and Carl Yaztremski have it in spades. Yet they don't make the case for what was not achieved. Bonds feels entitled to impose himself upon the Major Leagues with the import of legend. Too bad for him that his self-image does not live up to his reality as an overinflated, well-past-his-prime prima donna, much like many on the Yankee roster.

The Red Sox are in first place, closely followed by Tampa Bay. The Yankees are sucking wind in third place, and in need of help. May Barry Bonds arrive in the Bronx and contribute in the same way he did in San Francisco.

Heh, heh, heh. Love that dirty water...