Stop the hatin'

I had an epiphany today. I was standing on my head, like I do each afternoon when I get home from work (it helps clear my third-eye), then suddenly I realized the amount of mental and emotional energy I expend hating The New York Yankees. Seriously, with energy I spend yelling and bitching and constructing sophomoric jokes about The Yankee players' questionable sexualities, I could write a book, or do something practical, like develop census surveys.

So, starting tomorrow, no longer will I be one of the haters.

No longer will I call A-Rod any of the following: Gay-Rod, A-Tard, A-Hole, Jeter's bitch, or Sally. Maybe Sally. But none of the other ones.

No longer will I roll my eyes or shake my head whenever someone mentions The Yankees winning the World Series last year. No longer will I petulantly bark back,"They're supposed to win every year. They pay for it, fair and square. Fuckers."

No longer will I wish childish and terrible things to befall the team, such as wishing the entire Yankee clubhouse would break out with violent diarrhea and there will not be enough stalls.

No longer, I say. That was the old-Nate, a neurotic slightly-disturbed man who exists in a perpetual state of paranoia. He's gone. Meet the new-Nate, a man who is going to harness all of his negative energy and re-channel it into something positive.

The new-Nate has arrived.

So come here, Derek Jeter, and let's hug it out (not in a gay way).

Preseason...boring

As much as I try to enjoy it, as much as I attempt to fake it, I just can't get into preseason baseball.

Last week, on St. Patrick's Day, my daughter was sick, and it was my turn to stay home with her. So I figured I'd make the best of it, boil some corned beef, pour a stout, and watch the Sox play with my little girl at one p.m.

Two innings later, I'm clipping my toes and playing Memory with Paige, using her Walt Disney Princess cards. Usually, my kids already know, during a Sox game, I'm off limits. No games. No questions (unless they pertain to baseball). No crying (unless an important player, like Pedroia, goes down with a season-ending injury). And definitely no standing in front of the television.

I know the Sox are sucking out, but it's The Grapefruit League. Big deal. Buchholz tosses a bad game yesterday. He was probably working on a fourth pitch. Who cares? Big Papi can't hit a toilet seat with own big ass. Like we didn't know that was coming.

It's preseason. It's boring. No one cares.

By the way, I'm going to be writing some articles for Slurve Magazine, which will premiere a new website on April 4 with an article I wrote on the Top Nine Baseball Moments of the Last Decade. The on-line magazine combines literature with baseball. I couldn't stay away.

Open Letter to Nomar

Dear Nomar/No-mah/Nomie/Quitter/Cry Baby,

I greet you on this most joyous of days, not to celebrate your dog-and-pony show retirement party, but rather to raise a toast to today's occasion. Yes. Steak and BJ Day. Someone should order you a steak, Nomie, because you already received the other half from the Sox ownership this week. Larry and The Crypt Keeper and Boy-Theo and the rest of the brass, each of them got in a few good licks. In fact, between your water works show at the plate last July when you returned to Fenway and this week's sham, a good portion of Red Sox Nation---The Pink Hats and fans with selective amnesia---all of them kneeled down to honor you.

Not me, buddy. Since that night at the old Yankee Stadium in 2004 when Jeter jumped into the crowd in extra innings for foul ball, while you sat on the bench pouting about your contract, you've been dead to me.

Listen, Nomie, you would've been hard-pressed during your time in Boston to find a fan who worshipped your playing more than I did. For God's sake, I wanted to name my first-born Nomar (luckily, she was a girl, and my wife would've never gone for it anyway). But the way you left town-- and let's not forget this, buddy---was ignominious, pathetic, and ultimately made you look like nothing more than another overpaid, gluttonous glorified grubber. And let's face the facts here, No-mah: by that point, you were already damaged goods, and, boy, it was a lot more fun to watch Orlando Cabrera play ball than to watch you exercise your bottom lip, you fucking baby.

This week, we watched your little play at spring training: sign a contract for 15 hours, put on a jersey, and then retire as a Red Sox. It was all very tender and touching, as tender and touching as a prostate exam. What a load of shit! This is the type of thing that makes me disgusted to be a Red Sox fan. They should have handed out Pink Hats for the ceremony, blasted "Sweet Caroline" through the PA system, and had Rem-Dawg's cater the festivities with $12 hot dogs and $8 thimbles of Bud Light. I'm not sure who you thought you were fooling, or if you were just doing some PR before starting your new gig at ESPN.

And good with that analyst job, Nomar. I can't wait to hear your insight when it comes to players quitting on their team mid-season because they're not happy with their contracts. Maybe they can get Manny in the studio to help you. Actually, Manny might be fun.

You, Nomar, can go celebrate this day with yourself. Thanks for nothing, you fraud.

Regards,

The Thinking Half of Red Sox Nation

My Man-Crush

Lester/Lackey/Beckett. The three aces have become a single entity in my mind, and full disclosure: I think I might have a man-crush (also referred to as a bromance) on them.

As Opening Day nears and talk about the upcoming season has crept its way into restaurants, grocery stores, the teachers' lounge, I've found myself saying the same thing to just about everyone. When asked what I think of The Sox' chances this year, I'll say, "If they stay healthy, Lester/Lackey/Beckett..."

Then I'll stop and get weak-kneed and starry-eyed. I'll heave a big adoring sigh, lost in a dream of three-game series against the Yankees, three shutouts, the entire city of New York hanging their heads in submission, weeping the sweet, sweet tears of defeat and humiliation.

"So?" The person I'm speaking to will ask. "What about them?"

While my school-girlish instinct is to say, "Aren't they dreamy?" I won't. No. Instead, I'll throw out my chest, snarl with my top lip, adjust myself. "If The Sox get in the post-season, no one will beat those three in a short series. No one."

And, again, Lester/Lackey/Beckett will make me giddy.

Here's the thing about my man-crush: the man-crush is not on any of them individually, it's on all three of them, the entity I'll call Lester/Lackey/Beckett. (I guess that makes a bit of party girl, huh?) In fact, like any irrational crush, I've crossed the line into unhealthy adulation. In my eyes, Lester/Lackey/Beckett, these demigods, can do no wrong. When I read that Lackey pitched a two perfect innings yesterday, I thought, right, of course he did.

Right now, Lester.Lackey/Beckett is the solution to everything. Boy, the health care system is a real mess. Let's ask Lester/Lackey/Beckett to fix it. The economy? Lester/Lackey/Beckett. Your ass itches. I guess they can't help you there.

This, remember, folks, is being written on March 7. Talk to me in two months, if one of them starts slow or gets hurt, and it will be an entirely different song I'm singing. My man-crush may have turned into hate-mail.

What can I say, I'm a Sox fan.

P.S. Don't forget, next Sunday, March 14, is a very special day. Plan accordingly.