What’s Wrong with A-Rod and AJ, and How It Can Be Fixed
Artie Lange of The Howard Stern Show once said something that was funny, yet bingo:
“Babe Ruth f#@ked everything that walked. New York didn’t care as long as he hit a home run in October. A-Rod wants to be like Babe, why he wears 13, there’s a 3 on it (Ruth’s number. It’s retired). But we hate him. He’s f#@king celebrity ass, Kate Hudson, Cameron Diaz, Madonna, but striking out in October.”
A-Rod’s problem isn’t so much in the mind, it’s that he’s all mind, all Me, all Ego. You may say last year it was the injuries, but remember Kirk Gibson, the Dodger who could barely walk to the plate but still belted a pinch-hit walk-off homer in the ’88 Series. Gibson had mountains of what A-Rod has little, heart and soul. Like AJ Burnett, he doesn’t get it. It’s not about him. It’s about baseball, losing yourself in the game, losing yourself, merging with the moment, the at-bat, the pitch, the play - PLAY.
(AJ sports the Mystery Shiner. From his wife? A fan? A team-mate? I say AJ himself.)
Wanna’ know what I mean, pick up a copy of the one baseball book that’s a must read for an athlete of any sport, the book that takes you beyond the mental and physical through the mental and physical to transcend the mental and the physical, taking you into the soul of the game, the source and essence of excellence. It’s called The Way of Baseball and it’s written by retired all-star Shawn Green, ex-Met, ex-Dodger and ex-Blue Jay, a guy who hit over .300, over 40 homers and 125 RBIs in one season, a baseball Buddha.
Read it A-Rod. You too, AJ. Because you two pretzels have the Big Apple parched.
Really, fellas, you’re getting paid way too much to be mediocre. Keep It Fair!
The Impostar
Cain no longer able, and I shed a tear
Nein, Nein, Nein. Once a ludicrous formula of numbers for fictitious tax reform, now the message of a country to a clown. Nein, Nein, Nein - that’s Wiener-schnitzel-land lingo for No, No, No, which you might know unless, like Herman Cain, you belong in Uzbekibekbekistanstanstan. Well, now that 999 has become 000, I must say, I miss him. Idiots can be entertaining. Not that I want to get political, and I won’t, but being a career Wall Streeter by day, naturally I’ve dealt with lots of Republicans. I’ll keep my politics to myself, except to say that most politicians are totally full of shit and few of them care at all about fairness. This year’s crop of candidates: classic. 300 million people and that’s the best Republicans can do? Cain and Perry, classic. And Newt? The name alone … Talk about the Art of the Storm. Take it from a serial bullshit artist, these guys are, too, B-team at best, not fit to shine the shoes of Bubba Clinton. On par with Sarah Lipstick? You betcha! Sadly, too many of America’s smartest are too busy stormin’ it all the way to billions in the bank. I may be a Wall Streeter but I will say that the current state of Uncle Sam is about as far from fairness as Pluto is from Manhattan.
The Impostar
E pluribus unum
(That means One Among Many, all you Cain, Palin and Perry fans, one among many impostars … yeah, I know I’ve taken liberty with e pluribus, but would Palin, Cain or Perry know the difference? And that be the point, that politics for us fairness fans are looking pointless.)
The Night George Clooney Was My Wingman
Heard George Clooney was caught out at a Ravens game with his latest, Stacey Keibler, an ex-cheerleader for the team. Well just like The Donald loves the blacks, I love The George, except I’ve probably spent more time with Clooney than Trump has with peeps less pasty. And that’s not all that much, but I remember George was a big baseball fan. It was in NYC, the MTV Ball, after the VMAs. Ass was everywhere, with about eight eager fame-f@#kers closing in on Clooney.
Enter the Impostar.
When I introduced myself as a Yankee pitcher, Clooney was pumped. He told me he loved the game, had played lots of baseball. I’d later learn he had tried out with the Cincinnati Reds in ‘77, but didn’t make the first round of cuts. Still that’s respectable ball, and to be fair, further than I got. But thinking I was a bonafide NY Yankee, George was far more than fair to me. As the hotness closed in, he told them it was me they should be talking to, that he was my fan, not me his. And when George Clooney says this about you with that devil-gonna-do-ya’-right charm that gets him more tail than a Grand Central toilet on days he doesn’t try — when Clooney plays your wing-man — even a loser on The Biggest Loser can score a supermodel.
Ass by association, or for fellow Entourage fans, turtling, taking scraps in the wake of a star. All part of The Art of the Storm. I don’t know how many nights the Turtles in my posses pulled in babe’age like Turtle did Vince’s groupies, but it’s as good a feeling helping your boys hook-up as it is hooking up yourself, almost. Very high FFR, fairness factor rating. Like ERA for a pitcher, in the saber-metrics of Storm, the FRR is one of those things that reflects your worth as a friend, an old school one as opposed to one of the whatever thousand you have on Facebook.
That night at the VMAs, Cloons was an all-star, feeding me tail like I was. Won’t forget him. A modern star with Sinatra style and cool … Hope that elbow heals fast, George.
Keep It Fair.
The Impostar
