It did.

The best we can say about this year’s Mets is that the shlong they sucked in the sky reserved for baseball folding acts--the 1951 Dodgers, the 1964 Phillies, the 1978 Red Sox--is flavored with Yankee subterfuge.

For three years we’ve been saying the obvious: the Mets are led by a Yankee in Mets clothing. Willie Randolph, as those gazillionaires in the Bronx well know, is a Yankee. As such, he cannot be good for the Mets (let us not forget 1973, the last time a Yankee star--Yogi Berra--managed the Mets. How Berra led them to the promised land, then, in the final game against Oakland, refused them entry).

The recap: the Marlins scored 7 runs in the first half inning yesterday. The Mets so-called ace, Tom Glavine (not a true Met!), was worse than pathetic. The Mets, leading the division by an unsurmountable 7 games two weeks ago, with only 17 games to play, folded.

We get goose bumps each time we see Sandra Oh’s photo--but what do we know.

What we don’t get, given that we live in New York and a 30-minute subway ride is too long, with the world on the brink of ecological, nuclear, and financial ruin, how did the most powerful man in the world find THREE HOURS to eat roasted lamb with the most boring third baseman ever?

Oh, the creativity. We picture A-rod burning the midnight oil, hunched over his computer writing and rewriting each sentence till the prosaic rhythms ring with diamond clarity.

Rodriguez, through his publicity machine (let us not forgot that main reason the Mets didn’t buy him a few years back was because he wanted them to pay for his own P.R. team) announces that he wrote this book all by his very own self. And after reading the synopis, we believe him.

He also says that the book is about someone like himself--an underdog.

What amazes us are not the banalities that Rodriguez and his people spew, but that newspapers actually report it.

Let’s get something straight. Writing a good children’s book is harder than writing a good adult book. The people who’ve done it consistently — E.B. White and William Steig to name just two — are geniuses.

If he goes to the Mets, we’re moving to Argentina.

We applaud those sports writers the NY Post branded “Anti-Yankee yokels,” and insist with every anti-Yankee bone in our body that Jeter is New York’s Cal Ripken.

Hey Jeter, what the hell does the captain do anyway?

Instead, hoping to capture our shock, our disdain, our disgust at Beltran’s Kenny Rogers imitation, Recharger has invited Willie Randolf to channel Al Pacino from our very favoritist scene from Glengarry Glen Ross.

Randolf:
(to Beltran)
You stupid fucking cunt. You,
Beltran…I’m talking to you,
shithead…You just cost me half a million dollars.
(pause)
Half million dollars. And one
World Series ring. That’s right. What are
you going to do about it? What are
you goin to do about it, asshole.
You fucking shit. Where did you
learn your trade. You stupid
fucking cunt. You idiot. Whoever
told you you could work with men?

Beltran:
Could I…

Randolf:
I’m going to have your job, shithead.
I’m going downtown and talk to
Wilpon and Minaya, and I’m going to
Wilpon Jr. I don’t care whose nephew
you are, who you know, whose dick
you’re sucking on. You’re going
out, I swear to you, you’re going…

Beltran:
Could I…

Randolf:
Anyone in this clubhouse lives on
their wits…
What you’re hired for is to help
us--does that seem clear to you?
To help us. Not to fuck us up…to
help men who are going out there to
try to earn a living. You fairy.
You company man…I’ll tell you
something else. I hope you misread the signs. I can tell Minaya something might help
him catch you.
You want to learn the first rule
you’d know if you ever spent a day
in your life…you never step up to the plate till you know what the shot
is.
(pause)
You fucking child…

Construction workers have transformed Macombs Dam Park, directly behind the famous stadium, into the dust bowl from hell. Trees have been chopped down, bathrooms are shut, and tennis players must use portable toilets. Worse, heavy machinery has created a noise and dust nightmare for local residents. Evil empire—er, Yankee president Randy Levine says the new $800 million stadium is scheduled to open in 2009, and that the Yanks will hire as many Bronx residents as possible to help with the stadium’s construction.

-- Alban Hasanbelliu

-- Wayne Bartley

In high school I played soccer with a guy like that. Team’s best player Once, mid-dribble, I stole the ball from him. He snatched it from the ground and fired it at my face. Team had an endearment for him--asshole.

Last year, Jeter had security guards eject a fan from Yankee Stadium for heckling. Who was the fan heckling? Jeter. This blatant violation of a fan’s rights merited a small item on the gossip page. Aside from being a talented, but dumb jock, Jeter has mesmerized the New York press corps who are no better than the fans. He sleeps with models and Miss Universes and reporters think this is really cool. He even lets reporters read his mail from desperate girls. Nice, Derek.

Sports writers have bought so deeply into the Yankee Pride shit--not to mention the wonderfulness of clubhouse access--they don’t write the obvious. That the Yankees, who haven’t won a World Series since beating the Mets and that other local a-hole--Piazza--in 2000, have become the Atlanta Braves of the Northeast, and that Jeter is New York’s Cal Ripken Jr.

That’s not a compliment.