Mugger Vs. the Yankees: They Talk Trash, Eat Up Cash

My 11-year-old son Booker and I have been watching a number of Mr. Ed re-runs lately-the 1963 episode with Leo Durocher is among the best single sitcom episodes of that era-and the question's been raised, Who's the bigger horse's ass, Johnny Damon or the Times' Murray Chass?

There's no beef from this BoSox fan about Damon-or "Demon," as Booker now calls his former favorite player-defecting to the Yankees. Boston opted not to pay the free agent as much as the Yanks and Damon, sensibly, took George Steinbrenner's four-year, $52 million to play for a team that will always be in contention for a World Series championship. I happen to think the Sox trumped their rivals by trading for the younger Coco Crisp to replace their center fielder, but that's probably just partisanship talking.

What irks me, in a minor way, is that Damon hasn't shut up since his move to New York, implying that he was screwed by Boston's management and besides, he's traded up to a more functional franchise. Sox fans, tired of Damon's mouth (or is it buyer's remorse?), are justifiably peeved. A story in the March 5 Boston Globe noted a T-shirt at the team's spring training facilities that read, "Looks like Jesus, acts like Judas, throws like Mary."

The former "idiot" has received nothing but adulation from New York's massive sports media-surpassing Randy Johnson last year and maybe even A-Rod the year before. Many of the pundits are predicting that, with his addition to the lineup, the Yanks now possess the most punishing offense in at least a generation.

Maybe. Maybe not. But with the team's aging and creaky pitching staff, I predict a lot of 11-9 games are in the offing.

Writing for ESPN's Web site on Feb. 27, the New Jersey-based Record's Bob Klapisch heralded Damon's "stress-free demeanor" and "self-deprecating humor," and then quoted one of the Sox's 2004 heroes as saying, "Everything I've seen the Yankees do, they do with class." Here we go again: At the start of every season, the "class" of the Yankees is invoked, as if wearing coats and ties on airplane flights and adhering to Steinbrenner's rule of neat haircuts and minimal facial hair qualifies them as gentry.

The Yankees, more often than not, field a dominating team, and there's no denying it's the most famous sports franchise in American history. But "classy"? I don't think so, unless you consider the petulant Gary Sheffield the consummate gentleman; Johnson's sour demeanor a winning quality; A-Rod's cheap slap at Sox pitcher Bronson Arroyo (who may or may not be classy, but is certainly one of the coolest players on the scene today) in the 2004 ALCS within the bounds of etiquette; or Jason Giambi's non-apology press conference last year after he was implicated in the BALCO scandal an example of a man accepting the consequences of his actions.

It's not just the current Yanks who are lumped into the "class" category (how the admittedly regal pinstriped uniform confers such an aura on a free agent recently acquired is a mystery), but nearly every single ballplayer who's earned his living at Yankee Stadium. Billy Martin, anyone? Reggie Jackson? Even Mickey Mantle, an athletic immortal in my youth, was a notorious drunk who, according to Jim Bouton's groundbreaking Ball Four, preferred Peeping Tom adventures to hitting a double with the bases loaded.

There are exceptions, of course. Today that means Mariano Rivera and Bernie Williams. The latter, at the tail end of a not-quite Hall of Fame career, has been reduced to part-time status with the Yanks, replaced by Damon in center (after a succession of also-rans subbed for him last year), but he won't admit to any gripes. Times reporter Tyler Kepner, one of the better baseball writers in New York (along with The Daily News' Mike Lupica and The New York Sun's Tim Marchman), ran a story about Williams' diminished role on Feb. 28 and it's clear "class" comes naturally to the quiet, guitar-playing Williams, probably because he never even thinks about it.

Williams, whose 2005 salary dipped from $12 million to $1.5 million this year, said, "You want to remember the positives. At this point in my life, this is gravy, man. This is a great time of my life." Compare that sentiment to the bitchiness of former White Sox great Frank Thomas-also winding up a career-or Boston's very weird Keith Foulke, who, after getting booed at Fenway Park last year for another disastrous performance, said he wasn't playing for the paying customers who flip burgers at a fast-food joint.

Over to Murray Chass, whose retirement at the Times I'm looking forward to with just a little bit less anticipation than the day publisher Arthur Sulzberger Jr., is relieved of his duties and assigned to conduct focus groups on the paper's "Fashion & Style" section. Chass is an unapologetic enthusiast of the current World Baseball Classic-to each his own-and has gone out of his way to excoriate those players who aren't playing. He rips Steinbrenner (the "Ugly American") for holding the radical opinion that the Yanks' success in '06 might be jeopardized if Derek Jeter, A-Rod or Damon are injured.

Hideki Matsui, another likable Yank, is the "Ugly Japanese" for skipping the tournament, choosing instead to concentrate on the upcoming season even if it means "insulting" the legendary Sadaharu Oh, the manager of Japan's team.

Chass, whose bias against the Red Sox is unsurpassed in New York media, is especially sanctimonious about Boston's goofy Manny Ramirez, a slugging machine who alternately amazes and vexes the team's fans with his unorthodox behavior. (Frankly, I had no problem last season when Manny took a whiz between innings inside the Green Monster, but his out-of-the-blue hamstring injuries, no doubt coinciding with a Rugrats marathon, are frustrating.) Chass: "The only player Ramirez honors is himself. Probably no more selfish player exists, unless his name is Barry Bonds."

Say what you will about the surly Bonds, but no player has dominated the game, petrifying the opposing team, more than he has in the past 10 years. Bonds might be a scumbag in the clubhouse and off the field, but I've never seen a more exciting player live, with the possible exception of Carl Yastrezmski in '67. Maybe Ramirez is "selfish," but he doesn't even make the Top 10. What about the Yanks' Kevin Brown, who busted his hand in '04 after a lousy outing? Or Pedro Martinez, the key to the Mets' playoff hopes this year, who outpaced Ramirez with his free-spirit ways while in Boston? Add on Pudge Rodriguez, Sidney Ponson, Pete Rose, Thomas, Magllo Ordonez, and, oh hell, the list could go and on. Ballplayers aren't heroes (unless you count someone like Tim Wakefield, the humble Sox pitcher who has become quietly involved in any number of Boston charities). They're just athletes who've worked hard to achieve success.

At least the sportswriters in New York and Boston have teams worth writing about. The Baltimore Sun's mixed scrum of columnists, hamstrung by Orioles owner Peter Angelos' insistence on debasing a once-prestigious franchise, really have to reach when filing stories. Looking at a ninth consecutive losing season-and it's not as if Angelos doesn't have the money to build a contending club-the biggest stir this off-season was the acquisition of the Mets' Kris Benson. Filling up space in his daily blog on March 1, Roch Kubatko said, "I happened to purchase the latest issue of FHM magazine. Someone named Anna Benson was on the cover? Kris Benson could win two games this year and he'd still be the luckiest man on the planet."

Even Chass is better than that.