Two Days in New Amsterdam (Pt. 2)

Five up, five down, high-fives all around.

But, you know, it's May 6. Don't know about you brethren, but I don't sign off on any Yankee death certificate until they're good and dead and buried with a stake driven through their heart and their severed head placed atop an explosives-laden tortoise to wander across the desert.

You know, the usual sentiment.

Funny, the cycles of this great rivalry. Since the cauldron of 2004, it lost some steam. Then, into the mix, steps Joba. Comments from Sox fans such as, "I really respect Jeter and Posada and Mo" have given way to, "I really hate that $*#&! guy!"

Now I fully understand why non-Sox fans loathed Pedro during his Beantown days. It's pretty cowardly to stand up on that hill and bounce fastballs off people when you don't have to step in that batters box.

I could sit here and be just as cowardly and say, "There must be Meth-od to Joba's madness," but that's as cheap a shot as putting a ball between the numbers of someone who homered off of you in the first inning.

I'll just say that Joba & Hyde, the master of extremes, who gives up five straight hits to start a game, then strikes out 12 of the next 18, is one of those great talents and outsized personalities that are good for the game and good for this rivalry and would be wasted anywhere outside the Empire and Nation.