Hate to break it to those who see irreparable cracks in the plaster with each occasional pockmark (which is like all of us), but the Mets are fine. Some nights indeed beg the question, “What, exactly, was that bullshit?” and demand the manager deliver an early-morning tongue-lashing. But those nights, when they're followed by these days, tend to be more infrequent than they seem.

Good teams win games like today's. They occasionally lose games like last night's, but they put them behind them more often than not. More often than not, they win all kinds of games. Since the Interleague hiccup, cresting when our erstwhile fifth starter was grilled up like Filet of Alay, the Mets have played 14 games.

They took three of four from Pittsburgh.

They split four with Florida.

They took two of three in Chicago.

They took two of three in Cincinnati.

That's 9-5, a .642 clip. Even if they're not necessarily playing up to their national magazine cover notices, that's a pace that wins you 104 games over 162. That's winning most series and losing none. That's against a cross-section of the undermanned, the feisty, the crummy and the dangerous. That's who's available to be beaten and they've been beaten 9 of 14. That's good stuff.

I wouldn't necessarily have the foam finger I've had surgically attached to my right hand removed if we had lost the getaway game to Cincinnati, but the resilience and stubbornness on display at Great American is a prime example of what separates us from the Reds-raff. We're the team that found ways to head off leadoff rallies inning after inning. We're the team that threw balls to the right bases and made convincing enough tags to sway flighty umps. We're the team whose fourth and fifth relievers could be at least set-up men for many others. We're the team that salvages Chavezes and destroys opponents' dreams with them.

Feels good to be on the right side of these things as often as we are.

On August 5, 2004, Victor Zambrano started his first game as a New York Met, struggled into the sixth inning but earned a win. David Wright hit his third big league home run, part of a National League warning shot six-RBI onslaught. Vance Wilson went deep. Ricky Bottalico threw 2-1/3 scoreless innings. Richard Hidalgo drove in a run.

The Mets beat the Brewers 11-6. And I missed all of it.

That was the last Mets game to completely elude my eyes and/or ears. Since then, I've caught at least a little, usually most, probably the entirety of every contest the Mets have played, 311 up to and including Wednesday night's generously rain-delayed affair in Cincinnati. Sure, it was a long precipitation pause, but Mother Nature was doing me a solid. I was in Baltimore until 7:52 PM when I boarded a northbound Amtrak. We weren't due past Trenton — into solid FAN territory — until after 9:20. I had no guarantee there'd still be a game to glean through the Central Jersey static.

But there would be, and much closer to home. My surprisingly effective Sprint PCS Web connection gave me a score:

Mets 4

Reds 0

Inning 2

Rain Delay

Hot damn! The Mets are winning and I'm going to be a part of it all. I could sit back and relax until my regional choo-choo pulled into Penn in time for me to jump on a 10:34 LIRR. Once east of the tunnel, it was only the fourth inning. What a midsummer's bounty: an afternoon in Camden Yards; an early evening dinner in Charm City; a heaping, unanticipated scoop of Amazin'ness for dessert. And we were winning.

Were.

One of the first things I heard was Jose Reyes stretch a single into an out at second. One of the last things I heard was Jose Reyes turn an out into a runner on third…except Jose did that with a lousy throw. In between, Trachsel earned no win, the Mets scored no run and the rain did not fall.

My streak is alive, but the Mets lost. It's not nice to fool Mother Nature.

What, exactly, was that bullshit?

The Mets came out smoking, roughed up Aaron Harang, and headed into the clubhouse with a 4-0 lead when the rains came. As it became apparent that this was a serious storm and would be a long delay, I began to fret that that 4-0 lead would be erased in favor of a doubleheader tomorrow.

If only.

I don't know what team that was that came back out to play when the rain finally stopped, but I don't want to see it again. Up and down the lineup, they took at-bats like a squad with a double-digit lead on getaway day: six pitches in the 3rd, seven in the 4th, eight in the 5th. Three innings, 21 pitches? Ridiculous bordering on unprofessional, and by the time they seemed to be paying attention again, it was 4-4. Fittingly, the game was then lost on a double error: Reyes' too-aggressive bid to get Scott Hatteberg at third, compounded by his making a bad throw and getting nobody. The miscue seemed to unnerve Sanchez, three runs came in, and that was that.

The more you think about it, the more it's infuriating. This is the kind of hare-and-the-tortoise loss that lets 11.5-game leads erode if there are too many of them, and exactly what Willie Randolph was warning against a few weeks back: the dangers of playing half-assed baseball because you think the rest of the regular season is a formality.

It isn't. Here's hoping Willie closes the clubhouse door and makes that excruciatingly clear.

As rain descended on Cincinnati, SNY switched us over to Mets Classics. Oh boy, I thought, a chance to see the '86 Mets clinch the division again.

Nope. It was the 9/21/01 game. Baseball's return to New York, with moving ceremonies before the game, Liza Minnelli's roaring take on “New York, New York,” and (oh yeah) Mike Piazza's no-doubter of a home run, a blast that not only won us a ballgame but made it OK to worry about a silly thing like baseball again. Greg and Emily and I were all there, and it stands as one of the most-emotional nights I've ever had in a baseball stadium.

We've written about this game before, and at first I was pleased to see it. (And noted with a start that the Braves' third baseman was the late Ken Caminiti.) But then I got to thinking, and I wasn't so pleased.

Even knowing things will turn out OK (on the field, at least), the 9/21/01 game isn't a happy experience to watch: The shocked crowd, the hushed announcers and the stricken-looking players all snap you back to those terrible days. That doesn't mean that game is holy or should be off-limits. But it does mean, at least to me, that it's a piece of the past that shouldn't serve as background music while the tarp's on the field in the present. You have to see the whole thing: the solemnity of the opening, the tense grind of the early innings, Liza's cynicism-defying turn in the seventh-inning stretch, and the euphoric, triumphant release of Piazza's homer. Every time I looked down at where it said RAIN DELAY on the crawl, I was reminded that we wouldn't see the whole thing, that Gary and Keith would reappear before the experience was complete.

And indeed, we didn't make the 7th. No Liza. no Piazza. Just a vaguely uneasy feeling and the dislocation of suddenly finding oneself worrying about Steve Trachsel (ironically, the only '01 Met still standing) and Adam Dunn and Carlos Delgado. Here 's hoping SNY saves this game for other occasions — but ones where the whole story can be told. It's a classic, no doubt, but a classic that needs to stand alone.

I'd feel better about our long-term future if I hadn't learned that Mike Pelfrey is the third Met rookie pitcher to win his first two starts in the Majors and that the previous two to do so were Dick Selma and Gary Gentry. Fine fellows, representative careers: Selma was the second-best hurler to emerge from the Fresno throwing scene of the early 1960s; Gentry played a key role in the Salvation Miracles Revival Crusade of 1969 — but I'm thisclose to raising funds for the Pelfrey Wing at Cooperstown (it will flank Milledge Manor, construction temporarily dormant) and I'd prefer a template for his professional future that includes Tom Seaver and, total life screwup aside, Dwight Gooden.

One salvation miracle at a time. Strapping, young Mike Pelfrey may have just revived the concept of the fourth starter as a dependable entity, and that's the only crusade that matters this week. At the very least, he is 2-0, he will start on Sunday (in front of me, yay!) and he was way better this time than he was the first time. Not as nervous. Sharper for sure. Improved by leaps. Bounds will have to wait.

Kid has heat. Kid has heart. Kid has a changeup. Don't know that you could ask much more from the kid save for not getting hurt, not hiding hurts, not ordering the chicken, not wearing an illegal undershirt, not teasing, not imploding, not exploding, not aging, not drowning in a sea of his own shvitz, not referring to any time as Pelfrey Time and not staring at his shoelaces when tying them will suffice. In other words, copy only the admirable traits of your moundmates and then just be yourself. You look good doing that.

Carlos Beltran looks great doing that, don't he?

Eleven runs in one inning.

Two grand slams in one inning.

Seven walkoff wins in one month.

A nine-game road winning streak.

An inside-the-park home run.

A cycle.

A homer hit by the oldest man ever to homer.

A 200th career victory.

A 300th career save.

Eleven pitchers start.

Two stud prospects debut.

Eight outfield assists by a fourth outfielder.

Twenty-one consecutive scoreless innings by one reliever.

Nine consecutive wins by one starter.

Six players named to the All-Star team.

Four players voted to the All-Star team.

Five players on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

One player on The Late Show With David Letterman.

Three consecutive Player-of-the-Week awards.

One Player-of-the-Month.

A five-game lead by April 17.

A ten-game lead by June 22.

A magic number on July 18.

October.

With the Mets up 7-5, I began to think in terms of The Record, the one that had stood unsurpassed for 27 seasons. It's so rare you get to see that kind of history made. We're still waiting on a 12-game winning streak to say nothing of a hitless shutout victory. Yes, we saw the ten-run inning matched live, but here was our chance, albeit from our homes, to experience something established anew.

There we were, bases loaded, Beltran up and…POW!

ELEVEN RUNS! I started jumping around like an idiot. “TWO GRAND SLAMS!” I told Stephanie. “TWO GRAND SLAMS! AND ELEVEN RUNS! ELEVEN RUNS IN AN INNING! THAT'S A NEW METS RECORD! THAT'S HISTORY!”

I was smart enough after a couple of innings to have turned down the sound on the national broadcasters and turned up Howie Rose and his relentlessly generic partner. Everything I had seen — seen and not heard — on ESPN leading into this rally was Cubs this, Cubs that. I swear I'd stared at Dusty Baker's face for an hour more than I had my cat Hozzie's all weekend. (Cubs must be doing great to merit such coverage.) Thank goodness I had that all-important presence of mind to put the FAN on and hear familiar voice pronounce this moment of Mets history for what it was.

But they weren't doing that, Howie and his colleague. Sure, two grand slams, that was remarked upon. But why didn't they mention that this was the historic eleven-run inning? We were down 5-0. Now it was 11-5! Maybe the boring guy needed notes handed him by The Immortal Chris Majkowski, but not Howie. Where was the Rose benediction to make this official? (And, by the way, how do we sneak Gary into the radio booth for postseason?)

The Mets, one of our guys finally reported, had now scored nine runs in the sixth inning. NINE? What were they talking about? Do the math! It was 5-0 and now it's 11-5!

Then I remembered: It had been 5-0 much earlier. It was 5-2 when the sixth started. Funny, it seemed like it had been 5-0 all night. It hadn't been.

Having patted myself heartily for my brilliance at listening to the radio instead of Jon Miller and for being on top of a potential milestone in the making, I realized that the Mets had set no record in the sixth inning, at least not the one I was focused on. I slunk back onto the couch and recanted my celebration. “We haven't scored eleven in this inning,” I told Stephanie. “We scored nine. That's great, but that's not a record.”

Then two batters later, I recanted my recant. “NOW IT'S ELEVEN RUNS! NOW IT'S A RECORD!” I jumped around some more. I felt a little silly getting it up all over again, but I can't think of a better reason for a mulligan. Now we had eleven in the inning and thirteen in the game. I'll suffer personal embarrassment every single time in service of that kind of correction.

No problem, none at all. Following the first and only eleven-run inning in New York Mets history, my only concern was the game wouldn't be over in time for Entourage. But it was.

Y'know what was even more impressive than the obvious in the sixth? That after the third home run, two more Mets walked and Ramon Castro lifted a fly to the centerfield warning track. It wasn't particularly close to going out, but imagine if it had. Fourteen runs (let me doublecheck…eleven plus three…yup, fourteen). When it was caught, I actually felt more than a little relieved. Because I felt bad for the Cubs…NOT!

Quick word on the Cubs: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

No, I was unsorry that the inning ended because breaking the record by one was satisfying. Breaking the record by four would mean there would be almost no chance that we'd ever see it broken again. It took 18 years for the Mets to throw down a tenspot, 21 years thereafter to do it again, six years beyond that to make it eleven. Maybe, just maybe, we'll live long enough for a twelve-run inning. We can at least get to eight some night and then imagine a grand slam and think, “Wow, we could get the record!” But hang fifteen in one frame? We'll be debating which Mets no-hitter was the most scintillating before we live through that.

Funny thing about the three times the Mets have scored ten or more runs in an inning. None of those games — 12-6, 11-8, 13-7 finals — was a blowout in the strictest sense of the word. In fact, each ten- or eleven-run inning was a come-from-behind situation. We have the Atlanta game tattooed on our respective synapses: behind 8-1; ahead 11-8. Cincinnati was like Chicago in that we were down 5-2 in the sixth. While I won't cop to remembering June 12, 1979 like it was yesterday, I do recall thinking we were going to win that game.

We had a two-nil lead for five innings. We had few leads of such enormity in 1979, let alone instances of scoring multiple tallies in the very first inning. When the Reds went out in front in the top of the sixth, it didn't really register. I didn't think it was possible that the Mets could score in the first and not win. Once the Mets started putting hits together, it seemed perfectly natural that they'd regain the lead and never relinquish it.

Since you got two-thirds of the way home, let's complete the set:

Stearns double. Henderson walk. Flynn safe on error. Hodges walk. (5-3.) Ferrer pinch-ran. Youngblood popup. Taveras double. (5-5.) Mazzilli intentional walk. Hebner single. (7-5.) Montañez safe on sacrifice fly and error. (8-5.) Stearns flyout. Henderson single. (9-5.) Flynn inside-the-park home run. (12-5.) Ferrer groundout.

I don't remember at what point Steve Albert made it clear that an old record had been broken, but he drilled it home that ten was the new mark. It was so unbelievably many runs, how could it have not been an all-time high? The only thing that would have made it dreamier would have been had Sergio Ferrer had actually gotten a hit to extend the inning. It may have been mentioned in this space that he was 0-for-1979.

They weren't quite the Big Red Machine any longer, but Cincinnati went on to win the NL West that year. The Atlanta Braves of 2000 would also become division champs (again). Not only was Sunday night the first time the Mets ever scored eleven runs in one inning, it was the first time they did it against a team that is a lock to lose more games than it will win in the course of the season in question. I think it's also safe to say that the 2006 Met lineup edges the 2000 edition. They may even be better than 1979's.

Take a phenomenally great Mets offense and typically Cubbie Cubs, and this was bound to happen, no? By that logic, it should have happened at least twice against the Pirates already, but you can't score eleven in every inning.

During the home run chase of 1998, everybody was congratulating one another for evoking the spirit of Roger Maris (Billy Crystal even pleasured himself a movie out of it). The recurring line was, “The record may be shattered, but it's got everybody talking about Maris again and that's a good thing.”

I got it then but I really get it now. I'm a little sad, to tell you the truth. Every time we tell the ten-run inning story from June 30, 2000, we'll have to qualify it with “that was the record then.” I loved being there that night, chewing on that cup, us craning our necks in unison to see what 10 looked like on the Shea scoreboard. I loved, too, being outside for gym class the morning of June 13, 1979, the tail end of tenth grade, recounting every walk, error, hit, inside-the-park home run and run from the sixth inning the night before with one of the few other Mets fans in school. There was never anything happy to mull Metwise in 1979. Setting the record was something to talk about.

Those innings at Shea were great and always will be. This inning at Wrigley with the three homers, the two grand slams, the seven or eight outs permitted by the Cubs and the one brand new record for most runs ever scored by the New York Mets in one inning? It's that much greater.

And it always will be.

June 30, 2000: I remember. You remember. The night before we'd come up short in John Rocker's return to Shea after running his mouth about the 7 train and its various inhabitants. We were out in force the next night, too — you, me, Emily and Danielle down the right-field line in the mezzanine, my friends Megan and Tim somewhere in the ionosphere of the upper deck. (Megan wasn't a Met fan, but she was eager to defend New York's honor, and she'd hedged her bets against a Rocker no-show in the first game.)

We were out in force to watch the Mets fall behind the Braves 4-0 and then 8-1 after 7 1/2. As things went from worse to much worse, my cellphone ran. It was Megan.

“Your team sucks,” she said — not rubbing it in, more annoyed and a little shocked.

I muttered something. Because even if I could summon up something eloquent, the scoreboard would have the final word: Braves 8, Mets 1. Yes, my team did pretty much suck.

“If the Mets come back in this game I'll eat my shoe,” Megan concluded.

Bell single. Alfonzo flyout. Piazza single. Ventura groundout. (8-2.) Zeile single. (8-3.) Payton single. Agbayani walk. Johnson walk. (8-4.) Mora walk. (8-5.) Bell walk. (8-6.) Alfonzo single. (8-8.) Piazza home run. (11-8.) Ventura groundout.

And through it all, the four of us in the mezzanine were desperately trying to keep doing whatever we'd been doing while our thoroughly sodden team improbably kept walking on water. Danielle was still pretending to read the New Yorker, even though I knew she was no longer even seeing the words on the page. Emily was veering between imprecations and cheers and yells. You were chewing on a cup and muttering to yourself and refusing to look at anybody. I was busy denying the entire thing to avoid breaking the spell. (At one point I went too far and tried to keep the jinx away by telling you that of course you understood they wouldn't actually do it, which violated your own negotiation of a deal with the baseball gods. I don't think I've ever seen you look so furious.)

When Piazza hit Mulholland's first pitch on a line over the fence, it was like an emotional volcano blew. Bedlam! Celebration! The stands swaying and bobbing, mad cheering and hugging, calling Megan on the cellphone to babble something triumphant. (Coincidentally, she just wrote me about that game a couple of weeks back. Her verdict: “Best. Game. Ever.”) There are about a million things I love about baseball, but near the top of the list is the way every pitch can ratchet the anxiety and terror higher and higher over agonizing minutes and hours, only to have the unbearable tension released in mere seconds. Baseball can be slow and take a long time, there's no doubt. But it can also be shockingly fast.

Games like June 30, 2000 help keep you in your seat or in front of the TV for years of games that go ugly early and are obviously destined to be lackluster, desultory, depressing, horrifying, numbing or farcical. Because you can't ever know when another shocker's coming, and if you aren't there when it does, you might never forgive yourself. A 10-spot? We'd only done that once before, on June 12, 1979 against the Reds.

Until tonight.

For emotion, tonight's uprising was probably more Doug Flynn vs. Cincy than Mike vs. Atlanta — we don't collide with the Cubs often enough to feel much anymore where they're concerned, and they're just trying to get through a nightmare season with some modicum of pride. But it did have the same out-of-the-ashes quality as 6/30/00 — El Duque was so stupendously horrible that I pawed my portable radio off my head in disgust and decided to eat hot dogs in the backyard with Joshua and leave the Mets to their fate. But I was so pissed that outside I became the El Duque of frankfurter grilling, burning buns and rolling dogs off the fire and onto the pavement. (Heck, nothing a dip in the kiddie pool couldn't fix.) Between fuming and grill-related slapstick I was rehearsing tonight's blog post. I had my headline, following up on Friday night's post. This Just In: We Ain't So Great Either.

But I let the TV keep playing in the house, and was mildly mollified when we came in from dinner to see it was 5-1, instead of the half-expected 134-0. (BTW, what a fucking tragedy this game was on ESPN, with statistical Flat Earther Joe Morgan as an eyewitness to our history-making instead of Gary.) The beginning of bathtime saw a bobble and two bloops, better than things had been but not exactly epochal stuff. Bathtime was just finishing when Cliff Floyd hit the same pitch John Hirschbeck had unaccountably called a ball two pitches earlier into the basket for a grand slam and a 6-5 lead. I let out a roar that startled Joshua, who then demanded to be walked through what had happened.

“That's good, right?” he asked after I got done explaining it.

In my head, I was trying to figure out the script. Seems like a three-game set at Wrigley always features one ho-hum game, one hide-your-face disaster and one crazed donnybrook where the lead changes like six times and extra innings are needed to decide things, I thought. This would be the donnybrook, then. Hope it doesn't wind up being Bell-Lee II.

Then, amazingly, came Carlos Beltran's grand slam, heard on the radio in Joshua's room as he finished his juice and we neared the end of a dinosaur book. “I wanna see it!” he yelled, and we rushed over to Mom and Dad's room to see the replay on ESPN. (During the kid's bedtime you can go from room to room in our downstairs with the Mets either on radio or TV, like that ad from a few years back in which the soccer fan has TVs everywhere.)

The inning had taken up all of bathtime and most of reading time and still wasn't over. Maybe it would never be. Would the Wrigley faithful rush the field to string up poor Todd Walker? Would some empty suit from the Tribune Co. hand Dusty Baker his pink slip in the dugout? Would the ESPYs have to start at midnight? And then Wright went deep, and 10 runs in an inning was so last millennium.

Forty-one minutes. Sixteen batters. Seventy pitches. Two grand slams. Eleven runs. And fuel for watching the next six years of games that start with us on the wrong side of 5-0 in the 2nd.

Since this is a historically minded post, let's call the roll.

Woodward flyout. Beltran safe on error. Delgado single. Wright single. Floyd home run. (6-5.) Nady walk. Castro fielder's choice, Nady safe on error. Chavez single. (7-5.) Valentin single. Woodward fielder's choice. Beltran home run. (11-5.) Delgado double. Wright home run. (13-5.) Floyd walk. Nady walk. Castro flyout.

Yes, my boy, that's good.

Call it evidence of adolescence either delayed or hopelessly extended, but Stephanie and I remain aficionados of the totally awesome high school movie of the '80s and '90s. The market was flooded by the teen genre for more than two decades, yet only every few years did a really great one come along. This is our canon:

1979: Rock 'n' Roll High School

1982: Fast Times at Ridgemont High

1986: Ferris Bueller's Day Off

1989: Heathers

1993: Dazed and Confused

1995: Clueless

1999: Election

Those are seven titles that float above it all. Their brilliance is incandescent. Even TBS's hamhanded censors — you dick! jerk! — can't squelch Spicoli, y'know? Though I can watch the occasional Sixteen Candles or Can't Hardly Wait (or the underrated until it gets too gross for my fortysomething sensibilities Not Another Teen Movie), I can't in good conscience add anything else to the canon. Nothing else transcends teensploitation enough to make us want to buy the DVD or, in the case of Dazed and Confused, keep buying the DVD every time they lard up a new deluxe edition. Whether they were ultimately intended to or not, each movie here appeals to our generally adult way of thinking every bit as much as they reach our inner eleventh-graders.

There is one title that has always come close to making the list. I like it a great deal, but it's not totally awesome. It's just kind of awesome. And kind of awesome won't cut it.

Three O'Clock High came out in 1987. It has a universally appealing premise: The kid who's challenged to an afterschool fight by the legendary school thug tries to avoid getting his ass kicked. The kid, played ably by Casey Siemaszko, is a Regular Joe — neither a Matthew Broderick or a Winona Ryder, to be sure — who's put upon by unsympathetic external sources. And of course his parents are away. Parents are always away in these things.

Early in my professional writing career, I was enlisted to write nutshell descriptions by an advertising agency for the back of videocassette boxes, so without looking, I'll guess Three O'Clock High's reads something like this.

Jerry Mitchell is having a bad morning and it only gets worse when he accidentally incurs the wrath of the newly transferred school bully! Will Buddy Revell get the best of Jerry or will our hero calculate a way to make it through the school day safe and sound? Jerry relies on the help of understanding friends while negotiating a phalanx of uncaring students, teachers and administrators only to face the inevitable…a 3 P.M. showdown in the school parking lot! Will the final bell toll for Jerry? Also stars Jeffrey Tambor (The Ropers).

Actually, the guy I wrote these for would have thrown this back at me for using the word “phalanx,” but you get the idea. Three O'Clock High does a surprisingly good job of capturing the angst of encountering daily state-sponsored terrorism, a.k.a. walking the hallways of your local secondary school between the ages of 12 and 18. It's certainly engaging but it's not at the level of the aforementioned canon.

Why not? Jerry Mitchell's just a little too pathetic to turn to his Ferris-like wits when he needs them. Also, his tormentor comes off as a little too multifaceted to be believed when irony strikes (he's real juvie material, see, but he's also a trig whiz). In its effort not to be a John Hughes manipufest, it tries a little too hard. But it's a good try.

There's one scene that telegraphs too much how much Jerry is in for an all-day screwing, but the scene has to be in there to move things along. Our troubled protagonist tracks down a less threatening school bully and pays him off to be his muscle for the day (think Risky Business minus Tom Cruise meets My Bodyguard minus Matt Dillon). Since it happens midway through the movie, we know it's going to backfire; since it's made in the 1980s, we know it will contribute to a happy ending. The real bully beats up the hired bully. We understand this must happen but, as movie viewers who identify with Jerry Mitchell and not Buddy Revell, we're disappointed…it seemed like such a practical solution.

Since ESPN is holding the long overdue sequel to Mets-Cubs II hostage until six this evening (as an ESPYs appetizer, for cryin' out loud), I turned on the Yankees and White Sox hoping for some good news. I had been looking forward to the World Champions coming to the Bronx and beating the crap out of the Yankees, thereby saving us all. Finally, someone bigger and tougher was going to come to town and kick in the collective ass of the school bully who refuses to graduate to pennant race (and marketplace) irrelevance.

Instead the Yankees beat the crap out of the White Sox just like they would the Devil Rays. They completed a sweep them a few minutes ago. The halls of American League High simply aren't safe. Watch out Tigers, duck into your lockers Athletics, think twice before using the boys room Red Sox. If the the Guillen Gang can't take these dicks jerks out once and for all, can any of you?