For those of you who might be unfamiliar with the fellow whose likeness has replaced Rickey’s for the weekend, here’s a brief introduction to this charming gentleman, courtesy of J.D. Smith:
David Hirshey, a now ex-sportswriter for the New York Daily News, tells about his departure, as recounted by Alan Richman in "The Death of Sportswriting": Hirshey had heard that Reggie Jackson of the NY Yankees fantasized about harmonizing with the O Jays and decided it was worth a column. "I walked up to him at his locker, and asked, 'Reggie, I know you can carry a team. Can you carry a tune?' He was facing me. He turned around lifted a leg, farted, and said, 'How's this tune?' It was shortly thereafter that I left sportswriting."In Reggie’s defense, that was a seriously terrible question for a sportswriter to ask. And now a few words from our proud pinstriped paterfamilias. Your mouthpiece for all things Yankee-related. Take it away, Reggie:
Hey there Yankee fans, Reggie here. Reggie Tittyfucking Jackson. I don’t know much about the uptight clown who’s been writing this blog for the last two years, but let’s get one thing straight: I don’t like big words. I don’t like words at all. You won’t see me using words like “monumental” or “equivocate.” Fuck, no. I’d rather just use my mind to lift heavy objects and toss them at Yogi Berra. Holy fuck I hate Yogi Berra.
By the way, you blogging weasels should be glad that the internet didn’t exist when I was in my prime. If it did, you’d be blogging about my antics 24/7 like they were the goddamned Tet Offensive.
Now, I’ve been called in to clear up a few errors that people make when talking about the Yankees. Things that you Yanks fans need to know about me and the Yankee Tradition. The first lie that the newspapers love to tell is that George Steinbrenner is a mean and tough guy to work for. Complete horseshit. When George was being investigated on those bogus campaign contribution charges, I went to him to comfort him. It was at that moment he told me that he’d always wanted to be a farmer. A farmer in the 18th Century who owned a cotton plantation with several thousand indentured servants who did his bidding. God bless that kind man.
Also, if anyone has seen George Steinbrenner lately, please let me know. Seriously, he’s been missing for 8 days now. His family is… well, I wouldn’t say they’re concerned, but Hank does seem to be bumping into walls a lot more than usual. Somebody said that George wandered into right field and disappeared like that “Field of Dreams” movie, but I had no idea what they were talking about because I only watch movies about the Yankees winning or Rommel in the desert. Rommel you magnificent bastard--you deserved to win that war.
The second flat out lie about me is that I dislike Jews. Again, complete garbage. I have no problems with the Hebrew people. Wait, what’s that? The author of this blog is a Jew? Holy shit I hate Jews. I bet he’s one of those fake-ass half Jews, you know the kind that just pretends to be Jewish so he can get away with making bad Jew jokes. Pop quiz: whats the difference between a Jew and a canoe? A canoe tips.
People love to gossip about how “hot-headed” I am. Bullshit. Let’s get this straight: I’m a totally respectful and polite man. Until you cross me. Like that one time when Yogi Berra tried to tell me how to swing against lefty pitchers and I threw him out of the team bus while it was traveling to Boston. That wrinkly old prick has never walked right since. Don't believe a word that fucker says about me. That man is a total liar. One time I caught him calling the traffic and weather radio station and reporting traffic jams that hadn't happened. Who does that shit? Yogi fucking Berra, that's who.
History books have gotten Billy Martin all wrong. The guy wasn’t a drunk or a mean spirited man. Let me tell you, Billy Martin was a prince and a gentleman. One time, on a long road trip in Oakland, I was feeling sick and Billy stayed up with me all night, cradling me in his arms and nursing me back to health with a bottle of his sweet sweet whiskey laced breast milk. Let's see that know nothing punk Joe Girardi do something like that.
The most annoying rumor of all is that I am a primadonna who doesn’t care about his fans. Total crap. Look, I was in an elevator a few years ago and a kid asked me for my autograph. I ignored him and told him I was going to the fifth floor and to push the button. Pushing the elevator button for that kid was a special enough moment for him. I’ll bet that little shit still shares that story with his whole family of shits every Thanksgiving. So no, stories about me being a bastard are totally untrue.
It is true that all Yankee players are required to keep their hair a certain length. But did you also know that George Steinbrenner keeps these hair clippings in a large bag in his office for talismanic purposes? True story. One night, I snuck into his office to take a peek. I found the bag of hair, opened it, and inhaled deeply. The grease of Randy Johnson’s mullet, Thurman Munson’s mustache, and Don Mattingly’s thick sideburns blended together into a powerful aroma. It smelled of the No. 4 Subway, of 26 World Series rings, of old hot dog water. It smelled like…. victory.
I’m pretty sure that Yogi Berra is the Son of Sam killer.
I will say this much, after that Babington Plot mess, I’m no longer allowed to set foot in England. Shit, I can’t even be in the same town when the QE2 comes into port. Fucking limeys.