Questionable: Owens (hand, overdose)

Ten free minutes for me, 10 free sniveling whines for you . . .


1. So rather than being a desperate man's cry for help, it appears today's T.O. Suicide Watch was just one more melodramatic episode in the tragicomedy known as Terrell Owens's life. I trust there's more truth in his words than in the police report, especially since he was back at work and seemingly in good spirits yesterday. Still, I'm left with a couple of questions beyond the obvious one: What the hell was he thinking?: 1) During the day-long Very Special Sports Center, why wouldn't it have been appropriate if NFL expert and Friend of T.O. Michael Irvin was referred to as a "crack reporter"? 2) When T.O.'s inept publicist made reference to "a man of his statue," that was some sort of obtuse reference to Drew Bledsoe, right? 3) Do you think Bill Parcells ever thinks to himself, "Tuna, why can't The Player just grow the hell up and be responsible for himself? Man, how much easier would this job be if only Terrell could be more like Terry Glenn."

2. You know I've been counting down the innings until Jerry Trupiano is WAY BACK . . . WAY BACK . . . GONE!, but after 13 years with Red Sox, the man deserves better than finding out that his contract won't be renewed by the sludge-stirrers at the Inside Freakin' Track. And if Glenn Geffner is his replacement . . . well, let's just say I'm skeptical. With his P.R./House Organ background, I'm wondering if he'll spend more time pushing Red Sox Nation Membership cards then telling us what's happening on the field. I want Trupe gone . . . but it shouldn't be too much to ask to have him replaced by someone better.

3. I wonder if any of the teammates who were so heroic in questioning the severity of Matt Clement's injuries are the same ones who are ripping Manny under the cloak of anonymity. It's funny, whenever I see an unattributed quote from one teammate questioning another's toughness, I seem to recall Curt Schilling labeling Scott Williamson a ----- for not pitching through pain, only to look like a complete jackass when Williamson needed Tommy John surgery. You'd think they'd learn.


4. Things I never thought I'd write, Chapter 86, Vol. 1918: The Red Sox would have been better off signing Derek Lowe after the 2004 season than Pedro Martinez. D-Lowe has 16 wins, including a huge one last night that kept L.A. a game back in the NL West and a game up in the wild card. Lately, he's been an ace . . . something you haven't been able to say about Pedro for some time now. After last night's 2 2/3-inning, 7-run debacle, I'm beginning to fear the end is near for the best pitcher I've ever had the privilege of watching. That wasn't Pedro last night; that was John Burkett.

5. Do I think Tom Brady is injured? Let's put it this way: You're going to turn on the TV at 1:05 one of these Sundays only to be blindsided by the sight of Matt Cassel lining up over center. Brady looks frustrated, he has little zip and none of his customary touch on many of his throws, and the Pats are bringing in the likes of Vinny Testaverde and Tommy Maddox for clandestine workouts. You do the math.

6. Not that I'm jealous, but the Yankees batted future batting champion Robinson Cano ninth last night. He'd hit either third or fourth for the current skeleton-crew version of the Sox, depending upon Manny's health/whims that particular day. But the point is this: Theo has a long winter's worth of work to do if he intends on bringing down the Empire again anytime soon. The gap, since Oct. 2004, has widened, and not in the way we envisioned.

7. It's not officially football season in New England until Randall Gay is on injured reserve with what you were sure was a minor injury.

8. Alex Gonzalez wants a three-year deal? Thanks for all the Web Gems and good luck wherever the road may lead you, slick, but for that kind of commitment we're looking for a shortstop who can make all the plays and avoid those gruesome six-week stretches of being an automatic out. Whatever happened to that Cabrera cat, anyway?

9. It's no exaggeration to suggest that Albert Pujols saved the Cardinals' season last night. Which I suppose means Tony La Russa will cling for one more year to his fraudulent genius label rather than be remembered as the modern day Gene Mauch, overseer of one of the biggest gag jobs in baseball history. Bummer. Maybe Tony Big Brain will get his comeuppance next year.

10. As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


The Red Sox led the league in runs scored for the first three seasons of Papa Jack's reign, and now his job is supposedly in jeopardy after one hiccup of a lost season? I don't like it, and I don't think Papi will either. Can you say scapegoat?

Five years later

This was my first column for the Monitor in the days following 9/11. I'm not sure how well it holds up over time, but it captured my sentiments during the horrifying, heartbreaking aftermath, and I remain proud I wrote it. - CF

• • •

AMERICA'S TEAM

God, yes, I want the New York Yankees to win the World Series. How could any American not? The Yankees are America. They are capitalist, a melting pot and, in recent years, a monopoly. They are ordinary and extraordinary individuals who thrive as a team. They are arrogant and resilient and hated for their success. They are a superpower.

They are us.

No sports team is more symbolic of our nation than the Yankees. And it is sickeningly obvious that the terrorists who intended to blow our country apart had a sadistic eye for symbolism. They attacked our military center, the Pentagon. They targeted the White House. They wiped out the World Trade Center towers, the two tallest buildings in our tallest city.

It's a small miracle that the Statue of Liberty still stands. Or Yankee Stadium.

Normally, this would be grounds for treason, a Red Sox fan switching allegiances to the Yankees. But what's normal anymore? We are all numb, having wept through an impossibly sad and tragic time, one in which our games never seemed less important.

My television remote is usually locked on ESPN. It has scarcely visited there the past 10 days. The Bottom Line sports ticker was replaced by MSNBC's streaming news updates, Stuart Scott's smug self-reverence replaced with Tom Brokaw's gentle reassurance. And the scoreboard was replaced with a horrible new statistical category: the death toll.

So this is what it takes for a sports fan to gain perspective. Was it just a few weeks ago I was chiding friends for admitting they were rooting for Mike Mussina during his perfect game bid against the Red Sox? It all seems so ridiculous now, so trivial, so small. As a survivor of the bombings told ESPN.com columnist Bill Simmons: Oh, for the days when my greatest fear was Derek Lowe.

Of all the brilliant political cartoons in our newspapers in recent days, few touched me as deeply as this one. It pictured two kids sitting around a playground, swapping trading cards. One kid says to the other: I'll give you two Bonds and two Jordans for one New York firefighter.

The cartoon's message is obvious, painfully so. I'll never again refer to an athlete as a hero - or, for that matter, a villain. That's been the standard term for the Yankees around here, but no more. There are no real villains, not in sports, not by the frightening parameters that define the term now. Since the attack, so many so-called bad guys, many of whom I've skewered, have revealed themselves to be goodhearted, decent, compassionate men (the despicable Carl Everett being the obvious, oblivious exception.)

More than once I've mocked Jason Sehorn, called him camera-happy, a pretty boy. Last week, Sehorn led his New York Giants teammates on a shopping spree to buy supplies for the rescue workers at "Ground Zero." Keyshawn Johnson - you know, Me-shawn - was among the first of countless NFLers to donate a week's paycheck. George Steinbrenner, derided here as Georgie Porgie, has donated a million dollars and the Yankee Stadium tarp. Bobby Valentine and his Mets have opened their stadium and their hearts to any weary folks who want nothing more than rest and reassurance.

It may seem trite, claiming a Yankee championship would be of any relevance in these solemn hours. But then, I'm reminded of something we've heard again and again this week. Sometimes, sports transcend. The U.S. hockey team's "Miracle on Ice" in 1980 raised the spirits of a nation stuck in the doldrums. Jesse Owens's four gold medals in the '36 Olympics in Berlin upstaged Hitler on his home turf.

The Yankees can transcend, too. They are a part of our fabric, certainly of New York's fabric. You can't turn on the television without seeing someone shedding a tear while holding a picture of a missing loved one. Usually, one or the other is wearing a Yankees cap. Sometimes, both.

The day will come when every plane in the sky no longer draws a wary second glance, when every song's lyrics no longer seem more poignant than you remember. The day will come when the tangle is gone from our throats, the ache from our hearts and the sorrow from our eyes.

The day will come when we're again cheering the Red Sox and jeering the Yankees. Oh, how I look forward to that day.
But right now, there are no rivalries. The only team that matters not only wears stripes, it is representing them.

So I want to see a parade down New York's Canyon of Heroes, what's left of it. I want to see firefighters and policemen and ordinary, extraordinary New York citizens cheering and saluting Roger and Derek and Bernie and Tino, and I damn sure want to see them cheering and saluting back.

I want the Yankees to say, in that symbolic language those terrorists understand, that we are as strong as ever. I want the Yankees to transcend.

God, yes, I want a Yankee victory.

Because a Yankee - an American - is what I am.