When I first heard the cacophonous call for Daniel Snyder to change the name of his football team, I cringed. It felt like the sport we worshiped since childhood was under siege, crushed by the tide of groupthink.
For decades New Yorkers have formed a Gregorian chant in praise of Madison Square Garden, the “Mecca of Basketball.” Its history is ample, evident, and endless. What history are we talking about?
Now the Giants, who keep belching these bromides about a playoff run, need to shut up. Win one game and then speak mildly, meekly and modestly.
I don’t know whether Jets fans are psychic, psychotic, or schizophrenic.
The New York Yankees are America’s team. Or are they? The Evil Empire just doesn’t feel so daunting anymore, winning just one title since the last year of the ’90s dynasty.
Saddled with the twin burdens of bulging expectations and a newfound frugality, Hal Steinbrenner is at a crossroads. His next few moves could decide the next decade for the New York Yankees.
Aloof. Soft. Selfish. Those adjectives stuck like skin tags to Geno Smith. Boy, do a lot of people look foolish right now.
Ignoring the ignorant cackling from Twitter trolls, and other anonymous hacks sniping from the comfort of their cubicles or hiding behind handles in grandma’s basement, it’s obvious the Giants aren’t anemic under center or the headset.
You laugh now, but there was a time, very recently, when it was a debate. There was a time, when we thought the kid had commandeered the throne. There was a time when, when we thought it was the dawn of one empire, and the dusk of another.
The Yanks could be in rare, rebuild mode. The Mets lost Harvey long after they lost their season. The Giants are a staggering 0-4. The Jets are returning to their forlorn form. The Knicks aren’t even the best team in the five boroughs. God help us.
Forget the slideshows and sideshows, who threw coffee on whom, or how this circus is ultimately adjudicated. The only reason this story exists is because at some point in his life Alex Rodriguez decided that being blessed with a singular gift to play baseball wasn’t enough.
Now, one major thread in that curtain is gone. L.C. Greenwood, he of the height and heft and six Pro Bowls and four rings, as central to the dynasty as anyone not named Joe Greene or Jack Lambert, died of natural causes.
It turns out Robinson Cano isn’t the only one who is willing to show a little leg to the enemy. The twin mating rituals of the two most important free agents the Yankees need to address this offseason includes someone who won’t throw, catch or hit a baseball in 2014.
I had just come from the clubhouse, along with a throng of reporters, swarming and barking at him like hyenas. Everyone wants to be like him. Everyone wants to be him. Everyone wants a piece of his peace.
Cano’s got a savant’s swing, dancer’s feet, and a pitcher’s arm. He plays a game for a living and is living large. His game is pristine and his personality is perfect for New York City. And the Yankees need to say goodbye.