It's Gone to Our Head

It's been a banner week for the Pontiff of Picks. Saturdays have become a Holy Day of Obligation for those wishing to save their immoral, er immortal, souls. We stored up treasures in heaven worth 1,950 cherubim in our last outing, bringing our season-to-date total to plus 3,590, for enertainment purposes only.

Herewith are our pre-Halloween choices. Don't be scared, but we are doubling down this Saturday. If we fail, remember us on All-Saints Day.

Let's put 1,000 supplications each on:

Stanford -7 1/2 over USC (The Trees are perfect against the spread so far)

Northwestern -9 over Indiana (Hapless Hoosiers will be "Persa"cuted by Purple pumas)

Fordham +30 over Army (The Rams will recall Lombardi and the seven blocks of granite as the officers-to-be will lose the ball six times in the rain and snow expected on the Hudson)

Navy +21 1/2 over Notre Dame (The PT 73 runs circles around punchless Binghamtons of South Bend)

And 2,000 on our Lock of the Week:
Over/Under
Arkansas vs. Vanderbilt over 51 1/2 (Vandy routed Mississippi and will score 24 against porous pigs; predicted final Arkansas wins 35-24).

One last note, our World Series pick came to fruition. Recall, we went with St. Louis at 15 to 1 before the playoffs, netting 1,500 horsehides and closing our baseball season at plus 3,900.

Banjo Concert

Cue the tympani. The regular baseball season came to a crashing crescendo night before last. The symphony played in parks under the stars soared to a final note almost simultaneously. No sooner had Carl Crawford failed to snag a sinking line drive in Baltimore than Evan Longoria launched a game-winning shot in Tampa Bay.

Have Boston fans started grumbling that Yankees manager Joe Girardi doomed their wicked awesome team by not inserting savior Mariano Rivera on the hill? If so, they haven’t read the script. The put-upon Sawks thought that their legacy of heartbreak had been repudiated in 2004. But no! The bloody ankles and tomahawk choppers join the 1951 Dodgers, the 1964 Phillies, the 1969 Cubs and the Metropolitans (pick a year) in the line of folding furniture that litters the baseball firmament like the empty collapsible chairs at the end of a wedding reception as the band is packing up to go.

What’s more remarkable is that even though our beloved St. Louie ball club managed to catch and surpass the lost continent of Atlantans, we identify more with the losers than the odds-beating winners. Just as we always felt sorry for the hare in Aesop’s fable. To have everything going for you and still come up short must mean there is more going on in the cosmos than simpletons like homo sapiens can fathom. The mills of the gods grind exceedingly slow but very fine.

How else to explain the heroics of light-hitting Dan Johnson. Why, the fellow doesn’t even qualify as wielding a banjo at the plate. Nevertheless, down to the last strike for the Rays, Johnson smote the spheroid out of the Trop to set up teammate Longoria’s long ball in extra innings.

How many extra innings and two-strike, two-out hits do we have left in our banjoes? All death is sudden, not just in the NFL.

Here’s our World Series pick: St. Louis vs. Detroit in a replay of 1968. Cardinals win it this time in seven games. For entertainment purposes only, 100 pujols on the Redbirds at 15 to 1.

Blow, Gabriel, Blow

West Coast beisbol dogs at home been bery bery good to us. Seattle’s win over Boston Saturday night fattened the calf by 1,350 units, bringing the calorie count back up to 3,650. We’ll stick with this theme tonight, putting 1,000 halos on the underdog cherubim of Anaheim at home over the Rangers of Arlington. For entertainment purposes only, blow, Gabriel, blow!

(more to come)

Compline

We are putting 1,000 units for entertainment purposes only on the home seadogs of Seattle tonight against cross-continent rivals, the berry bloomers of Boston. Our last outing cost us 500 units, lightening the ship’s bursar’s burden to 2,300. The seadogs pit reigning Cy Young Award winner Felix Hernandez against John a Beckett (can dogs rid themselves of this troublesome priest?).

(more to come).

Huns and Vandals at the Gate

Where is Pope Leo I when we need him? The sainted pontiff was able to persuade Attila the Hun not to sack Rome in 452 A.D. Would that he would appear at Wall and Broad Streets and stand athwart history yelling “Stop!” Alas, the Vandals sacked Rome a few years later anyway and the Dark Ages were well on their way.

On the first trading day following Standard & Poor’s downgrade of U.S. sovereign debt to AA+ from AAA, which would imply higher interest rates because Treasury paper was now deemed less secure by the S&P Pooh-Bahs, investors flocked to the tarnished instruments sending their already paltry yields still lower.

Perhaps cynical investors reasoned that any agency that had rated “toxic waste” mortgage securities Triple-A could hardly be trusted with assessing the creditworthiness of the world’s largest economy.

But that wasn’t the reason. The real driver is the economy, stupid, to borrow the Clinton campaign mantra. Equity prices have fallen precipitously and government debt prices have risen not because S&P pointed out the obvious. Granted, the move by the rating firm may have had a difficult to measure psychological effect, but the outlook for economic growth is so tenuous that the S&P action, as so often is the case in momentous moves in asset prices, was just an excuse to dump shares.

Buttressing the outlook for anemic growth was the sharp decline in oil prices. S&P didn’t downgrade West Texas Intermediate crude.

Making matters worse is that President Obama is no FDR much less Pope Leo. “I welcome their hatred,” Roosevelt said of the Tea Partiers of his day. Or take Leo’s tack with Attila: “Now we pray that thou, who hast conquered others, shouldst conquer thyself. The people have felt thy scourge; now as suppliants they would feel thy mercy.” We prefer the former. The latter would only encourage the Vandals to complete the rout of the New York Sack, er, Stock Exchange, that is.

Having sworn off the stock market, we note a big win in the sporting realm Saturday, when 500 units on the Scarlet Metacarpals paid 700 units to bring the kitty back to 3,000. Tonight we’ll go against the bloody ankles from Boston with 500 units on the host (ess)Twinkies, for entertainment purposes only.

Note well, we shall delve into the mysteries of the Canadian Football League later in the week, you hosers.

Job Growth Unleashed in Akron

Eldrick Woods returned to the ranks of the employed yesterday at the Bridgestone Invitational in Akron. So we know nonfarm payrolls added one in August.

In July, the beleaguered U.S. economy added 117,000 jobs, ahead of the 75,000 consensus but not enough to sate the demand from new entrants to the workplace, not to mention those that remain idle, which is 9.1% of us, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.

What’s more, the work week was unchanged, which bodes ill for third quarter gross domestic product, and growth in hourly earnings is lagging behind inflation, which spells trouble for increases in consumption, the key component of GDP.

We would call the labor outcome a bogey, when a birdie is needed to move up the leaderboard. Take note, Mr. Woods. The caddy you dumped last month is now carrying the bag of the first-round leader. Hey, that makes two nonfarm jobs added to payrolls this month.

Our baseball picks have followed the stock market recently. The Bronx B-52s finished their carpet-bombing of the pasty panty hose, who remained colorless except for Guillen. That brings our imaginary pile to 2,800 units. For entertainment purposes only, we’ll put 500 units on the favored hemoglobin hose of Boston and Jon Lester over the visiting poker-playing pinstripers and Bartolo Colon of New York.

National League

On the sporting front, the O’s came through last night, grounding the Bombers and increasing our fistful by 1,000 to 3,800 units. For entertainment purposes only, we are putting 500 to work tonight on another heavy underdog, the Bucs of western Pennsylvania who are weighing anchor to battle pitching-rich Philadelphia. Pittsburgh, however, has a hot James McDonald on the mound to counter a struggling Cliff Lee. At +220, Pirates are clearly undervalued in this tilt.

(More to come).

On Ye Huskies!

After adding 1,300 units with KC’s win over Bos yesterday, bringing the total in the vault to 2,800, we look for the Orioles to Baltimore chop the pinstripers. We’ll invest 500 units, for entertainment purposes only, in the O’s.

Can’t get off the dog sled yet. Mush, Mush!

One can hear the same exhortation emanating from the lips of business, labor and politicians – that is, just about everybody – after the release of anemic second quarter gross domestic product data and a sharp downward revision to first-quarter growth. The chances of tipping over into a double-dip recession have gone up

We have to admit we are surprised at the sluggishness. We guessed, incorrectly, that monetary and fiscal stimulus would have worked its magic and that the Federal Reserve Board would be tightening the money spigots by now to head off inflation.

But, alas, it appears the Fed has been “pushing on a string,” as businesses hoard cash and consumers refuse to spend (personal consumption increased just 0.1% on a seasonally adjusted annualized basis from the first quarter; meanwhile, inventories rose 0.18%, down sharply from the first quarter, but still ahead of consumption).

The all but certain curtailment of government spending tied to the debt ceiling bills couldn’t come at a worse time. The stock market is headed for its worst week in a year and jobs look to remain scarce.

We wonder what the Vegas odds are for another recession in the second half or in 2012? We might not want to speculate on this dog.

The De-Tanning of America

This sporting life brought us recently to the banks of a somnolent tributary of the mighty Mississippi. The evening was drowsy with lingering heat, but the young Texas Leaguers in a ballpark named for Yankees great Bill Dickey and the local investment banking legend seemed quite alert, though unaware they were about to engage in nine innings of cat and mouse that probably has never happened before in organized professional baseball.

You can look it up.

At least, we are reasonably sure it was a first – a game in which a no-hitter was hurled by the combined efforts of two Northwest Arkansas Naturals pitchers, who were bailed out of trouble by an around-the-horn triple play. A scorching ground ball to the hot corner after two walks, the latter a 12-pitch duel that put runners at first and second, started the fun at Dickey-Stephens Park.

The Arkansas Travelers, the singular of which was the creation of an antebellum troubadour, found no way out of the wilderness of futility, just as the itinerant woodsman of lore was baffled by the fiddler who wouldn’t mend his cabin roof and let the rain pour in.

We enjoy the same bafflement in the standoff in Washington (first in war, first in peace and last in the trust of its countrymen) over the debt ceiling increase.

As unprecedented as a combined no-hitter with a triple play, House Speaker John Boehner has lost his perpetual bronze glow, no doubt from hours better spent on the golf course wrangling with Democrats and the renegade Republican rump known as the Tea Party. What an air-conditioned mess! For a man to lose his tan because he’s inside conference rooms fencing with Obama and GOP cultists is simply outrageous.

Be that as it may, we trust all will not turn out well. Though an agreement would prevent financial market Armageddon, it won’t alter the cruel facts on the ground. Unemployment will remain stubbornly high. The government reported a disappointing drop in durable goods orders in June, and the Fed’s “Beige Book” report on conditions in the 12 reserve bank districts points to slowing economic growth.

We, however, are on a roll, having booked 1,500 units by taking Seattle over New York yesterday. We expect no triple plays, much less a no-hitter today in Boston, where the Kansas City blue bloods will face the bloody ankles and Beckett soon. KC will not be waiting for Godot, though, as Vladimir and Estragon did in Samuel Beckett’s absurdist play. Rather, the visiting dogs merit an investment of 500 units from yesterday’s win.
Woof, Woof!

Pick and Choose

The higher power has no power. He is strangely absent from the course of human events. Holy Cow! Perhaps He created us and left us to our own devices, including nuclear power plants, the Declaration of Independence and the National Football League lockout. Not to mention the rise of multi-cellular organisms with the capacity to organize games that defy logic. Why were Colorado, St. Mary’s and Virginia Tech left out of The Dance?

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we ask you what hath God wrought?

But this is all palaver. Baseball is a mere two weeks-plus away, and shorts, golf shirts and no socks are on the horizon.

Our picks are chalk, as they say. Philadelphia from the senior circuit and the New England Patriots, oops, we mean the Beantown bloody ankles from the designated hitter heretic league will appear in the fall classic. Expect Phillies winning it all but winning under 97 games in the regular season. Our beloved Redbirds are doomed without 20-game winner Adam Wainwright. It has been our experience that the team with the better players wins. Jeff Capel, the fired coach of the Crimson and Cream, had Blake Griffin and rode this horse to the elite eight just two years ago.

But meanwhile we have young men in baggy shorts putting us into full March Madness Mode. We are going full unchalk in this one. We see San Diego State defeating Florida in the final. This is a lock, so get in while you can. For entertainment purposes only.

Sports, as they are meant to do, distract us from life as it is. Few of us will hit the three-pointer at the buzzer, or the home run in the bottom of the ninth. Fewer of us will encounter the decision to save the elderly and endanger our own lives. But some do. In this sporting life, we face dilemmas greater than point spreads and over-unders.

By the way, take Gonzaga over St. John’s, hold onto Ford Motor Co., love thy neighbor and don’t practice putting.

Brooks and Brooklyns too Broad for Leaping

The world grows tiresome, yet rejuvenated. Young people texting while walking into traffic are a pestilence, but nevertheless endearing as they bustle about in their skinny and baggy jeans. One of them will be the POTUS someday, even if he or she can’t tell you what speech “four score and seven years” came from.

This is the reason we have children. Hope is always abundant with the young prancing, romancing and advancing among us. See! They’ve even made us a rapper. Do they still call it that?

The decline in athletic skills is a melancholy spectacle. Johnny Unitas at San Diego, Willie Mays at New York, Joe Namath at Los Angeles. They stayed too long at the fair.

Even Duke Snider, correct us if we’re wrong, the leader in home runs and RBIs in the 1950’s, attempted to prolong his career after he left the Dodgers. One of the “Boys of Summer” in Roger Kahn’s sparkling phrase, died yesterday. To Brooklynites of a certain age, among whom we count the southern hillbillies like us who have adopted the borough, the passing of Snider tears another page from the book of this sporting life. Will the next POTUS be able to name the center fielder of the Dodgers in their glory years of domination of the National League?
Never mind. They have Pujols, Cabrera, Crawford, Mauer to hold on to. We refer them, however, to A.E. Housman:

WITH rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.

The Toy Department

The game played between the lines is often ruled by the one between the ears.

Maybe Brooks Conrad, the Atlanta Braves’ second baseman who committed three errors night before last -- the final one a fatal scoot through the pet-door of two legs -- summoned his inner Bill Buckner, allowing the Giants by the bay to score the winning run. Keep the glove on the ground and the butt low, son, then let it hit you in the chest if it bounces up.

We are all doomed in the end, but it’s different being doomed in this sporting life. Conrad, who could have written “Lord Jim,” (which another Conrad did) had to sit and watch the Turner tomahawks fall limp yesterday. His only choice is to vanish to a fishing village in Mexico, if not as a vagabond in the Pacific or a ranch hand on Buckner’s Montana spread. Or to soldier on, and say “Oh well.”

We know how he feels. In our dotage, mistakes loom large. We are continuously amazed by the ability of our brethren homo sapiens to shake it off and move on. See Bill Clinton and Eliot Spitzer, the blue dress and black socks. But those are of a different ilk than Mr. Conrad’s, whose only sin was to fail in something as unimportant as a sporting event – the toy department as we used to call it in the newspaper trade.

When the stage is small, one can slink off to his or her lonely room, fire up a Marlboro and browse through Golf Digest while Turner (he of the tomahawks) Classic Movies plays “The Public Enemy” late at night. One can while away the sleepless hours improving his or her James Cagney or Joan Blondell impersonation.

Falling asleep with the television screen flickering, we dream of a wayback machine in which Mr. Peabody and Sherman intervene in history and set things aright, saving us from ignominy and regrets.

Hold your head high, Mr. Conrad. You’re not going to miss any meals, though you might need to find another profession. Failure on the field of athletic endeavor is the key to victory – for the other side. Those of us on the smaller stage of softball in the park, the municipal tennis court and the local golf course know this and keep our day jobs. Keep ‘em if you got‘em.

The October sun appears ready to grace us with another day in shorts and golf shirts. Got to work on keeping the glove on the ground and the rear end down. Practicing putting is strictly forbidden.

A Whale of a Tale

Call me Ishmael, but first let me wipe this whale blubber off my face. Little bit of egg on there as well.

“But tell us, Mr. Know It All, how did this marine mammalian insulation come to smear your impressive profile? You usually don’t go in for gel. And you take your eggs scrambled with mustard.”

Well, it happened like this. I was reading War and Peace and a college football game appeared on the flat screen on the forecastle. The ‘Canes of South Beach were taking on the large black cats of Allegheny County. My shipmates and I, harpoons in hand and espying a particularly juicy target, sprang like, well , panthers on a sure kill.

What unfolded was sheer horror. The great green and orange beast seemed under our control. We intercepted his leaps with barbs that seemed to take the starch out of him, but we were shortly drawn into a great squall that upended us into the drink and allowed the son of a gun to break free.

The curses were loud as we shook the brine off our bell bottoms and scrambled back on board to update the Excel spreadsheet. We were doomed, doomed, I say!

Yet hope springs eternal. We stumbled back to port, taking a more docile animal on the way to feed the lamps of New England and thus blubber all over me, which gave a handsome sheen to our pate. We set our eyes on the next voyage, however. This one will be overland to the Lone Star state. Will the TCU lizards of Fort Worth escape the SMU wild horse hooves of Dallas by more than 17? We are torn.

Only time will tell, as the comely TV correspondents tell us. Will call Liz Cho, Diane Sawyer and Katie Couric for advice. Got ‘em on my speed dial.

Meanwhile, Ichiro Suzuki must reveal his secrets for the betterment of mankind and aspiring whalers everywhere.

Advice from a Know-it-All

Top picks this week:

Thank heaven for little girls. We have one who makes the sun rise.

Arkansas’ wild pigs (+7) will cover against Alabama’s lumbering elephants.

You know what? Slap us if we say “you know what?” again.

Re-read “The Great Gatsby.” We guarantee you’ll find something new.

Ring Lardner’s “Alibi Ike.”

DO NOT practice putting. You’ll use up all the good ones.

Respect the animal kingdom when choosing, for entertainment purposes only, football teams. We find that Homo sapiens mascots generally prevail over lower mammals.

Homo sapiens vs. Homo sapiens is tougher. See Michigan State Spartans vs. Notre Dame Fighting Irish last week. The artful Aegean pulled a Mediterranean fast one on the discombobulated domer of Our Lady du Lac.

September in New York. Who has it better than us? You can still wear shorts and perspiration is but a memory.

Girardi to Cubs. Randolph to Mets. Torre to Cardinals. OK, it’s a stretch, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Heard it on the radio.

Coolest Beatles’ song: “P.S. I Love You.” No, wait, it’s “I’m a Loser.” Hold on, it’s “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl.” What about, “And Your Bird Can Sing”?

Best new band: “New Grass Country Club.” Join the club!

Might as well face it, you’re addicted to love (Got a soft spot for Robert Palmer and his lipsticked gals).

Spectrum Analysis

I don’t wish that I had Jesse’s girl. I wish I had the Philadelphia Eagles’ Michael Vick’s legs. The son of a gun can still gallop like a Labrador, with memories of dangling pit bulls dancing in his head. Got to hand it to him. He’ll start next week. Andy Reid knew what he was doing when he hired the guy.

And forget about the blind side, Alex Barron, the right tackle for America’s team, all but strangles a defender and ends the game as time expires, nullifying a seemingly winning touchdown pass and enriching those of us who took the Redskins for entertainment purposes only.

Which brings us to a new thesis – the color kingdom. Taking the color of passion – red – seems to work. You’ve given roses to your significant other to express your undying love. The football REDskins of the NFL and the REDbirds of the senior circuit of the MLB worked in tandem last night, for entertainment purposes only. Why don’t they walk Pujols whenever he shows up in the batter’s box?

Greens and blues are out. From now on, we are taking Boston and St. Louis of the MLB, San Francisco, Arizona, and Kansas City of the NFL , OU, Nebraska, Stanford of the scholar athlete football league (can’t take Ohio State – scarlet isn’t red). Jets and Giants are cast into the darkness, unless they make it to the Super Bowl and a decision must be made.

Am I abandoning the animal kingdom? But no! From out of nowhere comes the Canadian Football league, which features 12 men, numerous moving parts and ways to score. Keep an eye on these hosers.

In other words, life is random and we must have a code to live by and not be deterred by the girl who throws us over or the putt that goes awry. After all, Dustin Johnson won the BMW Championship yesterday after losing the PGA Championship by grounding his club in a bunker that he didn’t know was a bunker.

Wear crimson and cream on Saturday and flee the stock market. Y'all are doomed except for those who accept the color kingdom.

Carry a Big Stick

We all must part or join at some point, through the vicissitudes of time or the mistakes that estrange us from one another. King James leaves Cleveland for Bosh and Wade in South Beach, home of the family friendly hotels across the street from the all-night clubs. Cliff Lee goes from Seattle to pitch in Texas, where he will wilt in the southwestern sun. The Cubbies can’t score a run against the eephus-pitching Vicente Padilla of the LA Dodgers, costing us a big payday (for entertainment purposes only).

Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.

Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?

The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.

Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?

The One That Got Away

While working on our tan the other day, braving the risks of melanoma but capturing Vitamin D in copious amounts, we thought about the benefit/reward of relying on the solar system that God created and the number of perfect putts He has granted us.

Our laps around the star that lights our world, as a friend of ours puts it, is limited, but lap we must, and sometimes we gallop. Mr. Posada, who returned behind the plate for the Highlanders yesterday, stroked a grand slam homerun for the second day in a row. Has he used them up?

Mr. Bryant of the Land of 1,000 Lakes in subtropical Los Angeles scores 38 points in a losing effort against the Pierces and Rondos of the New England Westies. What does a guy have to do? Take another lap.

Ted Lilly of the baby bears and Gavin Floyd of the pale hose each flirted with no-hitters late into the Midwestern afternoon, but while flirting is fun, it leaves us misting up for the one that got away when our song is played. Harvey Haddix, he of the perfect game for 12 innings before losing, must wish for one more lap.

Mr. Green, the goalkeeper of the sceptered isle in the World Cup football matches, has earned the scorn of tabloid journalists in his native land for his butterfingers when Mr. Dempsey from the pines of east Texas slithered a round ball into the net. Mr. Green, meet Bill Buckner.

Mr. Strasburg of the Nationals baseball club was pulled after 5 1/3 innings, strikeouts galore with walks as well, but 100 mph cannot be denied. Kerry Wood can relate.

As the Kinks sang, “The World Keeps Turning ‘round.”

Perfection

In Prospect Park a few weeks ago, a young man in blue called the batter out after a foul ball hit the top of the backstop and popped into the catcher’s mitt. Which brings to mind that only catchers and first basemen have mitts. The other seven have gloves. We wince when parents say “Have you got your mitt?” to their young outfielders when they leave for their suppers in Park Slope.

After the evening contest, the young man making a few bucks adjudicating a young ladies’ softball game admitted he was wrong but couldn’t change the outcome. We patted the fellow on the back and thanked him for his effort, and he went home to Mom and his supper in Bensonhurst.

But it was Bloomsday 14 days early for James Joyce of the American League. Not the author of “Ulysses” and “Finnegan’s Wake.” Just a humble man in blue who will carry a much greater burden than a chest protector, mask and shin guards when he takes his turn behind the plate. We doubt if he had supper last night.

Mr. Joyce, umpiring at first base, will forever be linked with Detroit’s Armando Galarraga as the man who called the 27th man safe after replays showed Mr. Galarraga, covering first, clearly gloved the spheroid and tapped the bag before the batsman reached first. Mr. Galarraga’s pitching perfection marred by a moment’s imperfection.

The greatest invention of the 20th century was air conditioning. The greatest of the 21st will be a time machine. How many of us long for such a device to undo the missteps of the past? To redeem the sins of yesterday is the greatest wish of a great swath of Homo sapiens, who nevertheless march ahead, knowing that the time machine will only go forward.

We think Mr. Joyce knows this. He joins the rest of us.

World Series Diary III: Scaredy Cat

Fear is a valuable but debilitating emotion. It is one thing to fear God and the tornado tearing across the prairie toward your ramshackle farmhouse, rightfully causing you and Auntie Em to run for the root cellar. It’s another to fear failure and thus invite it. How many putts has Kev left woefully short for fear of sending the Titleist down a sloped green to the rough on the other side?

After a camera carom and a flair for the flare handed New York the game the day before, the fireman- turned-arsonist Brad Lidge helped the pinstripers to the brink of a 27th World Series triumph. Eschewing his best pitch, the slider, scared that a wild pitch could plate the go-ahead run, the Phillies’ Lidge served up a two-out fastball to Alex Rodriguez, who stroked the winning hit in the ninth inning yesterday. Might as well have hit him in the ribs again and fired up your team with -- what? A bench-clearing brawl, of course.

It’s bracing how this sporting life teaches us, even as we age ungracefully, that knee-knocking moments, like fatigue, make cowards of us all. Except for Johnny Damon, who used to look more like the Nazarene than Derek Jeter. After a nine-pitch battle, He singled and then promptly walked on water, stealing second and going on to third, taking advantage of an unguarded third base caused by the shifted infield.

Now the Philadelphia team rests its hopes on James Bond, alias Cliff Lee, who was a work of art in the first game. Fellow Arkansan A.J. Burnett goes for the empire on three days’ rest. Expect no parade on lower Broadway yet. Another game will be played in the Bronx.

Meanwhile, Kev loves to putt. Think I’ll roll a few on the carpet right now.

World Series Diary II: The Empire Strikes Back

What must it feel like to see the empire’s Mariano Rivera jogging to the mound when you’re down a couple of runs? Though we are not privy to the inner monologue of Philadelphia’s hitters, it would surely be screaming: “We’re doomed! Doomed, I say”!

Yes they were. Mr. Rivera overshadows all, much like an eclipse of the sun sends the tribesmen of aboriginal civilizations scurrying away from the boiling pot holding the leader of a safari who stumbled onto sacred ground. The hi-def screens at Yankee Stadium should read “Abandon Hope, all ye who enter here” when Mr. Rivera stands 60-feet, 6-inches from the hexagonal plate we fondly call home.

He should be the MVP every year. The exception that proves the rule, of course, is the seventh game of the 2001 World Series, but that was against a drawn-in infield. In this case, a six-out save seemed all but predestined. Rivera is Calvinism personified. Since God has already determined who is to be saved, it matters not a whit what one does on the diamond to achieve it.

A.J. Burnett left his evil twin in the clubhouse, allowing only one run and Mr. Rivera to summon the gods to push the moon between the sun and the earth and scare the Phillies into submission.

Pedro , for his part, made two mistakes, but “for want of a nail” on the hoof of a horse a battle is lost.

We must question, however, Charlie Manuel not sending the runners in the eighth inning with one out on a 3-2 count, as the redoubtable Tim McCarver pointed out. Still, blue’s call was wrong. There was no double play. Utley was safe, but life is not fair, something we are impressed with every day.

The cure for the senior circuit representatives? They must resume swatting the ball out of the confines to retain their championship. The series, as this sporting life, will not be won by small ball.