Let us kindly offer those New Yorks a firm tushy slapping!

For Rooters of the Bostons, venturing into the Bronx in the recent decade has been an exercise in girding ones constitution and preparing for a heaping helping of downtown fisticuffs. We're talking square-legged, arms spinning, clothes rending fisticuffs, like the bare-knuckled brawling Rooters so often would see outside of Rosie's Portland Tavern after a clutch of patrons had imbibed more than his or her alloted share of Duffy's old brown medicine.

This year's trip, however, has a rare feeling. Where is the bluster and swagger of the Blue Pinstriped Youth of the Bronx? Where are the ripe words of Boston's finest scribes? Where is the general kerfuffle of a weekend feature red versus blue, Boston versus New York, good versus crummy?

Nowhere, friends, and that's what bothers ol' Hurdy Bird. For while the once-potent New Yorks may be shrinking in the looking glass, they still possess the power to upset the Bostons' 162-game marathon with a few choice swats of the ash. I, for one, would like nothing more than to see those Bostons steamroll into the soon-to-be-former Yankee Stadium of New York and apply their collective hands to the ample tuchus of the Steinbrenner-led Goliaths of base-ball.

For while ash on horsehide will be sweet, nothing is sweeter than the red handprint of the Bostons on a Bronx heinie! Let fly, boys!