Jay Mariotti Mlb

NEW YORK -- He has found peace to purge his demons, love when all he had was Madonna and madams and, most importantly, truth when his past was so fake and sleazy. No matter what we once thought of Alex Rodriguez, it's difficult to hold a grudge when he has achieved joy and reward the right way. In fact, allow me to propose the ultimate happy ending, something unimaginable only a few months ago but perhaps attainable if he continues to be a model citizen, a fine teammate, a grounded human being and the greatest ballplayer alive.

That would be a place in Cooperstown, home of the Baseball Hall of Fame.

---

---

NEW YORK -- There is something arrogantly American about it, I know. The $210-million Yankees have won a World Series amid a destructive recession, doing it for Boss George Steinbrenner in the first season of their $1.5-billion edifice of excess, where a $275-million lightning rod just happened to overcome a steroids crisis and finally deliver the postseason we've long demanded. None of those elements are universally endearing to the masses, yet all converged on a festive, rocking November night when Championship No. 27 wasn't welcomed by the pinstripe haters as much as force-fed into them like skunk oil.

Look, President Obama might say, "This is corporate America at its bloated, ignorant worst. The White Sox have a better business plan."

"We're supposed to win," said Yankees manager, Joe Girardi. "We know that every day we come to work."

---

---

PHILADELPHIA -- This is where they booed Santa Claus but gave a standing ovation to a dog killer named Michael Vick. This is where they taunted Mike Schmidt, maybe the best third baseman ever. This is where Donovan McNabb is viewed as an emotional dishrag, where MIchael Irvin was cheered when he lay motionless on the field, where I saw a woman in an UTLEY jersey tell a guy to "stop being a (p----)," where men are men unless someone wonders otherwise, which means your life is screwed.

It is in this Yuengling-and-cheesesteak culture that Cole Hamels, a California pretty boy not blessed with the Bruno/Rocco/Angelo first name like many Philly tough guys, decided to commit parochial suicide. Shelled again in Game 3 of the World Series, he emotionally unraveled afterward, suggesting very strongly that he wanted his season to end right then and there. In any town, such an acknowledgment would be viewed as a breach of cowardice. In Philly, where the home team trailed only 2-1 at the time, Hamels is being called a sulker, quitter, crybaby, wimp and (p----) of the worst ilk.

---

---

PHILADELPHIA -- They have nothing in common but history. Chase Utley is a southern California dude with gel in his hair who speaks in cliches and has all the pizzazz of a resin bag. Reggie Jackson was the portrait of flamboyance, the straw that stirred the drink, the problem child who jarred the equilibrium. But today, they are joined in baseball lore by the five home runs each hit in a single World Series, with Utley's latest two shots propelling the Phillies to an 8-6 victory in Game 5 and renewed life for a repeat title.

"It's pretty cool. It's pretty surreal," Utley said with typical nonchalance. "I'm glad we got the win. It was a do-or-die game."

NEW YORK -- He didn't want to relinquish the ball, not with the fans ready to bombard him, not when they were preparing a final triumphant round of "Who's Your Daddy!" chants. But it was time for Pedro Martinez to depart nonetheless, perhaps forever from a stage that is 110 streets north of midtown Manhattan but always has felt like pure Broadway every time he has performed there.

Thursday night at Yankee Stadium was no exception. Nicked by the home team for three runs in six-plus innings, on a night when the Phillies had few answers for the vicious breaking stuff of A.J. Burnett and a two-inning dose of Mariano Rivera, Martinez handed the ball to manager Charlie Manuel, absorbed the rude serenade as he left the mound, pointed to his father in the sky and then, as he neared the visitors' dugout, broke into a grin that had to make you laugh even if you were a Philadelphia fan sensing defeat.

---

---

NEW YORK -- Ever seen a crowd in this city so quiet, so wet, so stupefied? This was to have been the beginning of another pinstripe coronation, the first in a series of Win One For The Boss vignettes in the House That Ruthlessness Built. Instead, all the puffy hubris was silenced on a rainy, windy Wednesday night by Cliff Lee, who began the year in woeful Cleveland and may end it in a pitching pantheon.

It wouldn't be wise to dismiss the Phillies as unworthy of these Yankees and this World Series backdrop. With Lee outdueling his best pal in baseball, CC Sabathia, consider Game 1 a firm reminder that the Phillies are the defending champions and not the least bit intimidated by the mammoth city to the north, a Taj Mahal ballpark in the Bronx and the massive payroll and talent of the Yankees. We winced when Jimmy Rollins, the mouthy leadoff man, boosted Jay Leno's sickly ratings when he went on the show and forecast another Philadelphia championship. "Of course, we're going to win," he chirped. "If we're nice, we'll let it go six, but I'm thinking five -- close it out at home."

---

---

NEW YORK -- The lords of baseball don't realize it, probably because they're old and stubborn and semi-senile. But their showcase event, the World Series, never has seemed more irrelevant in American life. I say it even as the New York Yankees, a world-famous brand name with gaudy stars and Hollywood girlfriends, return for the first time in six years to play the defending champion Philadelphia Phillies in what should be a compelling matchup of monstrous talent and East Coast psychosis.

The problem? Look at the calendar, stupid. The Series is starting later than ever, on Oct. 28, and potentially could finish with a Game 7 in what very possibly would be a frigid, blustery Yankee Stadium on November the friggin' fi-fi-fi-fifth. That means the Boys of Summer are perilously close to becoming the Icecubes of Winter, which is not the smart way to determine a champion in a game of intellectual nuance and patient, incremental drama. Though so many of these postseason contests have been cool to watch, I've also found myself thinking at times, "Can we please finish all this?" instead of sitting back and enjoying the action.

NEW YORK -- On a pleasant, Doppler-free evening made for bare, brawny forearms, Alex Rodriguez continued his postseason awakening without even swinging a bat. This was in the fourth inning, when the Angels were unable to employ their desired intentional walk because the bases were loaded. So as 50,000 fans stood and shrieked and awaited magic in the new Stadium -- all except Kate Hudson, who sat like she was waiting for Matt Dillon in You, Me and Dupree -- A-Rod stepped in and sought a pitch to rip into the galaxy.

The fat one never came. Joe Saunders walked him, forcing in the Yankees' third run when it was apparent that the Angels wouldn't score more than that off two Doctor Octobers, Andy Pettitte and Mariano Rivera. All that awaited were the police to ring their field, and when they arrived nearly at the stroke of midnight, the Yankees were celebrating their 40th American League pennant and first World Series trip in six years, which in these parts is an eternity.

---

---

ANAHEIM, Calif. -- "This is mine! Come on, Scioscia! This is MINE!" John Lackey shouted at his manager on the mound, scowling at him, then inserting a spicy word or two. Mike Scioscia, long respected as one of the game's wisest tacticians, didn't agree with his pitcher's assessment. He asked for the baseball and told Lackey to leave, even though he owned a 4-0 lead over the Yankees, had just retired the second out of the seventh inning, was burned on a ball-strike call to Jorge Posada -- now there's a shock, more bad umpiring -- and wanted very much to face Mark Teixiera and end a based-loaded rally.

For a time Thursday night, this stood as one of the most embarrassing managerial decisions in recent playoff history. Rather than stick with his best and gutsiest starter, Scioscia out-strategized himself and summoned veteran lefty Darren Oliver to face Teixiera, who was hitting .133 for the postseason when a wild night began near Disneyland. Teixeira promptly ripped a shot out by the rock pile and fountains at Angel Stadium, clearing the bases with a double. When Scioscia followed by intentionally walking Alex Rodriguez, Hideki Matsui made him pay again with a game-tying single. Scioscia made another move, going to young righty Kevin Jepsen. You know what was next: Robinson Cano said hello with a triple, driving in two runs for a 6-4 lead.

PHILADELPHIA -- They wear red for a reason. The Phillies have become the lifeblood of successive Octobers, a team with a heart bigger than Rocky Balboa, a gang with an edge like south Philly, a cause that doesn't crack like the Liberty Bell or Donovan McNabb, all managed by a country savant who sounds a bit like Ricky Bobby. Bruce Springsteen played across the street the other night, and when the folks discovered that Dodgers manager Joe Torre was watching a fellow sixty-something rock the house, they busted into a "Beat L.A.!" chant that could have drowned out Jungleland.

There is much to love in Citizens Bank Park, a warm and cozy yard in a hard, crusty town. There was much less to admire in the National League Championship Series about the Dodgers, feeding directly into why the Phillies completed a 4-games-to-1 romp Wednesday night, this while rowdies tried to climb greased lightpoles and frothed to finally resolve a lifelong inferiority complex against New York in the World Series. All you need to know about the Phillies is that every player crowded on the top step of the dugout when it mattered most, symbolizing the unity and camaraderie of the first team to win a repeat NL pennant in 13 years.

"We have one more step," said Ryan Howard, the series MVP. "Then we got action."