He was subsequently dubbed, “Grumpy Griffey” by the New York Post. (They’re very clever over there.)

I prefer to call him “The Kid.”

It all began over twenty years ago when Griffey Sr. was a utility player for the Yanks.  A group of fourteen Bombers’ kids were playing in the corridor, and apparently Billy Martin, not a fan of Pop Griffey, decided to giver the Brothers Griffey a bit of the old Martin guff.

In a Times article from 1991, Griffey was quoted as saying, “Martin told one of his coaches to go up to my dad.  He wanted us out of there. Just me and my brother, nobody else. Not Lou Piniella’s kid. Not Graig Nettles’s kid. Not Don Baylor’s kid.”

Clearly, it was an event that had a strong impact on Griffey, and he famously vowed never to play for the Bombers.

Griffey goes on, “I hold it against them and I will always play harder against the Yankees.  It’ll never change. Every time we play these guys, I try a little extra.”

When you’re twenty-two, it’s easy to say this or that will never change.  Ultimately, only time will tell. Based on his statement from last year, his grudge remains intact.  “I never forget,” he comments.  “That’s just who I am.”

This says something about Griffey, though it’s hard to know exactly what.  His dogged refusal to let go of something that happened so many years ago might seem a bit stubborn, almost petty.   Yet, Griffey Jr. is one of the most universally liked players in baseball. He has integrity, class, and has made it consistently and abundantly clear that he values family above all other things. Moreover, he is one of the few power hitters in this era of performance enhancing drugs whose name will almost certainly never be tainted by an accusation of steroid use.

If it seems strange that more than twenty years after getting kicked out of the Yankees clubhouse by a manager who has long since been dead, Griffey Jr. still uses this event as a source of motivation, bear in mind that the man has over 600 career home runs. Far be it for us to judge.

True to his word, The Kid. tried “a little extra” last night in the Mariners outing against the Yankees.  He hit his 621^st career home run, putting the punctuation mark on a Hall of Fame career spent torturing the team he so resents. It was a two-out, sixth-inning, first-pitch fastball from Pettitte.  Griffey Jr. knocked it over the right field wall with a swing that’s just as graceful as it ever was.

One of my readers, The Thunderphobe, pointed out that long before any current member of the Yankees team, including coaches (leaving aside special advisor Mr. October) had set foot in the House That Ruth Built, The Kid was there, running around those hallowed halls with dear old dad.  That he was, in fact, being ejected from those hallowed halls by a surly Billy Martin before some of the younger Bombers, such as Joba and Hughes, were even born.

For better or for worse, the Yankees have loomed large in Griffey Jr.’s imagination for the greater part of his career, for the greater part of his life, it would appear.  If this does in fact turn out to be The Kid’s last season, it’s fitting, poetic almost, that his swan song should come in the form of a solo home run in The House That George Built.

I’ve been learning more about fantasy baseball lately, trying to wrap my brain around how, if at all, fantasy team ownership changes a fan’s approach to the game.

Take the aforementioned outing against the Mets, which I attended.  Whether you were there like I was or watching from the comfort of your home (or gym — whatever your preference), if you’re just a regular run-of-the-mill fan, the things you’re apt to remember about that game are the agita; the feeling of dread when Frost-Tip popped up with two outs in the 9th; the overwhelming shock and delight at watching Luis Castillo bungle the play, handing the Yankees the game; and the injustice of K-Rod having earned a blown save — his first as a Met — on a little league-type error.

On the contrary, if you’re a fantasy player, you score an error for Castillo (though, it’s hard to imagine who would draft him) and a blown save for K-Rod. You grumble, but at the end of the season, these just factor into each of your respective players stats for the year.

In yesterday’s somewhat more dignified outing against the Mets, Yankees fans will recall our awe and glee at besting Santana.  Johan Santana –the Finnish Gift from God, for the love of all things holy.  They will also remember the thrill of the nine-run fourth inning, including two-run dingers from both Robbie and Upper-deki.

Fantasy players will mark down a loss for Johan, cursing the game’s effect on his ERA and WHIP.  If Cano or Matsui happen to play for your team, you get to add last night’s home runs and RBIs to their tally, adjust their batting averages, and feel a little bit cocky about your vision as an owner.   Again, at the end of the day, or the season, rather, it will all boil down to the effect of this game on each player’s statistics for the year.  The game itself won’t much have mattered.

That said, while the manner of the win or loss seems important when you’re watching as a die-hard fan for any given team, the reality in fantasy ultimately isn’t so terribly dissimilar from the reality in baseball.  While the emphasis may be different, the focus in fantasy on individual players rather than a team allegiance, the stats mattering more than the wins and losses, there is a common thread. Unreasonable though it may seem to anyone who was watching both Friday’s and Sunday’s games, each boil down to the same one letter — W.  This refers back to something I’ve said before: It doesn’t matter how you play the game, it’s if you win or lose. In a pennant race, a 15-run rout means the same thing as a W that was less earned than given to us by Luis Castillo.  For fantasy players it all comes down to the points you earn in your four, five, or sixteen categories — whatever the case may be. Period.  For baseball fans, all that really matters is your W-L ratio.  Period.

On the flip side, despite the fact that it’s all about the numbers, fantasy does not necessarily preclude players from investing in the drama.  Sure, whatever way you slice it, they’re thinking about the stats.  However, at the end of a season, if a fantasy owner was to lose his league by an incredibly slim margin, he might look back on the coulda shoulda woulda outing that turned to be the difference.  If the closer for your fantasy team is K-Rod, it would be all but impossible not to look back to Friday’s game and moan about the blown save, how it unduly effected your season.   Similarly, Mets fans are apt to look back on that game and grouse about what coulda shoulda woulda been if, as it turns out, their playoff run comes down to a single game.

One fantasy player commented astutely that being an owner was not so terribly different from being an agent.  Your focus is not so much on the performance of an individual team but more on the performances of your various players.  One thing is certain in both cases, though, when you win, if you win, all that’s going to matter to you is that you won.  Period.  There’s apt to be little reflection on the games where you got lucky on a bad call or an error or a lousy outing from the opposing team’s starting pitcher.  On the other hand, when you lose, if you lose, there tends to be a lot more of that kind of reflection.  A lot more contemplation of the bad games, the close calls, the injuries, the ways things should have gone.

In theory, it may not matter how you played the game, but it sure as hell feels like it when you don’t end up the winner.  People can say what they will about the fundamental differences between fantasy and real baseball, but this is a truth universal to both.

As I watched the second inning A.J. meltdown, I registered the agitated groans of the exercisers around me. (Yet another bonus to watching the game at the gym: it provides you with an outlet for your frustration should you happen to require one.)  I was fairly disgruntled myself, remembering my recent blog entry.  The one where I predicted that the outing would come down to a closely-fought battle between the two starters.  (I was half right, anyway.  For Beckett’s part, it was an outstanding start.  He shut us out and completely shut us down.)

As it happened, I stopped by Radio Shack on my way home. (I needed some batteries. But that’s irrelevant.)  The guys in the store happened to be watching the game as well. Radio Shack, by the way, is another terrific place to watch multiple games on multiple screens. I’m just saying, if that’s your fancy, and you’re not in the mood for wing-eating or beer-guzzling, there are alternatives.  (This is why I mention my various locales. I thought it might duty to inform you of your options.  You need only be a little bit creative.)  I got to talking to one of the sales clerks about the travesty that was unfolding before our very eyes, and he grumbled, “A.J.  Man, I tell you.”  That guy’s the worst.”

And it was true, watching this game affirmed for me the proposition I had made in an earlier piece that it might make more sense to be shoving a pie in the face of the guy who was blowing the game for the team rather than winning it.  (Seeing as that A.J. was the brains behind the whipped cream pie operation, it’s hard to imagine he could possibly object.)

I tend to get on board with most — most, not all — of our players once the season gets rolling.  What do you want from me?  I’m an unabashed homer.  I don’t, however, forget who I did and did not think was a good idea from the start.  A.J. was never, in my mind, a good idea.  Nor was Pettitte.  As a whole, I’ve always had reservations about this year’s starting rotation. (While there’s not much to be done about it, I still think it’s a mistake to leave Hughes languishing in the bullpen.  To quote Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, “Big. Huge.”)  I try to play cheerleader most of the time.  A.J. makes it tough. Time and time again, he makes it tough.

The upside to last night, however, was the draft.  This gives us the opportunity to look ahead to our future rather than simply regret the mistakes of our past. Yesterday, an article in Pinstripe Alley, made the argument against a focus on pitching — a dramatic change in our past approach to the draft.  It is however, apparently, the approach we decided to go with.  For our first round draft pick — number 29 overall — we went with 18-year-old high outfielder Slade Heathcott.  Heathcott is a power hitting lefty from Texarkana, who is just coming off of ACL surgery.  His scouting report shows “few weaknesses” — he’s got speed and the ability to play any of the three outfield positions.  There are two red flags: a troubled upbringing and signs of academic maladjustment.  However, as previously established, there is no one more sensitive to the needs of the bad boy ballplayer than I am.  As long as he doesn’t Carl Pavano us, I can be sympathetic.  More concerning, however, is Slade’s previous love of the Chowdas.  I’m sorry, but you’re from Boston and you love the Chowdas, you’re a victim of geography.  You’re from Texarkana and you love the Chowdas, you’re a victim of poor decision-making skills. (And presumably also the victim of alienation born from insults like, “I don’t want you playing with that Heathcott boy. He’s part of the liberal elite.”

For our second round pick, we went with a catcher, John Murphy. Somewhat surprising given that we have quite a few already in our farm system. Still, Murphy seems a good prospect. Having recently made the transition from the outfield, he was recruited more for his bat than anything else — he’s a solid line-drive hitting righty with good plate discipline.

After watching Burnett and his $82.5 million arm make such an abysmal start, it’s nice to look forward to the future, to daydream about all the young talent we have growing in our farm leagues. To hope that we don’t squander it in exchange for players who are too old to do the  job anymore.

Still, it’s easy to get lost in the bitterness of a defeat — especially when it’s the sixth consecutive loss at the hands of the Chowdas.  However, last night’s game does not change the reality that the Yanks are on a tear and moving in the right direction.  I simply return to what Johnny Damon, in all his sagacious wisdom, had to say about this series against this Chowdas: “It’s time to win some games against them.”

Today’s obvious statement was in reference to this week’s series against the Chowdas.  When asked about our current 0-5 record against the team whose name we do not speak, Johnny commented, “It’s time to win some games against them.”

Like I said, obvious.

Well, obvious to me, anyway.  To Jeter, a little less so apparently.  In the language we’ve come to know and love as Jeterese, Derek commented, “It doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure they’re not thinking about what happened before. We couldn’t care less what happened the first five games. It has no bearing on this.”

Right.  Except that’s not true.

After an extremely shaky start to the season — the kind that gets hysterics all worked up sometime around early May– the Yankees appear to have realigned themselves.  The introduction of A-Rod to the lineup seems to have been a major catalyst.  Teixeira has, of course, also started performing to expectations. (FYI, he was always going to.)  The only hurdle we have left to surmount is a victory — preferably a series victory — against the Chowdas.

Derek, ever the diplomat/wet blanket is right in one sense: This game does not count any more than any other game.  To that end, we should just want to win to win.  Yet, there’s a reality at play here, whether or not Jeter wants to acknowledge it.  This rivalry exists. It’s heated, it’s fun, and it matters to people.  Certainly to the fans, if not all of the players.  So, in my mind, yes, actually, it’s time to win some games against them.

(Note:  I’m supporting the logic of Damon over Jeter.  It’s likely hell has frozen over.)

The real question mark of the evening is going to be in the pitching department.  During his last outing at Fenway on April 25, A.J. struggled. (And by struggled, I mean he got spanked.  And by spanked, I mean he gave up eight runs during a two-inning meltdown.) Mariano is also out for the night, having pitched three in a row.  This is always a devastating blow, though significantly less so against the Red Sox.

But here’s the good news: It’s likely we’ll call on Alfredo Aceves to fill in for Mo in the 9th.  The more I see of this guy, the more I like him.   He is apt to be a critical component to our long-term future success.   Plus,  A.J. is coming off a run of two consecutive wins, during which he has brought his rapidly increasing ERA down from a 5.28 to a 4.69.  I predict he will continue trending in this direction. If I had to guess (hope), I’d peg this game as a pitching battle rather than a hit parade.  On both ends.

Ultimately, though, whether it’s with one run in extra innings or ten within the first, tonight is about the W.  Period.  I’m not going to mince words about it. This is the Chowdas, and we’re the Yankees.  This rivalry is part and parcel of the reason we love to love the Yankees. Bragging rights are part of why we love to play this series.  Game 7 of the ALCS 2003 is why we’ll always love Aaron Boone — even though he’s just Aaron Boone.  Meanwhile. It’s June 9 and we’re still 0-5.

So, bottom line, like Johnny said, it’s time to win some games against them.

(Sorry, I couldn’t resist. And this from the girl who has a running beef with writers who choose titles like, “David’s Got The Wright Stuff.”)

The point, however, is that Wang is back in our rotation.  Supposedly, so is his sinkerball. On behalf of those of us who have been pacing the floors and tearing our hair as we’ve watched Wang languish in the bullpen this past week, can I get an “Amen?”

I’d like to say that no one is happier than I am about this development, but it wouldn’t be true.  Jorge Posada, apparently Wang’s number one fan, is elated beyond all measure.  He commented, “Wanger is our number 1.  He’s still, for me, the number 1 pitcher in this league. I think he’s proved it, he’s been there…he’s our guy.” You’ve heard the same from me, but since a lot of people seem disinclined to take my opinion as gospel, hopefully Jorge has cleared up any doubt. If you’re not listening to Jorge, I don’t know who you’re listening to.

Phil Hughes would likely fall into the “not-so-elated” category, seeing as that he’s the one who’s been eliminated from the rotation in onrder to make room for Wang. But Hughes isa good sport, which we like. He claims he saw it coming and that he “took it fine.”

I’m glad to hear that, but at the risk of beating a dead horse, there are others I would have picked before Hughes to clear out of the the rotation. You know who I’m taking about. Starts with a “J,” rhymes with baba. I hate to stoke the flames of a new controversey, but if people remain committed to not going in that direction, there remains another option: Starts with a “P” and rhymes with shmettitte.

Last week, the Sabathia-sponsored outing came in the form of yet another trip to see the Magic.  (It was a favorite activity during spring training.)

The difference, of course is that they weren’t in Florida anymore. This time, the field trip took place in was Cleveland — the kickoff to CC’s first weekend home since he signed with the Yanks.

The unfortunate result was the reopening of my least favorite Lakehouse conversation of the year — LBJ to the NYK?  And what better time to start asking CC about his willingness to recruit King James to play for the Knicks than in the middle of the Cavs run for the Finals?

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, but the failure to acknowledge Cleveland as a real team that LeBron actually plays for — now — it’s offensive.

I love my city, but, last time I checked, New York didn’t make it to game 6 of the playoff Semifinals this year. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the Knicks were not actually in the playoffs this year.  Or last year. Or in any year that happened recently.  Fortunately, when asked if he’d be willing to help the effort to bring King James over from the great Midwest, CC did me proud and responded, “Nah.  I don’t want no part of that.”

Nah.  That’s right, CC.  You sure don’t.

CC did, however, want a big part of the annihilation of the Tribe this past Saturday.  He pitched a no-hitter into the fourth.  There were a few hiccups to follow — CC ultimately gave up three runs — but it was a solid outing all told.  And the win accounts for his fourth in five starts.  CC, it would appear, is getting into his groove.  Right alongside everyone else.

One of the more notable things about CC’s return home was his reception.  To say it was warm would be an overstatement, but he certainly wasn’t met with the kind of bitterness one would expect given the circumstances.  There was the odd boo, but they didn’t exactly kill him with cruelty.  Chalk this up to the fact of their Midwestern-ness – maybe they’re just nicer, more forgiving than we are.  Chalk it up to the fact that CC’s just a little too likable to hate.  (In the world of professional sports, is the decision to sign with the team that grossly overpays you the most really so much of a Cardinal sin?)  Or maybe the fans were just plain old distracted by the reality that, somewhere in Orlando, the Cavs were fighting for championship contention.  Whatever the case, it wasn’t nearly as ugly as one might have anticipated. And CC showed us that he can rise to the occasion, even under the most stressful of circumstances.

The Cavs, unfortunately, did not fare quite as well as CC. And presumably no one was more disappointed by this devastating elimination than Bomber Brett Tomko, who said, “Even though I’m a Lakers fan, I’m a closet Cavs fan in the back of my heart.”

If the Lakers had met the Cavs in the Finals, it would have been interesting to probe into Tomko’s meaning. From where I sit, it’s a phrase that actually cannot be translated into any discernible team loyalty.

Warning: If you’re tired of talking about Joba, you’d be best to click on your merry way.  Because, yes, I’m going to do that again.

I’ve stated often and insistently that I don’t get why we would possibly be using Joba in the starting rotation.  Of course, when Wang went on the DL, it silenced that debate – and quick.  But, with Wang back, healthy and on top of his game from what we can gather, I’m going to have to insist on revisiting the question:  Why would we possibly be using Joba in the starting rotation? And Wang in the pen.

Seriously. Just shoot me in the head with a t-shirt gun.

Tired as we all may be of hearing it – we need the reliable bridge to Mo more than we need a shaky starter who’s on limited innings. And to leave our best homegrown starter – a guy who doesn’t know from relieving — languishing in the bullpen is nothing short of lunacy.

I get that no one wants to put a potential four-pitch ace in the bullpen.  It feels sort of like putting baby in the corner. But for all the talk of how Joba is still developing, we don’t seem to be seeing much development. True, he isn’t catastrophic – all the time. But he doesn’t have the same velocity as a starter, and he’s not exactly an overwhelmingly dominating presence.  Why would we learn to live with that pitcher when we’re aware of the existence of the other one?  The one who emerged on the scene a couple years back and blew our minds with the dazzling brilliance of his fastball, the stunning practical non-existence of his ERA.

True, maybe Joba gets there as a starter.  But as my crazy French Introduction to Human Right professor was fond of saying, “Zee proof is in zee pudding, and we haven’t tasted zee pudding yet.”

He took a break from his conversation for just long enough to tell the girl behind the counter, Heather, “Yeah, get me a cappuccino,” before quickly returning to whatever important business he had to attend.  (Presumably involving another person with a shiny tracksuit who was on the other end of the line.)

After taking his order and ringing him up, Heather politely interrupted his conversation to tell him, “Just so you know, for the future, we have a policy where we don’t like people to talk on their phone while they’re at the counter.”

To which he responded by continuing to talk on the phone while he waited for his cappuccino.  After he had finished with his call, apparently intrigued by whatever crazy thing Heather had just said to him, he inquired, “What was that you told me about my cell phone?”

“Oh, well, I just said that we have a policy where we prefer people not to talk on their cell phones at the counter.”

“Why?”

“Well, first of all, it can make it hard for us to take their orders.  Also, we’re providing you with a service.  We think you should have enough respect for us to not be having an interaction with someone else while we’re trying to have an interaction with you.”

He paused, reflected, and then having come to a conclusion, responded, “That’s selfish.”

“How is it selfish?”

“You want to keep me from my call so that you can talk to me.”

“That’s not exactly what I was saying. I was actually just saying that it’s disrespectful not to get off your call while I’m trying to take your order and ring you up.”

“That’s selfish.”

“Well, if you think so, you’re under no obligation to come back here.”

“OK.  I won’t.”

After he had walked out of the shop, Carter, the other guy behind the counter, looked at me with an accusatory glance and said, “See, Melanie. He was a Yankees fan.”

A note to fellow Bombers fans: If you’re going to act like a jerk, be sure to take your hat off first.  (Same applies if you’re going to wear an oversized tracksuit with an unfortunate sheen.)

And just like that, another Principle was born.

During about the fifth inning of last night’s game against the Twins, I received the following e-mail from a friend.  A friend from whom I probably haven’t heard since late ’08:  “Do you realize my twins r crushing ur Yankees?”

As you can imagine, I was in no mood to be trifled with and responded the only way I knew how.  I shamed him:  “Do you realize it’s a little bit gauche to contact someone for the first time in months JUST to rub that information in her face?”

Somewhere around the ninth, he writes back: “Oh, man.  I spoke too soon.  Btw, what does ‘gauche’ mean? I’m from minnie…we don’t know such east coast terms.” (Notice his transparent attempt to make himself look adorable in order to earn my forgiveness with his allusion to the Midwest.)

To this, I replied: “Gauche — from the french — lacking in social grace.  Know what hubris means?”

My reference to Billy Joel is pointed.  I figure that since I am tipping my hat to Upper-deki, I might as well pay tribute to his recently discovered love of America’s favorite 80′s pop rock icon from Long Island.  (He has mysteriously changed all of his at-bat songs from Beatles to Billy this season — “Big Shot,” “Only The Good Die Young,” and “I May Be Crazy.”  If I had to, I’d bet that Girardi gave him a greatest hits box set for Christmas.)

But back to my original point, which was about honesty — such a lonely word.  Especially for a ballplayer with an injury.  Oftentimes in baseball, if you admit to being hurt you run the risk of looking like you’re not fully invested. Or, worse yet, like you’re in defiance of the Pavano Principle.  We like our ballplayers to be gritty, to want to get out there come hell or high water — bruised, battered, appendages dangling off their bodies.  Still, while it defies the nature of anyone with a truly competitive personality, I have always believed that the most responsible thing that a player can do is fess up when something’s a little amiss. To take that one or two days off — when necessary, those one or two weeks off — to prevent that little injury from turning into a season-ending injury.

Last year, I went for a run like any other day.  Except, unlike any other day, out of nowhere, I developed a crazy painful burn in my heel every time it made contact with the ground.  The sane thing to do would have been to not run until I had fully recovered from my injury. But, genius that I am, I went with another approach.  I discovered that if I continued to run, the first mile tended to be excruciatingly painful, and then I adjusted and it was fine.  (Until after the run.) Now, a year later, I walk with a limp and run a mile that’s about thirty seconds slower than it was before.  If I was a ballplayer, my approach might qualify me as a gamer, but it would also have dramatically decreased the quality of my game.

This is all to say that Hideki Matsui may just have it right.  On Tuesday, he tells the trainers for the Yankees that his right hamstring is sore.  Wednesday, he sits out the game. Last night, he hits a solo home run in the eighth to lead the Yanks to a 3-2 victory over the Jays.  (An outstanding outing from CC didn’t hurt.)  After the game, Upper-deki told reporters, “I took a day off and my leg was feeling much better.”

(There are unverified reports that he also said, “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.”)

So, to the other guys in the clubhouse, take note.  Honesty may be a lonely word, but it’s mostly what we need from you.