Ok, here are my end-of-year picks for all of the hardware that will handed out over the next couple of weeks. 

AL MVP: Joe Mauer - I should probably give it to Dustin Pedrouia, but I just can't see giving it to a member of the Sox. Besides, it's not like Mauer didn't have a monster year.  The man is the class of MLB catchers.  A .330 batting average, a .415 OBP and an .869 OPS land him in first place on my ballot.

NL MVP: Ryan Howard - A lot of people are probably going to go with Albert Pujols for this award, but Howard has his team in the playoffs and Pujols doesn't.  Pujols leads Howard in the Slugging and OPS departments, but look at Howard's 48 home runs, .339 OBP and 146 RBIs and you'll see why he gets my vote.

AL Cy Young: Cliff Lee - I'd really like to vote for Mike Mussina for this one, as I'm a Moose fan.  Winning 20 games for the first time in his career is a BIG accomplishment and one that will no doubt land him in the Hall of Fame.  But Lee went 22-3.  It's hard to argue with that, especially when you look at his 170 K's and miniscule 1.11 WHIP.  No doubt about this one.

NL Cy Young: Tim Lincecum - This one is a little bit closer, what with Brandon Webb and Johan Santana having such monster years.  But Lincecum wins it because of 252 strikeouts, a .223 opponent's batting average, and because he plays on a team that stinks, and he still went 17-5.  Can't argue with that.

AL Rookie of the Year:  Evan Longoria - Not only does he have a cool name, but I heard this name night after night after night during the regular season.  His team won the AL East for the first time ever, and even though he was out for 30 games and still leads all AL rookies in in RBI's and total bases.  Not only that, but he didn't even make the team in Spring Training!  Now no one will ever forget his name, and not because of the actress, either.

NL Rookie of the Year:  Geovany Soto - I can't believe this guy is a rookie.  He plays like he's been in the majors for years.  Having satellite tv I am able to watch WGN a lot and I have taken in more than a couple Cubs games.  Soto's 23 dingers and his start in the All-Star game land him in the ROTY seat on my ballot.

AL Manager of the Year: Joe Madden - Is there really any question about this one?  If Madden doesn't win this there ought to be an investigation.  He's got the Rays playing like they could win it all, and you know what?  They just might.  A first-time AL East championship and a great young nucleus will have them around for many years.  The Rays are for real and Madden is a major reason why.

NL Manager of the Year: Lou Piniella - I'd actually like to give this award to one of the Manuel "brothers", Charlie and Jerry.  But the Mets are out and the Cubs are in.  Not only are they in, but they have as good a chance of winning the whole thing as they've had in more than 100 years.  Literally.  Piniella has kept this team believing through injuries, cold spells and a Chicago summer, and not only that, but he's ex-Yankee.  Gotta love Sweet Lou for that.

Comeback Player of the Year: The only guy I'm voting for for this award this year, in both leagues, is the Moose.  Maybe I should say, 20-game winner, Mike Mussina.  How does that sound, Mike?  Written off at the beginning of the year, Moose went on to have the best season of his career.  Good for you, Mike.  I hope you come back next year, but if you don't, I'll understand.  Go home to PA and coach you son in Little League.  That sounds like a great time.  Enjoy it.  And thank you for keeping the Yanks in the picture for so long this year.  It would not have been nearly as good without you.

I like the mustache.  I like the effort he's put in to being a Yankee.  I like the fact that he came clean about his use of PEDs and I like the fact that he's cleaned up his act.  You can call him a disappointment if you want to.  Many people will.  But I like the man. 

I ran down the street and jumped on the bandwagon when he was signed to the club 7 years ago.  I liked that move from the very first day.  But since then, though the Bombers have gone to the playoffs every year, we've gotten no championships.  No trips down the Canyon of Heroes.  Is it his fault?  No, not all of it, but he certainly shares the guilt with everyone else, including those in pinstripes and those wearing the ties. 

Giambi's defense isn't the greatest.  I will grant you that.  His bat quiets down considerably sometimes.  I'll grant you that, too.  No protection for A-Rod?  Maybe.  But despite those evident deficiencies, there's just something about him that I like. 

I wish the Yankees would pick up his option, but they probably won't.  They'll go after Mark Texeira, who would be a considerable upgrade at first base.  But I think Giambi now has Yankee-blue blood, just like some of my other favorites, like Jeter, Jorge and Andy.  To just let someone like that go is a shame to me.  Hey, I'm a sentimentalist.  What am I going to do?

He's gone through a lot in the last five or six years, but he seems to have come out on top and even made himself a better man.  And that's what life should be all about, anyway, isn't it?  Making yourself a better man.  If he's learned from his mistakes I respect him all the more.  I think it's a shame that he won't be back next year.  I will miss you, Jason.  Thanks for some very good years.  I hope they were good for you, too.

Way back last year, when the Yankees unceremoniously insulted Joe Torre with their contract offer, I told my son that I hoped Joe Torre signed with a team and took them to the playoffs and that the Yankees did not.  Well, now it looks like I've got my wish.  I hope you're happy, Hank.  You got exactly what you paid for.

Joe Torre, in my eyes, is the best manager in baseball today.  He was a perfect fit in NYC.  Calm.  Patient.  Smart.  Clueless Joe he was not.  He knew how to handle the Steinbrenners and Cashman and the media.  Now it looks like he's a perfect fit in LA, too.  Good for you, Joe.  Good for you.  I hope you go far in the playoffs.  Win it all, if you want.  I'll be rooting for you.

What's left in the Bronx, however, is just a big fat mess.  Pitching is the biggest bugaboo.  Come on, Yankee braintrust, you've got to do something about this.  You've just got to get us someone in here who can pitch.  Leaving the future of the proudest and greatest team in all of sports to a couple of youngsters can not bring anything but heartache.  I love Phil Hughes.  I think he's going to be great someday, but he's not now. I think Kennedy will be good one day, too, but he's even further away than Hughes.  Joba is a great pitcher already, but you've got to figure out where you're going to use him and then leave him the heck there.

Second base, center field, first base...all big concerns. Get out there and make some news this offseason, will you?  We're all depending on you.  Another season like this and we're all going to be looking for new jobs.

Cliff Lee, you stink!!

I picked you up off the waiver wire in my fantasy league way back in May.  Since then, you've been absolute money...until I needed you most.  Last night you took the L in a 5-4 loss to the Sox.  I hate to say it, Cliff, but what have you done for me lately?  A 22-3 record, 170 K's, two shutouts, and a 2.54 ERA will win you the Cy Young Award going away.  But you know what?  It'll also earn you a trip back to the waiver wire.

What's so hard about going out and doing what you've been doing all season?  Hmm?  What's so hard about it?  When I needed you most, you let me down.  22-3?  I'm dumping your sorry butt because you went 0-1 on September 23, the one day I had to have you win.

I'm not talking fantasy league here, either, buddy.  I'm talking real life.  You were the only thing standing between the Yankees and the first at-home off season in Derek Jeter's whole career.  Did you do what you're paid to do?  No!  Instead you go out and lose.  Nice, real nice.

I know the chances of making it to the postseason this year were paper thin.  I know that every star in the heavens had to be aligned just right in order for it to work, but just so there is no misunderstanding here, you, Cliff Lee, are a terrible disappointment.  You were the one star I depended on to get in line.  You were the one pitcher I thought would give us a break. 

Now I'm left to wonder what might have been had you been half the pitcher I was hoping you were.  We might have overcome that Boston lead.  We might have sneaked in through the backdoor.  We might have even added another Aaron Boone and Bucky Dent to the storied history of Boston collapses.  But no, you had to go and stink up the joint.

Thanks a lot...for nothing.

I am now officially sad.  Honestly, it feels like I'm losing an old friend.  I watched the ceremonies and the game on Sunday and found tears in my eyes more than once. 

I lost my dad to cancer about 10 years ago.  Losing him was like the major leagues while this is like low rookie league.  But the same sort of feelings are there.  Yearning for just one more glimpse.  An inner-ache for just one more chance to tell them how you feel. 

Stupid, I know.  But Yankee Stadium was always a friend to me.  I saw my first major league ballgame there, with my dad.  I saw Bobby Murcer's four-dinger doubleheader there.  I saw Ray Fosse get hit in the leg by a firecracker while catching there.  I saw John Smoltz pitch there, the Beach Boys jam there and Derek Jeter play there.  I took my son there when he was six months old and then took him back again last summer, along with my daughter, and watched Joe Torre manage there.  Old friend?  More like a member of my family.

I don't get to see her very often.  I may make it to New York once every two or three years.  But it's like the cousin you only get to see every other summer or the best friend you haven't seen since high school.  Once you see each other again and start talking, all the old feelings start coming back and it's like you'd never been apart. 

I was in my then-girlfriend's (now wife's) house watching game six when Lemke fouled Wetteland's pitch off to Charlie Hayes.  Pride welled up in my heart as I watched her celebrate the end of her longest championship drought.  It made me happy that champagne again flowed through her veins. 

I watched as Wade Boggs rode around her grass on a horse.  I watched as Jetes, Booney, Brosius,  Bernie and Tino hit historic home runs.  I watched as The President tried to heal an injured country.  I watched with glee as the roll call was performed.

Soon, Edison's magic concrete will be put to its ultimate and final test. I wish they'd leave her in place, like a giant museum to the magic that's played out within her for 85 years.  Unfortunately, I know that can't be.  Next year I'll travel to NYC and will walk through the park where she now stands and will remember and will probably ache.  I wish I'd told her how I really felt before she was gone.

I'll miss you old girl.

Moose is a man.  An Orioles fan might debate the fact with me, but Moose is a class act.  Quiet dignity.  Not one to seek out the spotlight.  Blue collar.  I hope Hank has enough sense to bring him back.  No matter what, Moose, you'll always be able to say that you won your last game at Yankee Stadium.  You've come a long way since watching your first game there so many years ago.  Thank you for some terrific memories.  I only wish the club could have rewarded you with a championship.  Maybe next year.  You deserve it.

It will be good to see Bernie again on Sunday.  I've been listening to his cd "The Journey Within" lately and think he's as smooth with a guitar as he was with a stick.  That's one situation, among hundreds, the Steinbrenners did NOT handle well.  I read this morning that Girardi wants to bring him to Spring Training next year to help the younger hitters.  I pray that works out.  Bernie, you are another classy guy.

So Andy will start the last game in Yankee Stadium history.  Only fitting.  Andy, another of my favorite players, had a rough go last off season.  He's had it rough the second half of this season, too, and may not be back in pinstripes next year.  Too bad.  He, along with Jetes, Mo and Jorge has been the nucleus of so many championship-caliber teams.  He deserves better than to be thrown a small bone or brushed away to the refuse heap.  I'll be rooting for you with all my heart on Sunday night, Andy.  You can bank on that.

It will be good to see Mo pitch that last inning on Sunday night.  It would only be fitting that Andy pitches well and hands the game over to him in a save situation.  Imagine the thunder that will eminate from the Stadium before, during and after that game.  Imagine the ghosts who will attend.  It almost makes me shiver even now.  Let's go Yankees! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)  Let's go Yankees! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)  Let's go Yankees! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)  Let's go Yankees! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)  Let's go Yankees! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)  Let's go Yankees! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)  Let's go Yankees! (clap, clap, clap, clap, clap) 

Bottom of the sixth inning.  Two outs.  Men on first and second.  The Yankees had a one run lead with their ace on the hill.  If he could just get this one last batter out, it was on to the championship.

The Yanks had battled the Rays all game long, seesawing back and forth, but never giving up.  I stood with my hands on the fence and watched as Danny threw the first pitch for a ball.  "That's all right!" I yelled.  "Take your time.  Deep breath."  Danny was the best player in the league, but he was starting to tire.  "You just need this one guy.  You can do it!"

Danny leaned back and fired number 2.  A strike.  "Yes!' I bellowed.  "Just like that one!  Come on, Dan!  Just two more!!"

Alex, our catcher, threw the ball back to Danny with a snap.  "That's it, Danny!  Come on, baby!  Just two more!"  He was an emotional player, but that's why I liked him.  He had fire enough to light the whole team.  "Come on, Dan!"

Danny caught the ball and looked over at Jacob at third base as he moved back up the mound.  Jacob, my son, was our best catcher, maybe the best catcher in the league, but I needed someone with some good leather on the hot corner.  He gave Danny a wink that said, "You can do this."

Turning toward the plate, Danny took a deep breath.  He'd never been to any championship games though he was the first pick in the draft's first round.  He'd never been surrounded with such a good team before.  This meant everything.

The next pitch was a little high, but the umpire called it a strike.  Thank goodness for small favors.  Just one more.

The sweat was beading on my upper lip now.  It was a hot day anyway, about 85 degrees and muggy, but in that one moment it was almost oppressive.  I could barely stand it, the excitement, the heat, the nerves.  My hands shook almost uncontrollably.  I took my cap off and wiped my forehead.

Danny wound up and hurled what we all hoped would be strike three and our ticket to the championship game.  It wasn't.

The ball flew unhindered into left field and bounced four feet in front of our left fielder, Sam.  The game-tying runner would already be rounding third and heading for home.  Except, he wasn't.

Wait!  He was still standing on second base!  Momentary confusion reigned.  What in the heck was he doing on second base?  His third base coach had been waving him frantically, but he was holding!  He was holding!  "He's holding!" I screamed.  "Throw to third!  Throw to third!!"

Sam picked up the ball and rifled a throw to Jacob, who was standing on the hot corner.  But the throw was way off, bouncing once on the foul line before it went terribly into foul territory.  Jacob left the bag and raced after it, catching it just after that one bounce about five feet in foul territory.

The runner, now realizing what he'd done, raced for third.  Like two thoroughbreds in the Kentucky Derby, it was now only a question of who would get there first.

Jacob leaped into the air, and the runner, a tall skinny kid I later learned had played on the All-Star team, leaned toward the bag.  It was going to be a photo finish.

    Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
    The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
    And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
    But there is no joy in Tampa 'cause the baserunner was called out!

    "Wouldn't it be nice if we were older?
    Then we wouldn't have to wait so long..."

Mike Love sang like he meant it.  And like we were back in the 60's.

Surrounded by the verdant green pasture that was centerfield at Yankee Stadium, the now-near-geriatric Beach Boys belted out their classics.  I sat along the third base line in shallow left field with my girlfriend, Sharon, and my folks.  I think it was the only "rock" concert my parents ever saw.

Earlier in the day I'd been lucky enough to rub elbows with one of the greatest first basemen ever.  Don Mattingly stood in the batting cage and ripped one pitch after another into the blinding afternoon sun.  Being a rookie member of the media, I got my employer to score me a press pass so I could attend the game for free.  It was July 4th, 1989.  Lou Gehrig Day.  The 50th anniversary of his "Luckiest Man in the World" speech.  And I stood at home plate with one of my heroes.

It was a very surreal experience.  I stood where my favorite all-time player had stood a half century before with my favorite current day player.  I'd never experienced anything like it before and I've still to have a similar encounter.

But the Bombers weren't very good back then.  They finished 1989 with a 74-87 record, 14.5 games behind the Jays.  The Tribe and the Tigers were still in the AL East and the Brewers were still in the American League.  Jesse Barfield was the big hitter then, leading the team with 18 home runs.  Now A-Rod hits that many by the end of May.

I stood next to Gehrig's locker after the game, wondering what it was like when he was lacing up the spikes.  I sat in the dugout and mused about all of the giants who had walked back up those steps for a curtain call.  I reflected on the numerous championships that had been won and lost from that very spot.  And I sat and wondered how long it would be before the pinstripes would again hoist a championship banner.  Turns out it would take them another 7 years.

Nowadays, Sharon is gone and I'm married to Kelly with three children.  I'm a project manager instead of a reporter and Don Mattingly has hung up his spikes for good, it seems.  Instead of sitting in the dugout I sit in my living room and watch SportsCenter, watching my new heroes swing the bat and wonder how long it will take for the new stadium to be honored with a championship pennant.  Next year?    The year after?  What with this broken season still freshly stuck in my craw, I question whether or not if I'll even see another one.  Will I be too old to enjoy it?  Hope does not spring eternal in the recently disheartened.

Even though the Yankees lost that day back in '89, for one short moment the world was right.  I'd lived a dream, a dream that, when I was a boy, I believed only a pipe dream.  Now, I hope another championship's not just another boyhood fantasy.

    "..you know it seems the more we talk about it
    It only makes it worse to live without it
    But let's talk about it...
    Wouldn't it be nice?"

Where is that doggone hammer?  It's got to be here somewhere.  I thought I left it in the tool box, but it looks like it grew legs.  Check the watch.  Hmm.  Only an hour to game time.  I know it's here.  Maybe in the glove compartment.  Yea, the kids like to leave my tools there sometimes. 

Ah, there it is.  Stanley.  Best hammers in the business.  I hope they do their business tonight.

Now, where to hide it?  Won't fit in the shoes.  Maybe in my sock.  Ouch!  That hurt.  Lousy claw brought blood on my ankle.  Better try somewhere else.  How about down the drawers?  Yea, they'll never check there.  Yes, I am that glad to see you, officer.

Tickets.  Where are the tickets?  Ok, I'm set.  Walk confidently.  Look around.  Don't stare!  Don't look the ticket guy in the eye.  He'll know something's up.  That's it.  Tear it in half.  Give me back my half.  Good.  Almost there.  One....more....person.  There, home free!!!  Now, to put Lord Stanley to work.

Open the door.  What?  Every single stall is occupied?  Have to wait.  Come on man!  How long does it take?  Ok, there's one.  Hurry!  Close the door.  Make sure it's locked good.  There.  All alone.  No one can see me now. 

Get out the hammer.  Where to hit?  Where to hit?  There, that's a good place.  Not too hard.  Easy!  Easy!  Nothing.  Dang it.  A little harder maybe.  Yea, that's it.  I think it's working.  A little chunk!  YES!  I just got a little chunk!! 

"Sir?"

Freeze!  Swallow.  Come on, man.  Nobody can see. 

"Sir?"

"Uh, yea?"

"Open the door please, sir."

"Excuse me?"  Crap!  Put the hammer back in your pants!!  Chunk in the toilet!!  Hurry!!  Hurry!!

"Open the door please, sir.  Now!"

When I get out of jail, does anyone know where I can get a chunk of Yankee Stadium?  Charlie Sheen's asking.

Let me make this crystal clear...that Derek Jeter has some nerve.  Just when I'd started to look past baseball for the first time since before my oldest child was born, he goes and does something like this.  Just when I'd begun the process of picking up the shattered pieces of my Yankee pride, he's got to go and prove himself, once again, as one of the greatest Yankees of all time.  I've certainly got an ax to grind with him.

Yesterday, The Captain collected his 1,269th hit in the Stadium that Ruth Built.  That ties him for most in a career with another Yankee captain, The Iron Horse, Louis Henry Gehrig.  He had a chance in the 7th inning to break that tie, but grounded into a double play instead.  Jogging back to the dugout, Jetes got a standing O that will probably only be eclipsed by the one he gets tonight when he moves ahead of Gehrig against the White Sox.

I can not think of any other player who's ever donned the pinstripes that could be more deserving of this record.  Sure, The Stadium was refurbished back in the 70's and the new field doesn't have the same dimensions as the old field.  But Jetes has never been a 'tater digger.  He kills you with his hustle, with singles and doubles and with his inspirational play. 

One thing is for sure, Derek Jeter will bust a gut to win a ballgame, and he'll do it every single day.  For my money, he was the not-so-secret ingredient in all of those great Yankee teams, those World Championship teams.  Cashman, Steinbrenner and all of those other front office types can thank their lucky stars they found Derek Jeter because not only has he been the face of The Club since the mid-90's, he's also been the heart and soul of it. 

I admit it.  I'd started to pay attention to football (sis boom bah).  I'd started to look beyond my true love for the New York Yankees and had begun looking forward to next year.  I'd commenced my winter-induced slumber only to have Prince Charming come along and awake me with that record tying kiss.  Next time, I just hope he does it before baseball and I are already best enemies.

I hope to take my son to a game next year.  I hope to show him, once again, the soul of the Yankee club.  And I hope to do it in the new House that Jeter Built.

(Dedicated, with esteem, to Jane Heller)

The thing I remember second best is the smell of hot dogs.  Thick and juicy with mustard.  Lots of it.  And throw in some fries, popcorn and four home runs and you have a perfect day.  So was my first day in the House that Ruth Built. 

I'd never been to a ballgame before.  Sure, dad had taken me to a preseason football game between the Giants and the Eagles, and I'd see some high school games in our town in New Jersey, but they weren't the same as a baseball game in the Stadium.  From the second I walked in and saw the gingerbread facade above my head, I was under its mesmerizing spell. 

Back in those days, I was too young to realize the significance of the names that would later become like Greek gods to me.  Mantle.  Maris.  Yogi.  Gehrig.  Lefty.  The Babe.  As far as I knew they were just the guys selling the dogs.  But I'll never forget the name Murcer.

Besides the smell of the franks, there's one other thing that is indelibly etched in my psyche about that day.  Well, actually, there are four other things.  Each was a ball I'd never seen before and would never see again, as Bobby Murcer ripped four home runs in a doubleheader against the Indians.  The day was June 24th, 1970.  I was 11-years old.  Sitting in the box seats behind the Yankee dugout, I never imagined how those four home runs would change my life.

Sure, I was a fan when I got up that morning.  I'd played Little League ball myself and was actually a fairly good pitcher.  But when I saw those four balls leave the yard with such urgency, I was hooked for life. 

Today, 38 years later, I still play ball, second base now.  I coach my son's Little League team, appropriately named the Yankees.  I teach those boys everything I know about the game, and after 38 years of researching and playing, I guess I've learned a lot.  I play fantasy ball and read about it every day.  I talk baseball to my wife, who just looks at the ceiling and sighs.  And now I have my own MLBlog.  I love baseball. 

I've been back to the Stadium many more times since 1970, when my job allows me to go to NYC or I take my family on my "religious" pilgrimage to my baseball Mecca.  But none of them were like that particular day under the early summer sun when four balls entered the stratosphere of my conscience.  And you know what?  It's all Bobby Murcer's fault.  May he always rest in peace.

You can say what you want about Derek Jeter, but the bottom line is that this man is money. Bill James (a noted Sux fan) and his fellow sabermetricians have said that Jeter is "probably the most ineffective defensive player in the major leagues, at any position."  A study at the University of Pennsylvania even concluded that from 2002-2005, Jeter was "the worst defensive shortstop in the Major Leagues."

Blah, blah, blah.  Just a bunch of science building mumbo jumbo, if you ask me.  Personally, I'd rather have Jeter on my team than any other shortstop (or other position player, for that matter) in all of baseball.  And here's why.

For starters, he's the captain.  How many captains have there been in the 107 years of Yankee existence?  Eleven.  That's it.  Eleven.  Geez!  There weren't ANY between Lou Gehrig and Thurman Munson, and only five after him.  Mantle?  Not captain.  Dimaggio?  Nope.  Yogi.  No sir.  Nobody between 1941 and 1976.  Thirty-five years.  It has to be an honored position if even the Mick, arguably the most beloved Yankee of all, wasn't made the head dog.  But Jetes?  Yea.  Mr. Captain, if you please.

Secondly, the man is an inspiration.  Take a look around at the Yankee jerseys you see on the street.  Granted, there are a lot more Boston jerseys around than there used to be.  That bandwagon warmed up in 2004.  But the Yankee jerseys you see are almost all number 2's.  Every boy who plays on the Yankees in Little League wants to be number 2.  I've seen fights over it.  Nobody wants to be number 13 or number 18.  It's always number 2.  And if they do want number 13 it's always because number 2 has already been taken.  Face it, Jetes is an inspiration to the little boys of our country, not to mention their dads.

Thirdly, Oakland, game 3, 2001 ALDS.  Jetes doesn't hustle from short to make that throw to Jorge and the Yanks don't make the Series.  Plain and simple.  Need another reason?  How about Yankee Stadium, July 1, 2004 against the Sux.  Jeter leaps into the stands to make the catch on Nixon's pop-up.  Iconic.  Need any more?  How about the countless times he's gone to his right to scoop up a ball, jumped into the air and fired the ball to first for the out?  I can't tell you how many times I've seen that.  Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:117_Derek_Jeter.jpg for an example of what I mean.

Fourthly, 9-time All Star, 3-time Gold Glover, 2-time Silver Slugger, AL Rookie of the Year, World Series MVP, and the founder of the Turn 2 Foundation.  Simply put, the man is money.

Bill James can say what he wants about Jeter's defense, but I'll tell you one thing for sure.  The next time my son plays for the Yankees in his Little League, I'm going to be absolutely sure he's got the number 2 on his back.