"It's great to be young and a Yankee."

If it weren't for Facebook, I wouldn't know any current events whatsoever. Not that I know anything about them NOW, but at least with Facebook, I know they exist. Like something called Kony. Prop 8. Sopa. I still have no idea what these things are, but I know they incense pretty much everyone. (Which is why I don't bother learning what they are. Who wants to be mad?)

Whitney Houston. Amy Whinehouse. Michael Jackson. Farrah Fawcett.
Kris (7:28:53 PM): michael jackson died??

Laur (7:29:28 PM): yes. and farrah fawcet :(

Kris (7:30:19 PM): whos that

Laur (7:31:15 PM): the former sec of defense

Kris (7:32:41 PM): ha i was way off i thought she was woody allens daughter

Kris (7:59:01 PM): thats not true

Yeah, so when Andy Pettite anounced he was coming back, it was a race to see who could break the news first. But since Yankees.com send me emails pretty much 12 times a day, they get the nod for being the first to let me know that our boy #46 is back in the fray.

And when I went out last night everywhere I looked there was someone primed to assert his feelings on the subject. Probably my favorite part about having lived in the same neighborhood in the upper east side for so many years is the fact I can walk into a bar and know most of the people there and as such our fervor about the Yankees--good or bad--becomes a pooled body of fever pitch.

It is difficult, however, to share some of their enthusiasm about this. 7 starters seems a bit excessive. And from what I understand and from what I've read on the subject, this decision was brought on by the wistful envy of watching the team play in Tampa. He misses playing.

Understandable. Who wouldn't? Who goes to alumni weekend in college and thinks, "Thank God I'm done with THIS part of my life"? No one. (Or you wouldn't have gone back to visit in the first place.) Who looks at 5 year olds playing in the sandbox and thinks, "Life is so much easier now that I don't have to worry about getting sand in my bellybutton."

No one.

It's normal, but it doesn't mean you should necessarily entertain these whims. I mean, there's a reason the bouncer shot me down after I waited on line for a good 15 minutes at a street fair's giant inflatable castle thing last year. I'm too old to be jumping in that thing, and I could hurt myself or hurt one of the kids.

I hope Andy doesn't hurt anything, but unless we win the World Series this year, he's not going to have the beautiful swan song of leaving after the '09 championship.

I will concede that this is nothing like Posada leaving, who was clearly held together by paper and string by the time he took himself out of the mix. He left not a moment too soon, and in terms of the bittersweetness of it, I'd parse it at 15% bitter, 85% sweet.

Andy, however, was not showing those same signs of rackety age. He was brilliant in the World Series--not in a young fireball kind of way, but in a seasoned aplomb with classic talent kind of way.

Maybe I don't know enough about the whole story, but you tell me Andy's returning to the rotation, and unless he's returning with a mechanical arm and with the benefit of that Death Becomes Her treatment, my first reaction is that you're gonna have to leave the table at some point. And it's better to do so when you haven't lost your distinctive graces.

Which is why I'm going to reprint an article I wrote after the Phillies won the World Series a few years back, when Moyer was wrestling with whether to retire or not.  You know how many times I hear in the girls' bathroom of a bar "I don't know, do you think I should text him?" Like, a million times. And the answer is always the same: "No."

Just as their dismissal of this advice is always the same. Like Oscar Wilde said, "The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it." But if you have to ask if you should text him, and if you have to question your return from retirement, maybe it's not the best idea to move ahead with it.

The Bleacher Report article from October 31, 2008:

If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.”—Orson Welles

My dad tells this story of his friend’s big night at the craps table in Vegas. It was one of those scenes that generally doesn’t exist in reality—the casino’s population all concentrated around this one table, my dad’s friend spurred on by the rallying cries of everyone around him.

He was holding court, throwing more and more colored chips on every space of felt left on the table, which at that point looked like the streets of New Orleans at the height of Mardi Gras. The story is legendary, as the entire table was up thousands of dollars.

The thing with craps that I never understood is the feverish disappointment when the hero tossing dice inevitably rolls a seven and everyone craps out. What did everyone think was going to happen? What if he leaves the table when he was still hot and setting the world afire? Would we nod understandably or reproach his cowardice?

An athlete like Jamie Moyer, for example, can either watch his team record the final out to capture their first World Series title in 28 years, get all his teammates to write down their email addresses so he can stay in touch, and drop off his 2008 World Series Champion uniform at the dry cleaners before heading home to watch “The Shield” on DVR.

Or he could parlay the glory of capturing a title into next season, and maybe for as many seasons as it takes him to rack up another 54 W’s. Maybe October 29, 2008 handed Moyer the ideal opportunity to cash out his chips. But it also could have reinforced everything he loved about the sport, enough to make him let his winnings ride.

At 46 years old, Moyer is teetering on the brink of Kevin Brown-status. Although I can’t speak with any authority (barely an educated guess, really) on what’s going through Moyer’s mind right now, the issue of whether to return next season most likely is making some kind of cameo.

To assist him, I’ve sifted through some case studies on athlete retirement and unretirement, assigning each impressive instance of career waffling with a highly coveted award to commemorate it.

The winners are…

The Britney Spears “Gimme More” Award for Juggernaut Comeback that Flatlined at Mediocrity

Michael Jordan. He should have stopped after comeback No.1, when he shed he minor league baseball pipe dreams in favor of leading the Bulls to 3 straight titles. Did anyone think anything good was going to come out of comeback No.2? Seriously. Besides the Wizards, anyway.



The Melvin Udall Redoing his Kiss to Waitress Carol at End of “As Good As It Gets” Award for Leaving Retirement to Finish Career the Way He Wanted To

George Foreman. Came back from second retirement to reclaim the heavyweight title at age 45, the one he had lost to Ali 20 years earlier. “I know I can do better!”


The Bill Clinton’s Second Term Award for Unretiring only to become Mired in Controversy and Scandal

Roger Clemens. Ugh. Told us all he was retiring after the 2003 season. Then the back page of New York papers were reading “What an Astro!” I don’t even know how many times he announced retirement since then. A lot, though. He comes back to the Yankees, pitches about as well as Aaron Heilman, and then becomes the center of a media steroids circus. And throws in some adultery charges for good measure.





The Michael Myers Award for Continually Resurfacing to Torture the Sports World

Jose Canseco. I used to love this guy, too. My first baseball hat was an Oakland A’s hat. Now look at him. He’d have been better off skipping the Juiced tell-all and just going straight to center square of Hollywood Squares. If I were an active player, I’d live in fear my name would be the one that the peg landed on when Canseco did his daily spin of the Steroid Accusation Wheel.





The Michael J. Fox Award for Unretiring with Flying Colors After Medical Hardship

Mario Lemieux. Retired because of lymphoma, then later returned to re-establish his dominance, netting the second highest number of goals that year. Also saved the Penguins from bankruptcy and now remains the team’s principle owner.




The Elizabeth Berkley in “Showgirls” Award for Bold Comeback that Ended in Humiliation

Muhammad Ali. Comeback No.1: Marked by the epic Joe Frazier fights. Comeback No.2: Came back only to be handed his ass and dignity back to him by Larry Holmes




The J.D. Salinger Award for Consistent Success With Every Re-emergence

Phil Jackson. Called it a day in 1998 after topping off the second of the Bulls two three-peats. Returned to the game a year later to coach the Lakers, taking them to their own three-peat before calling it quits again. Returned to the Lakers the following year and brought them to the Finals two years after that.



The Paul McCartney Award for Playing Well After His Body Had All But Given Up, Making Fans Collectively Plead at the TV to Just Put Himself Out of His Misery

Patrick Ewing. By the end of a dominant career with the Knicks, he was dragging his leg around like Kathy Bates had had a go at it. He had been tough, formidable, and obscenely talented. His fans could recognize he was physically done and just wanted to fast-forward to the number-retiring ceremony.



The Bill Cosby Award for Retiring and Unretiring With Immunity on Account of Good Guy Status Combined with Lifetime Achievement

Lance Armstrong. Good for him. He beat cancer. He won the Tour-de-France a record-breaking seven times. But tread lightly, buddy. They’re gunning for you.



The ESPN Sports Guy Bill Simmons Award for Converting Innocuous Charm into Self-Important Irritation so That Fans Gave Up Hoping He’d Retire and Just Flat Out Ignored Him

Curt Schilling. Please go away. Please, please, please. Or at least get fitted for one of those metal plates that Beetlejuice threw over Geena Davis’s mouth to keep her from talking.


The “Sister Act” Award for Unretiring to Coach A Bunch of Unguided Misfits into Glory

Bill Parcells. After spinning the mess of the Giants into three division titles and an 8-3 playoff record, Parcells retired.

Comeback No.1: Coaxed out of retirement. Within two years, led New England to first playoff appearance in eight years, then three years later led them to first Super Bowl. Left to coach Jets and similarly whipped them into shape.

Comeback No.2: Was lured out of retirement again to coach Cowboys who were coming off three straight seasons of 5-11 play. Led ‘Boys to three winning seasons.

Comeback No.3: Unretired for the ultimate challenge—the Miami Dolphins. Good luck.


The "Sopranos" Series Finale Award for "Wait, what? THAT'S how it ended?" Retirement

Barry Sanders. After 10 years playing for Detroit, he decided it was time to retire. And by retire, I mean fax a letter to hometown newspaper announcing he was done. One of the best running backs in NFL history, he left with 15,269 rushing yards, 2,921 receiving yards, and 109 touchdowns (99 rushing and 10 receiving)—just inches from breaking the all-time rushing record.

It’s a little like how my dad will stay up with me to watch an extra-innings game. And then in the 16th inning, with bases loaded and two outs, he’ll get up and announce he’s going to bed.



The Samuel L. Jackson in “Snakes on a Plane” Award for future HOF-er Joining a Comedic Mess

Brett Favre. After retiring in 2008, Favre unretired only to discover he was persona non grata in Green Bay. He got traded to the New York Jets who, as per usual, straddle the fine line between fortifying momentum and frantic disarray.


The New Kids on the Block Award for “This is gotta be a joke, right?” Improbable Return that Still Makes My Head Spin

Ricky Williams. Retired because it was easier than having someone else pee in a cup for him every time he got randomly drug tested. Unretired and apologized profusely to all his fans…only to fail drug test No.29,108 less than a year later. This back and forth of reinstatement-drug policy violation went on for the better part of a decade. And now he’s back on the Dolphins. Hey, why not?



“The Bob Newhart Show” Series Finale Award for The Ultimate All-Time Retirement Swan Song

Michael Strahan. After the Giants won the Super Bowl, I remember saying to my friend Rob, “I’m scared that I’ll be at the altar of my own wedding someday and think, ‘Yeah, still not even close to as happy as I was on February 3, 2008.’” I couldn’t even fathom a situation that could manufacture the same degree of euphoria I felt that night. And I have to assume Michael Strahan felt the same way when he announced his retirement shortly thereafter.



* * *

I can’t presume to know what goes on in Jamie Moyer’s head or any other athlete who’s confronted with the issue of retirement. The only thing I can compare it to is when I’ll go to the park and shoot the old b-ball around.

Of course, after about an hour of this, my arms are about as strong as the inflated tubemen outside a car dealership. So it’s really anyone’s guess where the ball’s gonna land.

That’s around when I start saying to myself, “Ok, hit this three and then call it a day.” (Which soon becomes, “ok, just bank in this layup…”) Eventually, I’ll hit some nothing-but-net beauty, and instead of making good on all my deals with myself, I’m overly encouraged by this one shot and mistakenly think I’ve hit my stride.

The only thing I’ve ever hit is a number of deadened nerve endings from forcing my body to toss up what now feels like a watermelon.

If I multiply that sentiment by about infinity, I can begin to come to terms with athletes who refuse to give up the game, who won’t just throw in their cards, tip the dealer, and leave.

Deciding when to leave the table is about as critical decision as there is. It’s looking at the Jager shot on the bar after five hours of drinking, knowing that it could either make or break you.

It’s a decision that forces the athlete to consider who exactly he’s playing for: himself or the fan who financially supports him. Whose opinion is more compelling? We rally around our heroes and pride in their successes, as if we have a degree of equity in their glory, in exchange for the high price of emotional investment.

So when they crash, our anger is palpable, draining, and unforgiving. But how far can they take us, or will they take us? And what’s worse—when our heroes abandon us by choosing to retire…or when they stay at the party too long and go from star karaoke singer to the clingy, helpless drunk?

These aging heroes may not even consider what unretirement will potentially do to their legacy. They’ve seen their images go every which way in the course of their careers, so the threat of it being tarnished is eclipsed by the draw of once again suiting up.

Why do we return to our alma maters for alumni weekend? How often do you pass a little league game and think what you wouldn’t give to be the one playing instead of the one on the other side of the fence.

The vise grip of competition keeps us clamped to the table so securely that the win/loss chip count isn’t as important. When my dad comes back from poker night, he’s not giving us the rundown of how up or down he went. He’s going a mile a minute on his buddies Reilly and Danny and Harold and Dorey. He’s swearing off the game or singing its praises. He’s just happy.

So maybe when it comes to retirement, the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Leave the table too early, and you’ll always feel cheated. Leave too late—well, at least you’ll have the stories.

Everyone’s gotta crap out eventually. Except my dad’s friend in Vegas, who actually was escorted from the casino before his legendary roll ended…once cameras caught him urinating in the cup ledge. No one could figure out why he didn’t just use the nearby bathroom, until he explained it:

“You NEVER leave the table when you’re hot.”