Shed the facade, A-Rod; be the unapologetic lout you should be

Dear Mr. A-Rod:

I think I speak for the great majority of Yankees fans, if not most denizens of the western hemisphere, when I say that I don't much care for you.

Don't get me wrong: In theory, there's an awful lot to like. You never get hurt. You run out every ground ball. You're the only Yankees regular for whom a simple defensive play doesn't induce in me the cold dread usually associated with an imminent colonoscopy.

A-Rod ain't misbehaving. Is that the problem? (Getty Images)

Yet for all your numbers and professional polish, you've proved as embraceable as a sub-Saharan despot.

For some, it was the 2005 playoff no-show (these people ignore the six walks you drew in five games, which would seem to shift a bit of the blame to the fellas behind you in the order). For others, it was the Slappy McSlapRod incident against the Red Sox in 2004 (never mind your Ruthian 1.014 OPS in the postseason that year, nor your near-solo annihilation of the Twins in the divisional round).

What killed you in my eyes was your one-man media blitz after the Yankees clinched the 2005 AL East title. On Fox, you gave an interview attributing your regular-season glories to the fans and, if I recall correctly, "the uniform." Eighteen seconds later, on the completely, totally, thoroughly unbiased YES Network, you said almost the same exact words. I half expected to catch a glimpse of a teleprompter in the background.

You came across as the jock gazillionaire equivalent of a sorority gal who really, really, really wants to be liked. As we all know, such gals tend to enjoy lots of "friendships" that last until approximately 8:20 a.m. the next morning.

In short, the nice-guy shtick doesn't play for you. You are A-Rod. You are a brand. You have more net wealth than South America. Your ears are precisely the right size for your head.

Don't try to be Derek or Mariano. Just be the best -- or worst? -- Alex you can be. (Getty Images)

So I'm calling on you to ditch the just-one-of-the-guys pretense and embrace your inner Mike Tyson. On the field, stay the course. Off it, it's time for an extreme makeover, but with fewer "reveals" and more thunderous profanity within earshot of cancer-stricken kids. You can be a driven superstar for four hours every day and a liquored-up, late-night-diner pugilist the other 20. Just ask David Wells.

Frequenting illegal after-hours poker parlors was a good start, but you surrendered that goodwill with a florid apology and a cross-my-heart promise never to return. How about this: Tip off Page Six wags that you'll be exiting Scores at approximately 2:35 a.m. on the night before a day game. Emerge from said institution with a $20 bill dangling from your fly as the flashbulbs pop. Go 3-for-5 a few hours later and then leave the locker room without comment. Never, ever apologize.

Ditch the measured, thoughtful responses that betray your 7,200 hours worth of media training ("well, [insert questioner's name here], that's a great question") and say whatever the hell comes to mind, especially if it involves NASCAR or Danzig. Wonder aloud what purpose Tanyon Sturtze has on this planet, or any other. Without being prompted, add how much you admire the Red Sox organization and how you often imagine finishing your career in Fenway.

Also, it's time to start swinging back.

When Ozzie Guillen rips you for taking 17 weeks to decide between playing for the U.S., the Dominican Republic or Istanbul in the World Baseball Classic, the correct response is not, "The apology has been accepted. We've moved on from there," as you said upon reporting to training camp this week. The proper response is "tell that little pissant I'll stomp him until his kidneys liquefy."