Yankee confessional: Alex, I was wrong; please forgive me

Dear A-Rod,

It was around three years ago today that you arrived bundled in a basket on the Yankee Stadium doorstep, with a note pinned to the blankie that sheltered you from the elements ("Please give Little Alex love, attention, and a generous per diem"). Yankees fans were euphoric that fine February morning, giddy that the team had once again outflanked the Red Sox. You were the missing piece of the puzzle, the straw that would stir the $200 million drink.

Alex Rodriguez has better postseason numbers than Joe D. and The Mick. (US Presswire)

Then came the 2004 postseason -- or, to be more specific, the four consecutive losses to the Red Sox, which have been immortalized as the biggest collapse in the history of collapseyness. Since then, even during your 2005 MVP campaign, you've been blamed for every on- and off-field misstep you've been peripherally involved in: postseason pratfalls, losing streaks, off-day sunbathing, etc. It's your fault the arctic icecaps are melting. It's your fault the Sunnis and Shiites can't play nice.

I've been guilty of piling on, just like everybody else. Yet after everything we saw last season -- the erratic defense, the West Coast road trip in which you performed an eerie Miguel Cairo impression, the single hit in 14 playoff at-bats -- I have only two words for you:

I'm sorry.

Really, I am, as any other Yankees fan who has doubted, disparaged, mocked, slandered or otherwise diminished your aqua-lipped magnificence should be. Over the past three seasons, no Yankee has matched your level of performance. Nobody has really come all that close.

I was right on one thing only: You're not Derek Jeter. You're better.

Your "bad" 2006, in fact, should be exhibit A for why Yankees fans, and pretty much anybody not residing in the 617 or 508 area codes, should shut their stinkin' traps. In a down offensive year for you -- a mere 113 runs scored and 121 driven in, with a pitiable .290 batting average/.392 on-base percentage/.523 slugging percentage -- you were still one of baseball's top two or three third basemen. Nobody, it should be noted, paid much attention to crosstown crush David "D-Wrod" Wright's second-half and playoff no-shows.

Even after your teammates and manager sold you down the river in Sports Illustrated, you maintained an even keel. When you slumped, you didn't duck your interrogators and tormentors. You exuded class and patience at a time when, given the sizable gap between your performance and the perception thereof, you had every right to get a little pissy. Just think about how other Yankees comparably under the gun have handled the pressure. Remember Chuck Knoblauch channeling Sharon Stone in Casino? Billy Martin slugging every object, inanimate and otherwise, in his path? Dave Winfield conceding defeat and going weeks at a time without running out a ground ball?

I'm sold on you, Alex. Of course, until you have your Peyton Manning moment on the big stage -- a winning World Series in which you bat .765 with 11 homers and 32 RBI in six games, thereby assuring that everybody on the planet will be forced to acknowledge your contribution, however reluctantly -- it won't matter to the masses. So how do we -- I can use "we" now that I'm a card-carrying member of Team A-Rod, can't I? -- get the doubters to come around?

I have two tips. First, I strongly suggest that you shut up, as every sentence that comes out of your mouth will be parsed for psychological/emotional subtexts. If you confine your quotes to "I saw the ball well today" and "You've got to give the pitcher credit," nobody can read anything into them. Not about your he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not friendship with Jeter, not about the possibility that you'll opt out of your irrational-jealousy-inducing contract after this season, not about nuthin'.

While we're on the subject, please extend this silence to your semi-regular "journal" postings on Arod.com, too. Wildly charismatic nuggets like this one, from late December -- "Well, here we are at the end of another year. I am sure many of you have been like me, scrambling to get ready for the holidays" -- only serve to further your image as the soulless superstar, one so absurdly out of touch with his fan base as to believe such publicist fodder passes as actual communication.

No, the beat reporters, local columnists and tabloid headline artistes won't have much to work with, but it's not like they can bury you any deeper than they already have over the past few seasons. You have plenty of pals, I'm sure. Your social life can withstand being dropped from Mike Lupica's Christmas-fruitcake list.