The Postseason, Bronx Bomb Shelter Style

It was a dull Tuesday afternoon in the locker room of Yankees Stadium, the day after a grueling loss in game 5 of the ALDS. Various players were milling about, cleaning out their lockers. Some were still trying to get in some workout time in the weight room, and a few sat around chatting idly. Derek Jeter was sitting by his locker, staring at a piece of paper in his hand.

Mike Mussina walked up to him. "Answering some last-minute fan mail?"

Jeter looked up, as if in a daze. "No... I wouldn't call this fan mail, exactly. Here, read it, Moose."

Mussina picked up the letter and read it to himself. His eyes first lit up with bemusement, then briefly flared with anger, and then fell into a dull stare.

Dear DJ,

Since we're kinda in the same boat here, man, I figured I'd drop ya a note with my condolences. Look on the bright side... I can tell you there's a lot more that goes with being the leadoff man on a winning World Series team these days. For example, you know that those Queer Eye guys want to do another show for whoever wins this year? So they can raise money for the Little Leaguers down in Louisiana? You may think it's humiliating getting beaten by the Angels, but trust me when I tell you there's nothing more humiliating than getting groped by that Carson Kressley guy on national TV. Did you see those crazy-ass pinstripes he put Mirabelli in last year? Hoooooooly shit, man, you should consider yourself lucky.

By the way, Manny says hi too. He says you guys can be friends now that you both hit lots of homers in the postseason and still lost. He had a message for Alex too, but he kept dissolving into giggles before he could get it out. I think it was something like "MVP my .133-batting ass, Slappy!" At least, that's how Bronson Arroyo translated it.

I'll see ya out on the warpath again next year, bro. Keep it real.

Love, JD

P.S - My hairstylist says to tell Alex that she doesn't care what anyone says, he's still a hottie.

"So this is it, huh," Mussina said. "We're getting sympathy from Johnny Damon and the Red Sox."

"I dunno," replied Jeter. "He's got a point."

"What, that we're all a bunch of overpaid losers now?"

"No, I mean, did you see that episode of Queer Eye? We really did luck out, man. Do you really want to get your back waxed on national TV?"

They both paused for a minute, looked at each other, and flinched at the thought.

"I hope it's not the White Sox, then," mused Mussina.

"Why's that? 'Cause they beat the Red Sox?"

"No." He grimaced. "What's one of the few things that should hopefully never, ever, ever be seen on television ever again?"

Jeter thought for a minute. "Randy Johnson's face?"

Mussina shook his head. "Worse. Two words." He shuddered, as if it pained him to say it.

Jeter gave him a blank stare. "I give up."

"Duque Dance!"