Fie! We cannot contain our odium for the team that hails from the hamlet previously named New Amsterdam. We decry all those sportsmen donning pinstriped suits and jaunty blue caps whose arrival means the raiding of our small burh. Harvest after harvest, the blasphemous prudhommes George Steinbrenner, Brian Cashman and Joe Torre impose unfair tallage all o’er the land, pillaging our finest base-ball men for their squadron and leaving us with only a few beggared peasants with which to fill our rosters.
But now the day of reckoning hath arrived! For our countless prayers hath been answered. This harvest, the Lord of Base-ball hath smiled on us and graced our fair League with the gift of Angels! How we rejoice at being prithee to the coming of Troy Glaus, Garrett Anderson and Jarrod Washburn to halt the impending besiegement of our town! Even a simpleton can behold that the Lord hath at last delivered us into the land he hath promised, a land of rawhide and resin, that was lost when Tom “Judas” Yawkey betrayed the great sovereign, Babe Ruth, to the baneful merchants from New Amsterdam.
We senseth that the unequivocal exorcism of New Amsterdam’s demons from our village hath arrived! Curses upon Derek Jeter! We knoweth behind that comely face lies the heart of an impure beast. We wish a hex on Bernie Williams! No virtuous man shall take advantage of Mike Scioscia’s decisions, for he knows not what he does. Boils and blisters infest Mariano Rivera! Our priests know your body is too weak to withstand the sheer vigor of Darin Erstad. A traitor be Jason Giambi! For last harvest he stood with us, shed tears over the rapine seizing of our women and children by the bandits and we thought him to be an ally. Then to our complete bewilderment, during the marauders’ exodus, he sheared his triumphant mane and ran off to join them. If we capture him, we will cast him into the flaming pits of hell.
We are behind you, Angels. You are our salvation. Hold fast, Tim Salmon. Roam the outfield with unhinged abandon like the creature for which you are named swimming upstream to spawn. Stand tall, David Eckstein. Even though the Lord hath not bestowed upon you the size of Goliath, he hath granted the speed of Hermes upon your person. Be ferocious, Troy Percival. For yours is the power to strike feare in the hearts of lesser men with your 100-m.p.h. fast-ball. Fight well, dear Angels, for the fate of our worldly existence lies in your hands.
