Dear Kyle Farnsworth

I see you got some more tats, That's cool.

I see, also, that you still have that crazy fastball, hitting 96, 99, on the gun, but it looks like 120. And that nasty curve. You added, what, a change? A splitter? Something. Offspeed. Good for you. A pitcher should grow as he ages. Keep hitters off balance and guessing.

Truth be told, I was worried, a little, when you came in last night. I figured you'd be hopped up, wanting to jam the Yankees for the perceived slights you endured during your time under Joe Torre, despite your inability to inspire confidence. Or hold a lead. Or keep the ball in any park not on a national registry.

You came in throwing fire, and for a second, I thought the game was over. But you're still you, and I came to my senses, knowing, assuming you'd find a way to blow up. And you did. Against a bunch of backups and Robbie Cano.

50 come-from-behind wins. 50. And another cream pie. And another mad dash to the outfield to catch the guy who drove in the winning run thanks to your shin and lack of agility.

Kyle, physically, you're probably the most intimidating guy in baseball. Seriously. You're a monster and you should dominate. Sometimes, you do. Most times, you don't. You, sir, are a mystery as huge as your biceps.

So Kyle, thanks for being you last night, and helping the Yankees continue this fantastic season. It's washed away the ick from last year and ook of the new stadium ... which is still an affront to nature, but could use a championship to welcome the ghosts back ... or at least prove they never left.