Y2K: The Cheddar Ben Chronicles

To appreciate how stoked I am for the new "Terminator" series, you have to understand that A.F.O.M.G. once stalked around the Upper West Side for two days fiending for a VHS copy of T2. We couldn't find one at any of the video stores, nobody we knew owned it, and as a result, we ended up sulking on his couch for the better part of a weekend, constantly pointing out that nothing on television was nearly as entertaining as the movie would have been. I think that was how we ended up watching "Sorority Boys." But never mind that.

Anyway, I couldn't possibly be more excited for "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles," and to be sure, the special two-night premiere was all I hoped for. Bleak yet inspiring vision of the future? Check. Ungainly cyborg-on-cyborg grappling? Check and check. A decent interpretation of Linda Hamilton's awesome 80s perm? Check (courtesy of Lena Headey, recently of "300"). Even the plot was pretty decent -- Terminators come back to track down John Connor in 1999, so with the help of a smoking young and good female Terminator (just go with it), they jump forward to the year 2007 (holler!) to stop the rise of the machines. Solid. Very solid.

And yet it occurred to me that in 2007, we already have our own version of the machines. I'm talking, of course, about the New York Yankees. Honestly, it stuns me that I haven't thought of this before. The analogy is simply more apt than any of the other cultural comparables (the Empire, U.S. Steel, Mordor) we attach to the team. Rooting for the Yankees is absolutely like rooting for the Terminators.

They both returned to prominence in the 1990s, propelled by strong relationships with powerful government officials. They're both perfectionist enterprises, bringing a committed, mechanical approach to their respective businesses. They both operate in a hellish, post-apocalyptic boneyard. (Sorry, South Bronx).

And, of course, both enjoy plenty of success. As long as you define success as "the complete eradication of everything that makes us human." I'm extremely comfortable with that definition. I mean, you tell me -- is there any way Mariano Rivera is NOT a cyborg? Please think before you answer that.

As an introduction to the new series, then, and as a primer to any of the resistance fighters who've traveled back to our time and remain unfamiliar with the parameters of the current, pre-Judgement Day struggle against the cyborg menace (i.e., the MLB season), we should probably match up the primary "Terminator" characters with their baseball personas.

You'll thank me in the future.

The machines -- The New York Yankees

See above. I've never seen this in action, but I'll bet you that when Robby Cano walks into a room, dogs just start barking like crazy. Aslo, tell me this timeline doesn't freak you out:

October 26, 1996 -- SkyNet goes online. Also, Jimmy Key outduels Greg Maddux and the Yanks beat the Braves, 3-2, to clinch their first World Series title since 1977 -- coincidentally, the same year the DOD launched ARPANET. Hmm.

October 21, 1998 -- The Bombers gain self-awareness and finish off their sweep of the Padres in San Diego.

February 18, 1999 -- The Yankees declare war on humanity, launching a pre-emptive nuclear strike on Russia. They know the response will eliminate their enemies here. Also, they trade for Roger Clemens.

October 21, 2000 -- The last collapse, as a Terminator double agent (Armando Benitez) sabotages the humans' defenses at the crucial moment.

November 4, 2001 -- The resistance begins. The Diamondbacks teach us to fight, to storm the wire of the camps, to smash those metal motherfuckers into junk. They turned it around. They brought us back from the brink.

And so forth. It's positively spooky.

Kyle Reese -- Steve Avery

A victim of the war. Before 1996, Steve Avery was an All-Star pitcher with a career 3.83 ERA; after his World Series loss, he was never the same. But the man fought the good fight for as long as he could, and to be sure, none in that time proved able to stand against the machines. Also, if you don't think the idea of Steve Avery taking down Linda Hamilton isn't hilarious, I don't know what to tell you.

Miles Dyson -- Brian Cashman

The architect of the abomination. Like Dyson, he claims to have no inkling of the consequences of his work. Admitted, it's not every day you hear you're responsible for 3 billion deaths. But take it like a man, at least.

Arnold -- Mike Lowell

Once a Terminator himself (or, put another way, a Yankees farmhand), he was eventually ripped free of the cyborgs' control and reprogrammed to serve the common good. He became a key part of a scrappy band of resistance fighters who proved able, in time, to win a crucial battle against the machines, overcoming ludicrous odds to do so. Plus, I can definitely see Lowell walking up to someone in a bar and telling them "I need your clothes, boots, and your motorcycle."

The T-1000 -- Jason Giambi

You'd better believe it. He was a new breed of killer, one who could cloak himself of the guise of a good and decent guy. But underneath, he was just aching to destroy the hardworking masses. A real wolf in sheep's clothing. Now, while they never came out and said the T-1000 was on steroids, you have to think there was some pretty weird chemical stuff going on inside that liquid metal. In the end, he proved to be nothing more than a pushover. As an aside, if anyone's planning on dumping Jason Giambi into a vat of smelted iron, let me know. I'd pay to see that.

Sarah Connor -- Pedro Martinez

For a while, the Terminators were Sarah Connor's daddy, too. They dominated her protectors at the police station, chased her around Los Angeles, even killed her main squeeze. To be completely honest, it didn't look great for her -- just as in 2003, things didn't look all that great for Pedro. But you always knew both were winners. Their hair was just too good to ignore. Eventually, both would score decisive victories over their mortal enemies (the Terminator being destroyed by a waitress with poofy curls could plausibly be described as the Greatest Collapse in Playoff History) and change history in the process.

For my money, after big innings, Pedro should come off the mound and scream "You're terminated, motherfucker!" at the opposing dugout. But that's just me.

John Connor -- Jose Reyes

The future. The leader of the resistance. The one who makes it all possible.

Plus, you can definitely imagine this conversation taking place in the Mets' dugout.

Reyes: No, no, no, no. You gotta listen to the way people talk. You don't say "affirmative," or some shit like that. You say "no problemo." And if someone comes on to you with an attitude you say "eat me." And if you want to shine them on it's "hasta la vista, baby."

David Wright: Hasta la vista, baby.

Reyes: Yeah but later, dickwad. And if someone gets upset you say, "chill out"! Or you can do combinations.

Wright: Chill out, dickwad.

Reyes: Great! See, you're getting it!

The point is, who but Reyes embodies the charisma the future Connor is said to possess? I can't think of any. I can't ever see Connor not running out an infield grounder, though, but that's why Reyes' future lies ahead of him.

Anyway, I got myself unappealingly pumped up by writing this. Monday nights will never be the same. You heard it here first.