He's such a Putz

As I mentioned before, you can count me among the easily amused.

The other night, for instance, I had to fiddle with the DVR to get just the right shot of this young man, a relief pitcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks with the sad surname of Putz.

I can count on one hand the number of Yiddish words that have successfully slipped into our vernacular. Putz, schmeckel and schmuck come to mind. I'm sure there are a dozen more, but I'm writing this on the morning of Yom Kippur, I have no food in my belly (and won't until sundown) and in a couple of hours I will have to slap on the monkey suit and sit in shul goose-stepping to a God I don't believe in.

If you're that interested get off your tuchas and look up your own Yiddish words.

I can't imagine the grief J.J. Putz took growing up with such a last name. Particularly since he pursued a career in the testosterone-fueled world of athletics. Maybe it wasn't so bad in Michigan, where Putz grew up. After all he was named Mr. Baseball. And Midwesterners, like my Minnesota-born wife, are so notoriously nice.

But in 2009, Putz was traded to the NY Mets. Meaning he played in Flushing, my old neighborhood. Which also means he came under the careful scrutiny of the NY Post reporters, who can mercilessly spin a good headline.

That must have been tough. But I'm sure J.J. handled it all with aplomb. After all, by this time in his career I'm sure Putz has developed a thick skin.