God, another September 11th. What a world.

I’m pretty excited, because my annual tribute is set to be bigger than ever. Every year since 2001, I’ve staged a small re-enactment to honor the victims. It’s been especially poignant since I arrived in New York, and if the media gave the ceremony more attention, it could really endear me to the locals. But, as everyone knows, the media are slobs and cowards.

You might ask if a re-enactment is appropriate. That’s a good, honest question. The answer is yes. It’s one thing to sing songs and wave flags and erect monuments. That’s half the battle, sure. But what stirs the memory, what really brings tears to people’s eyes, is the event itself. You need to actually see some kind of flying projectile crash into two tower-like structures, and that’s where I come in.

The next common question is “how did you come up with this, A-Rod?” Well, I got the idea at a Golden Corral in Tampa shortly after the tragedy, when I was goofing around with a knife and two pepper shakers. When I realized what I’d just conceived, I stood up and made the inspiration known to all the diners. I even pretended to be a newscaster, shocked at the events. Some folks nearly cried. Only the idiotic manager missed the point, and that fat imbecile had the nerve to kick me out. (I still have a wrongful treatment lawsuit pending against the entire Golden Corral franchise.)

This year’s re-enactment has to take place in Canada, because we’re in Toronto for a game with the blue team. But I haven’t let that deter me; in the dugout, I’ve rigged an ingenious tribute. Picture this: on top of a water cooler, two stacks of styrofoam cups are staggered, resembling the towers. Parallel wires are strung from just above the cooler to the opposite end of the dugout. Two catcher’s mitt attached by hooks swoop from that side, traversing the whole bench before toppling the cups. Once they fall, I tug a string which pulls the top off the cooler. Hanging from the lid’s underside, in plain sight as it rises, is a picture of Phil Rizzuto, the Yankee shortstop who died this year. The photo says “The ‘Skipper’: A Friend that Died.” My boombox plays “Everything’s Not Lost” by Coldplay, and I wave a sparkler under the photo.

If your eyes don’t mist up after seeing that, you are heartless or foreign.

Now I just have to make sure the tv cameras are on when it starts, and ask Toronto to lend me the PA mic so I can emcee the ceremony.