Blame oozed.

"Blame oozed from one wall of the Yankees’ clubhouse to the other last night.

Standing on the left side of the somber room was Mark Teixeira, shouldering the blame for a 4-3 loss to the Rays in front of 21,742 at Tropicana Field.

Across from Teixeira, David Robertson pointed the finger at himself."

Blame oozed from one wall of the New York Post newsroom to the other last night.

George A. King III sought refuge in his usual spot, sitting awkwardly in front of a flickering monitor. George always preferred a typewriter to a computer; a taxi cab to a limousine; a double scotch to an appletini.

He allowed his mind to wander for a moment, dreamily recalling the sweet release of a double scotch.

No ice, of course, "rocks are for quarries," his old man always used to say. Just like his old man before him, and his old man before him, all the way back to the Old Country.


George had dutifully interviewed the muscular, sweaty baseball players in the postgame locker room.

The first baseman tried to take the blame, the reliever tried to take the blame, maybe the manager tried to take the blame, too.

But did they understand blame?

Don't do it, George. Don't do this to yourself.


But what if they found out the truth?

What if the County decided to dig deeper into his tax records?


Keep it together, George. The only person who can betray you now is yourself. Everyone else who knows is already gone.


Blame.

Guilt.

Shame.

All of them, oozing like living things, flooding the newsroom. A wild animal attack will kill you quickly, but these animals only kill you slowly.


George did what he always did.

He sighed deeply, snuck a swallow from his flask, and tick-tacked away at the keyboard.

Maybe one more column will keep the demons at bay for one more day.