I remember like it was yesterday when I was a mere youngster and as a yearly rite of passage my dad would bring me from our home in Yonkers to the big city stadium (Yippee!) to see the New York Yankees with Yogi Berra face the Boston Red Sox, who during those Yawkey years before Youkilis always had Yaz. Yup, you can bet that yours truly had an aching yen to be a ballplayer, yea a hall-of-famer.

Like any youth however, I went through stages. A bit later I yearned to be a rebel like Johnny Yuma from the days of yore roaming the Wild West. Yeah, Cool! I could patrol all of Wyoming including Yellowstone and then maybe venture down to the Yosemite Valley to dispense justice there too. I could also head up north to help tame the wild Yukon or range south to round up banditos on the Yucatan peninsula. Wherever I rode into town I'd yell Yeeeeehaw! and give out a big Hi Y'all! and commence to yukking it up with the local yokels spinning my adventurous yarns vowing to take down any yoyos, yahoos, and yellow-bellied sapsuckers that gave 'em a hard time. Instead of mom's yucky yogurt and eggnog from egg yolks (Yecch! force-fed to me on a yearlong basis not just at yuletide), I could live off yummy yodels and Chocolate Yoo-Hoo.

As a teenager I changed my mind yet again. I fancied myself at different times as an expert safecracking yegg, a daring young pilot with Chuck Yeager as my personal Yoda, and even the first man to capture a live yeti in the Himalayas. Taking an artistic turn, I then wished to write poetry like W.B. Yeats but later thought it would be cooler to write rock songs for the Yardbirds.

As I reached college age I felt awkward, having difficulty balancing my yin and yang. Was I more like Loretta Young or Yul Brynner? Did I have a defective Y-chromosome? To find the answers and get closer to Yahweh, I considered learning Yiddish and joining the Yeshiva where I could proudly wear my yarmulke on Yom Kippur. Yep, I'll admit that my life at this point was one big yawn, laboring hard every day doing yeoman's work as a gardening boy. I got so tired of nursing yew trees and cultivating yucca plants that I even considered yoking up some yaks to get Mrs. Yanofsky's yard to yield yams.

Then one day I said to myself, "Yo Man! Look at yourself! Do something with your life!" Did this revelation yank me back from limbo to reality? Yes indeed ye of little faith! It was like YIKES! YIPES! YOW! Hours of meditative yoga while listening to Yanni yielded the insight to go to Yale where after graduating I became a yuppie and quickly traded in my Yugo for a yacht, a measure of success by any yardstick.

Setting out from Yarmouthport, Cape Cod in my new craft, I embarked upon a journey to find a nice wife, first sailing off to Yerevan, Armenia where they make the best yalanchis (stuffed grape leaves) and awesome 'choreg' rolls made with just the right amount of yeast. From there I went to the port of Aden in South Yemen then to Russia visiting Yakutsk and Yalta. I traversed the wild blue yonder covering not only the wide oceans and the seven seas but many rivers, like the Yalu, Yellow, and Yangtze rivers in China, the Yazoo in Ole Miss., the Yakima in Washington, and finally the Yaqui down in Mexico, upon whose banks I found the youthful maiden, the ravishing Yolanda.

Problem is once we got back home and wed she instantly transformed into a yakking, yapping, yammering yenta more snippy and yippy than an angry yelping Yorkshire terrier. Being around the house and hearing her incessant yadda-yadda-yadda was a fate worse than yellow fever so I joined the YMCA where I am training hard to achieve my original goal of yesteryear to become the greatest hitting and fielding shortstop since hall-of-famer Robin Yount.

*Registered with the IP Rights Office Copyright Registration Service Ref: 426148730