Dear A.J.,

On behalf of Yankees fans everywhere, I'd like to extend you a heartfelt goodbye. Sometimes these things don't work out. New York is a tough place; one minute you're the greatest Pie Chemist the city's ever seen, punctuating each walk-off win with a thrilling victory-splat, and the next a red-faced Frankie from Bayonne is wilding on you to Mike Francesa as thousands of listeners nod in agreement, silently assenting to the idea that you should be handcuffed to the back of a garbage truck and shame-paraded down the Canyon of Heroes. No one ever said being an eight-figure-per-season pitcher in New York was easy. Ask Randy Johnson. Or Kevin Brown. Or Javier Vazquez, twice.