Why I’m Going to Forget the Yankees and Take Up a Worthwhile Profession : By GEORGE STEINBRENNER <i> Wealthy Free Lancer </i>

For those of you who don’t know me, poor fools, my name is Steinbrenner, I own the Yankees, and I have been hired to write about the 1986 World Series. My articles have been appearing for several weeks now in the New York Post, right next to the ones about killer nuns from outer space.

For some reason, the newspaper you are now reading has resisted running my columns. Today, though, with the Series coming to such an exciting finish, the editors decided to give the day off to the guy who usually fills this space. Boy, would I like to get that jerk in an elevator some time.

A little bit about how I got hired: When the regular season ended, the editors asked me if I wanted to try my hand at sportswriting. I told them I knew nothing about writing. I told them I knew nothing about sports. They told me that I had fulfilled all the qualifications. The job was mine.

I went right out and bought a checked polyester sports jacket from K-Mart, just to look the part.

The first series I covered was the one between the Houston Astros and the (ugh) New York Mets, the city’s second most popular team. The Mets lucked out. Their batting average for the playoffs was about .098, for which the Mets accused the Houston pitchers of cheating. Sorry, boys. The only things the Astros scuffed was their shoes.

The Mets had nobody to blame but themselves. They’re the ones who provided Houston with Mike Scott and Nolan Ryan. Nobody with an ounce of brains would ever trade away such good players, as I was telling Don Baylor the other day.

About this scuffing business: I don’t care if Scott did cheat. You do whatever works. I wish Ron Guidry would scuff the ball. I wish Dave Righetti would scuff the ball. I wish Ed Whitson would have scuffed the ball. Come to think of it, I wish somebody would have scuffed Ed Whitson.

Somehow, the Mets did manage to get to the World Series. They went right out and blew the first two games, even though they were using their so-called best pitchers, Ron Darling and Dwight Gooden. It was not New York’s finest hour. I heard Sinatra called and wanted his song back.

Then the Series moved to Fenway Park. I figured the Mets were finished, that Mookie Wilson would take one look at that left-field wall and volunteer for infield duty. You know what Shea Stadium’s left-field wall is? A Newsday billboard. The Mets are so cheap, they couldn’t even get News week .

The one thing I hadn’t counted on was Oil Can Boyd. Or as the guys in Brooklyn and Queens refer to him, Erl Can Boyd.

I have to tell you, I think Oil Can is a few quarts low. The way this guy paces back and forth, flapping his gums, he shouldn’t have become a baseball pitcher. He should have become a TV preacher, or maybe a pro wrestler. They’re going to find this guy some day in a nice white hospital, telling people he’s Napoleon.

The Mets knocked Oil Can’s dipstick loose, then got another break when the Red Sox decided to pitch Al Nipper. I’m surprised they didn’t decide to reactivate Ted Williams while they were at it. He and Nipper had both been out of action for about the same length of time.

I watched Dwight Evans knock the ball out of the park with his glove, just like Dave Henderson did at Anaheim. If Dave Winfield ever pulls anything like that, I’ll fill his locker with dead sea gulls.

Game 5 was a good one, and Boston won. It looked like the American League had the World Series in the bag for the fourth straight year. At least this was some satisfaction for me, although I hate the Red Sox almost as much as I hate the Mets.

Then came Game 6. I will never forget Game 6. I was thinking about offering a $500 reward to the first Boston player who could catch the ball under pressure.

In the 10th inning, it looked like the Red Sox had won the game on a home run by this Henderson person, who they got in a trade with Seattle. Boy, my people were really asleep at the wheel on that one. We should have gotten that guy. You can never have too many Hendersons. In the bottom of the 10th inning, Shea Stadium was like a morgue. The Mets were going, going, gone. They were done. Stick a fork in them. I happen to know that Nelson Doubleday was already dictating his letter of apology to the fans of New York.

Then, something funny happened. Gary Carter singled. I think this was right after NBC named Marty Barrett the Miller Lite player of the game. Then came another single. Then another. Then a wild pitch. Then a ball rolled through the legs of Bill Buckner, who had obviously taken first-base lessons from Leon Durham before leaving Chicago.

The Mets had come back from the dead. Risen from the grave. A New York Post story if there ever was one.

I only wish I could have stuck around for Game 7. Unfortunately, I fired Lou Piniella today, and I’m busy preparing a press conference for tomorrow to name Billy Martin as manager. This, as they say in the newspaper business, as well as the dog clean-up business, is a scoop.