Baltimore’s Big Mouth

Welcome to “The Tony Siragusa Show.”

It might last all week.

Picture 342 pounds of loudmouth Giant fan, Jersey born and bred.

But the jersey he’ll wear in Super Bowl XXXV will say Ravens.

“How ‘bout those Giants!” Siragusa roared at a couple of hundred well-oiled Raven fans last week at the suburban Baltimore crab house and saloon where the defensive tackle hosts a Thursday night radio show.

Boos all around.

“I’m absolutely not going to back out of it, Mr. Colts lover. . . . “ Siragusa said, stirring the crowd. “I might be a little bit of a Giant fan, but trust me, Sunday I’ll be the biggest Giant-hater you’ve ever seen.”

He is by turns raunchy and witty, charming and crude.

Let’s just say it. He was presented with an obscene cake at his last show, and was delighted.

Wherever he goes, Siragusa is the star of the show, and this is a Super Bowl waiting for one.

The Goose, as he’s known, grew up 20 minutes from Giants Stadium in a Kenilworth, N.J., neighborhood so Italian, Siragusa says a mother can go to the door and call, “Anthony!” and 35 kids will come running.

His father, Pete, rest his soul, was such a Giant fan he bought a new big-screen TV for the Super Bowl against Denver in 1987. Two years later, Pete was dead of a heart attack at 48, and Goose still writes “DAD” on his cleats.

Forget about being a Giant fan in Kenilworth this week.

“I gotta buncha my Uncle Louie’s friends taking care of anyone rooting for the Giants,” Siragusa said as he jousted with sportswriters and broadcasters Tuesday.

He can come across as misogynistic, homophobic, xenophobic . . . and he hopes he hasn’t left anyone out.

But his shtick is outrageous, the sort of John Belushi stuff that makes people give him a wide berth because you never know when the next embarrassing moment might occur.

“I’ll stand over here, where it’s safe,” defensive line coach Rex Ryan said as Goose bellowed for him to join him.

On the other end of the field, Trent Dilfer sat talking about his religious faith and the resurrection of his career.

“Trent should pick out the Tampa Bay people who told him he couldn’t play and give them the finger,” Siragusa said. “He wouldn’t do that, but I would.”

The questions rolled.

“Hey, Goose, do you need a shoehorn to put on your helmet?”

“No, I just use a little grease.”

“Goose, what do you think about the XFL?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, but I think they’ve got some hot-looking cheerleaders.”

“Goose, what’s it like being called fat guy?”

“I was a little upset we’re wearing white pants. The purple make me look thinner.”

“Hey, Goose, what about the fine for the hit on Rich Gannon?”

“If I weighed 220, would I have gotten fined? I might file a discrimination suit.

“None of you Japanese got any questions?

“Where are you from, man? Germany?

“‘Sumo? I don’t think I’d look good in that wrap.

“Three-forty-two. I’m going to put that up behind me. Three-forty-two. Are you dyslexic?

“You. Ask a question. ‘How’s media day?’ I’m going to see you on a national network very soon.”

In Tampa he is a temporary spectacle.

In Baltimore, he is a modern-day Art Donovan.

But in Oakland, he’s better known as the guy who belly-flopped on Gannon, the Raider quarterback, knocking him out of the AFC title game and drawing a $10,000 NFL fine.

“Ten grand?” Siragusa said last week as he swigged a beer while hosting his show.

“Ten grand, I want to at least get in a couple of sucker punches.

“It’s amazing. You’ve got a guy playing quarterback for the toughest team in the NFL, you fall on top of him and he cries.”

Raider center Barret Robbins was still angry the day after the game.

“That fat . . . ,” he said. “That was just so [weak]. . . . Just so happens, he is so fat, when he falls on you, he is going to hurt you.”

At home in Baltimore, Siragusa had a favorite response:

“My wife is 5-foot-2. . . .”

Much of what goes on at the Barn, the bar where Siragusa hosts the show, is unprintable, even though the audience includes little old ladies--”Not for mixed company,” one said when she saw the cake--and 6-year-olds who ask Siragusa to sign their foreheads. (He obliges.)

After the victory over the Raiders, he accepted flowers in lavender tissue, then turned and faked a dainty bridal bouquet toss.

“Where’s the guy who gave me these?”

Between forkfuls of crab meat, mopping perspiration from his forehead with a napkin, he spotted a broadcaster with a new hairstyle.

He quickly asked over the open mike, “Hey, ever see that movie ‘Something About Mary?’ ”

Coach Brian Billick phoned in, and Siragusa needled him too:

“Bri, what’s it like being the genius of 2001? Working with guys like Siragusa, it’s like you made something unbelievable out of mud.”

Then he got down to business, a little something about William “the Refrigerator” Perry.

“You think there’s a chance you’ll let me carry the ball in the Super Bowl? You think I got a shot?”

“If we’re up by four touchdowns,” Billick said.

“So in other words, no way,” Siragusa said, guffawing.

“If we’re up by four touchdowns . . . “ Billick said. “You’re going in at fullback and we’re going to give you the ball.”

Satisfied for the moment, Siragusa decided to sing.

“I put Sinatra on in the locker room, the guys ask me, ‘Who’s that?’ ” he said.

And then he sang, in a surprisingly velvet tone, every note on key:

The summer wind

Comes blowin’ in

From across the sea.

It lingers there

To touch your hair

And walk with me.

For a minute, you forget the bathroom humor, the jockstrap jokes, the remarks about wives, girlfriends, even the air freshener Siragusa likes to spray in the direction of teammates’ lockers.

The autumn wind!

And the winter wind!

They have come and gone. . . .

I lost you, yes,

I lost you

To the summer wind.

“Now a little Springsteen?” his co-host asked.

“Springsteen?” Siragusa said.

“I need a couple more beers to do Springsteen.”