Anybody for seconds?

The smorgasbord begins tonight, when my favorite baseball team and Satan’s favorite baseball team collide in what could be the first of 26 rounds of heavyweight hootenanny between now and mid-October.

Now, a brief interlude of brutal honesty: The Red Sox might not win the first one. David Wells against Randy Johnson? In Yankee Stadium? Prime-time? It’s the most predictable baseball event since the climactic scene of “The Natural.”

But Boston will win the last one, as convincingly as John Kerry carried Massachusetts, as surely as Wells digs that new ultimate omelet breakfast sandwich at Burger King.

Try to mute out the collective, giant sucking-up sound of Harold Reynolds, Tim McCarver and every starstruck pundit who would report every time George Steinbrenner sat on his toilet as a brilliant off-season move.

Take an honest look at the lineups and pitching staffs, weigh the baggage on both sides and arrive at the only logical conclusion: The Yankees are a desperate franchise, hovering between the philosophy of a rotisserie team and the mentality of a slow-pitch softball outfit.

If you’ve just come back from a five-year vision quest in Outer Mongolia and don’t know Bill Belichick from John Havlicek, please understand that sports in the expansion-laden, economically insane, performance-enhancing drug era are all about chemistry.

Therein lies the Yankees’ fatal flaw. They’re an army of mercenaries, besieged by performance anxiety.

Steinbrenner isn’t far from the same stammering, stumbling mess that he became in the early-to-mid-1980s when everyone else started winning. His filthy lucre has enticed Alex Rodriguez, Gary Sheffield, Jason Giambi, Johnson and every other over-priced individual talent of this generation, at the expense of the farm system and clubhouse cohesion.

Of course, he’d be blessed if the name on every dotted line wielded that star power. Carl Pavano and Jaret Wright? Are you kidding me? Ladies and gentlemen, meet the world’s first two human panic buttons.

Their gift bag at the door contained a season’s supply of razors and an engraved reminder of George’s Great Commandment: Thou shalt win, or else.

No, you won’t catch me giving the Sox a free pass for avarice. But theirs is money well spent. Every maneuver is designed to fill a specific need, not grab a 144-point headline in Newsday and dump dirt on the grave of another helpless, miniature-market franchise.

The Red Sox moved forward over the winter without demolishing the historic foundation built last fall. They locked up Jason Varitek, the consummate professional every championship team needs, for the remainder of his prime. Edgar Renteria brings that same old-school approach to shortstop and was a brilliant addition.

Nothing counts in baseball more than the little stuff. Here’s a hunch that fourth outfielder Jay Payton emerges as a more significant acquisition than any component of the Yankees’ pitching staff-for-hire.

Much will be made of the supposed questions surrounding the champions’ camp. Wade Miller and Matt Mantei’s arms. Curt Schilling’s ankle. Wells’ belly and brain.

Sorry, but until the BALCO fury subsides, a roster bearing the weight of both Sheffield and Giambi trumps any team on the planet in the uncertainty department.

I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, mind you. Given the Yankees’ cache of future Hall of Famers, they can take a zero on the chemistry exam and win 95 games in their sleep. In looking at New York’s gift-wrapped opportunity this evening, I’m not prepared to predict a wire-to-wire walk, either.

But the Red Sox will win the American League East by a whisker and won’t need the Comeback of the Century this time to claim the championship series.

Beating the Cardinals, Mets or Giants in the Fall Classic will be a breeze. After all, by then, George will have found a way to acquire Albert Pujols, Pedro Martinez and Barry Bonds.

Not that it’ll make a difference.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].