You look at Joe Torre and you think, "easy like Sunday morning." No ruffle in his feathers, no sweat on his brow. Mr. Unflappable.

	"I've got four rings in seven years ... and now everyone's upset that I can't get one for the thumb?"

He just leans back on the bench and does his mastermind thing, and when the game's over, he drops back and fields questions from the media like he's shagging flies.

Truth is, though, Joe's feeling it lately. Truth is, all the vote-of-confidence talk from The Boss has him kind of harried, kind of bottled up.

These last few weeks, while the Yanks have struggled a bit and the former shipping magnate has groused a bit, Torre has been wandering around the ballpark looking for an ear to bend.

He has tried his wife, his pal, Zim, and the ghost of Billy Martin. He has tried Captain Jeter, La Russa, his brother Frank, and, in a moment of weakness, he even called Dr. Laura.

Everyone has been sympathetic (except Dr. Laura, of course, who told him to grow some stones and hung up on him), but they haven't really been able to put his mind at ease.

And so, still looking to exorcise the Georgey demons, Joe eventually made his way to the office of Dr. Feelgood, resident Page 2 head shrinker.

On Saturday, Torre told reporters, "I don't feel any less secure. The losing doesn't make me fearful of losing my job."

But behind closed doors with Dr. Feelgood on Monday morning, he sounded more like this:

Torre: Dr. Feelgood? This is what, a George Nichopoulos thing?

Doctor: Elvis trivia reference -- nice! But no, it's just my daddy's name.

	"If this therapy thing doesn't work out, you might get a visit from a couple of my friends."

Torre: I feel like Tony Soprano.

Doctor: Are you saying if this doesn't go well, you're gonna "take care of me."

Torre: I'm saying I hate the sneaking around. I'm also saying it would be nice if you looked more like Dr. Melfi and less like Dr. Frankenstein. And sure, yeah, I'm saying if you disappoint me, I could probably make a call ...

Doctor: Fair enough. Tell me about the sneaking.

Torre: It's nothing.

Doctor: How does it make you feel?

Torre: How does it make me feel? Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Bob Hartley!

Doctor: Joe, you're blocking.

Torre: All right, how does it make me feel? It makes me feel like a punk kid trying to grab a smoke on the sly, like a criminal in my own house, like Dr. Richard Kimble at the top of the waterfall, like singing, "Freeeeeeee Nelson Mandela!" at the top of my lungs ...

	"Remember that, just like Rudy, I'm an icon in this city."

Doctor: We're talking about sneaking to my office for this appointment, right? Nothing else?

Torre: What else would we be talking about?

Doctor: Right. Let's talk about your relationships -- tell me about your friends on the staff, tell me about Zimmer and Stottlemyre.

Torre: Love 'em. They're like family to me. But I will say I'm not crazy about the way they shake their heads at every single decision I make these days.

Doctor: They shake their heads?

Torre: It's almost imperceptible, but I see it -- it's a little twitch just above the right eye on Zim, and with Mel it's a wrinkle on the bridge of his nose that deepens when he judges me.

I'm pulling Contreras -- twitch, wrinkle. I'm leaving him in -- wrinkle, twitch. I'm taking a leak, tying my shoe, whistling a tune, ordering a dog and a beer -- you name it. They just sit there, like birds on a wire, like two school girls twittering and mocking the fat kid.

Doctor: Doesn't sound like them --

Torre: I know, but there it is.

Doctor: Sounds a little like ...

Torre: My wife's the same way. Only with her it's subtler.

Doctor: Subtler?

Torre: Yeah, it's a certain tone she uses. It sounds sweet enough to the untrained ear, but I'm telling you, there's a nasty bass on it, and it just keeps laying down its vicious little never-satisfied backbeat. "Four titles in seven years -- is that the best you can do?" it says, "What happened last year?" it says. "What's wrong this year?" it says.

	"It might be nice if Zim or Mel would disagree with me just once."

Doctor: Interesting. And George? Tell me about you and George.

Torre: Me and George? We're good. Nothing to report.

Doctor: Nothing?

Torre: Everything's A-OK.

Doctor: Really?

Torre: We're golden.

Doctor: You know, what's happening, it's not your fault, Joe.

Torre: I know.

Doctor: It's not your fault, Joe.

Torre: I know.

Doctor: No, really. It's not your fault.

Torre: Don't f--- with me, Doc. Not you. Not you of all people.

Doctor: The "Good Will Hunting" thing is fun, but we've only got an hour ...

Torre: What do you want me to say? You want me to tell you I get no respect? You want me to tell you he's a no-talent hack with an ego big enough to land planes on?

Doctor: That's a start.

Torre: You want me to tell you he couldn't carry my jock, or Rocky Marciano's, or Larry Holmes' either? You want me to say we've succeeded in spite of, not because of him?

Doctor: Go with that ...

Torre: I won't do it.

Doctor: All right.

Torre: And I won't tell you that every time the man opens his yap, he subjects the team and the pinstripe legacy to ridicule and scorn, either.

Doctor: What else won't you tell me?

Torre: There's no way I'm telling you I've dreamt of him throwing batting practice without a screen, and you'll never hear from me that making Jeter a captain without consulting me was bush, or that the whole Derek-stays-out-too-late thing smacked of mid-life crisis and penis envy.

Doctor: Just as well.

Torre: No way I'm printing out my record, slapping it down on the table in front of you and saying, "For the love of god, man, what more can I do?!" And no chance I'm pointing out that we're actually in first-freakin'-place right now and asking you what the hell we're talking about anyway.

Doctor: No chance.

Torre: Right. And if you think for one minute I'm going to say that I've got a list of things I look forward to saying to George the day I walk away from this job and toward the Hall of Fame (thank you very much), a list which includes but is not limited to ...

1. I beat cancer, I won four Series, I was an MVP player -- get off me.

   	"I've got two words for you, George: Nice turtleneck."

2. You are not The Boss -- Springsteen is The Boss.

3. Nice turtleneck.

4. You fat toad.

5. May you lose a tooth for every employee who needs to see a dentist but can't afford it.

6. I hope Jim Caple writes a little something about you each and every day for the rest of your life.

7. Clyde King said to say Yogi said, "Go to hell."

8. You should know: People make fun of your hair.

9. I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong, but I grew strong. I learned how to carry on and I will survive. As long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive. I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give and I'll survive. I will survive. Hey-hey.

   ... you've got another thing coming.

Doctor: Right.

Torre: I'm not talking about little Georgie dolls with pins in them. Got nothing to say about curses my great aunt might have put on the old buggar. And I know nothing about a banana that might or might not be clogging up the tailpipe of his limo as we speak.

Doctor: Gotcha.

Torre: Nor will you hear boo out of me to the effect that, even in the best of times, he creates a bleak, spiritless, Orwellian environment in which players trudge, mope and peer anxiously over their shoulders and desperately around every corner. And it will not be me who tells you the man is a walking Kafka plot, twisting the fate and sucking the life out of every character he employs.

Doctor: Feel better?

	"I love all my guys ... except for maybe that Contreras kid."

Torre: Yeah. A little.

Doctor: That Kafka thing -- that was a bit much, don't you think?

Torre: Ask Billy, ask Gene Michael, ask Bob Lemon, ask Billy again, and again.

Doctor: Point taken. Anything else you want to not talk about before we break?

Torre: That doctor-patient privilege thing -- that's absolute, right?

Doctor: Absolutely. Why?

Torre: I might have some vaguely unethical and slightly illegal public flogging ideas I don't want to share with you.

Doctor: Time's up. See you again next week?

Torre: You think I need to come back?

Doctor: That depends: How many games are left in the season, and how do you feel about your daughter these days?

Torre: 94, and I love her with all my heart, but she has been looking at me kind of sideways lately, like maybe if I would tinker with the lineup a bit, or hold a few more team meetings, I could turn things around.

Doctor: Uh, yeah, I think we've still got work not to do. Same time next week.

Eric Neel is a regular columnist for Page 2.