Yankeetorial: Clubhouse Offering Madcap, Wacky, Irrepressible Bunch of Loveable Lunks... but what about John?

According to the embedded Gammonites, all is merry.

Madden: "... a fun team to be a part of..."

Abe: "... the Yankees are having fun, fun, fun..."

Newsday: "... kangaroo court, the cream pies and other clubhouse hijinks..."

Yes, we're talking mirth. Flaming bags of poo. A phone call for Jack Meough. Soon, somebody will step to the plate wearing falsies. Wait 'till Randy Levine sees the pictures they took of him while passed out drunk. Each game is like a trip to Marineland on Prozac, except Shamu is Nick Swisher.

But one person seems to be sitting alone up in the Lowe's Broadcast Booth, left out of the fun.

John Sterling. Our John.

This week, he was brutally attacked by the New York Post. Then came savagery from the blogosphere, which sniffed blood.

Now, his signature, game-ending calls -- the WinWarble -- have steadily shrunken into gasps... cries not of victory, but for help.

There is no one in the Yankiverse who mourns a loss more than John Sterling.

No one should more exult in a victory. And yet... something is wrong.

We need a WinWarble tonight. We need a WinWarble that covers seven seconds, a WinWarble that does not end, a WinWarble that shatters the Press Box glass, a WinWarble that rumbles the very earth beneath Manhattan.

We need John back in the game.