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.
I was listening to him last night by the belly to belly to bellys, it wasn't good he's playing scared, especially by Cano's homer (the "gone" sounded like lead). You can't play scared.
ReplyDeleteHowever he did come around to his normal bumbling self a few innings later when Melky got hit by a ball in the groin. Susan asked him on the air why all men laugh when someone gets hit there. His answer was something like Um Hm well Um... then he came back and said "at least you didn't ask me how it feels".
But he's definitely playing scared, we have to do something about it.