Then Mariano coughed.
Ever since, kaboom.
Conventional Wisdom says don't panic, it's May, we're in the hunt, we'll turn this around... etc.
Fuk that shit. Panic. Until Mariano is lights out again -- and the 900-pound Magilla in the room is Mariano's age -- we will flap and flounder.
Practically every slump in recent years has followed a Mariano failure. (Hell, 2002-2008 was a reaction to his blowing the 2001 Series.) Considering his 9th against the Mets Friday, no lead is safe. Nothing.
We might as well leave those runners in scoring position. The loss won't hurt so badly.
Soon, Granderson will return, Teixiera will hit, and Jeter will stop swinging at balls in the dirt. Won't matter. Until Mariano is lights out, we are screwed.
And if he does not return -- one day, the ship will sail and never come back to port -- well, this will be the year we channel Toronto.
So... panic. It doesn't matter. It's May -- that is, unless it's December.
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No matter how many championship trophies are hoisted in Tampa Bay in the decades to come, we'll always have 1995-2009.
Fifteen years, 14 playoff appearances, 7 pennants, 5 rings. A run that any Mets fan would kill for.
It's 1965 again in the Bronx. Now's the time to prove our mettle as fans and to stand by our boys in pinstripes, no matter how much they suck. And with Sterling and Waldman to light our way the long dark night to come, I have no doubt we'll get through it.
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