It's time for "Super" Nova

Circle the wagons, Yankiverse, because every time Andy takes a leak, he tweaks a gonad. He's living with bags of ice on his testicles. Nobody should live with bags of ice on his testicles. Except Osama. When we catch that rat bastard, I say, make him sit in a cell with bags of ice on his testicles. Dry ice. We'll see who's laughing then.

But enough of geopolitical strategy. This is a Yankee blog. We don't need no Sergio Gaudins. We don't need no Sean O' Bullickers. We don't need to always lose to the no name. We can pitch the no name.

Only trouble: The no name has an unforgettable name: Ivan "Super" (or "Chevy," whichever you prefer) Nova.

Listen: Last summer, when the Moosic mudflows forced the Scranton-Wilkes Barre Yankees and Fernwood Mets to play the first ever Quagmire Challenge Cup Game in sunny Syracuse, the Emerald Citiers saw Ivan Nova up close and oh-so-personal. (Sadly, SuperFrankenstein accidentally placed the Nova stool sample in his box of Crackerjacks, and later, it was gone. We never figured out what happened.) This dude is tall, slim, rangy, long, lanky, lithe, and with shoulders the size of Willie Nelson's tour bus.

Yankiverse, listenup: We have the answer to Andy's groin. We have the answer to Javy's 50-mph arm. We have the answer to Dustin Moseley's impending retransition into a pumpkin. This is no Sergio Meat Tray. This is no Jason Hirsch. This is our light in the distant night.

Look to skies. Ivan "Super" Nova.

Or "Chevy," whichever you prefer. Drive him.