The Yankees finally wrapped up their 13-17 run from September 1, and limped their way into the wildcard.
We could have been closer to 5-25 if it hadn't been for that bevy of walk-off miracles from Swish, Jorge, A-Rod, Carmen Miranda, etc.
So now the rhetoric begins; it's a new season; everyone is 0-0; champions will show their stuff; Andy is a "big game" pitcher; Jorge will find his arm and bat because these are the games that count; ad nauseum.
Bottom line; this will be a tough title to defend. We have to great unexpectedly great pitching from everyone.
And clutch hitting.
We need some juice back.
We need new shoes.
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They also need a copy of my new book
"The 25 Greatest Baseball Players Of All Time"
They need to bunt more in meaningless situations
I tossed and turned in my bed for hours last night trying to understand how we could lose 4 of 6to the Red Sux at the end of the season when we were trying to get home field advantage and they had nothing to play for and a bunch of rookies in the lineup replacing injured or worn our regulars. Then I wasted more time trying and failing to conjure up a reason to believe we will win our series against the Minnesota Twinkies, other than that they are, after all, the direct descendants of the woeful Washington Senators of my childhood.
When I finally slept, instead of my usual sweet dreams about things like puppies frolicking on the beach, being ten again and having Mickey Mantle autograph my new baseball glove, or Christina Hendricks spanking Katy Perry, I suffered through a doubleheader of nightmares. In the first, a Satanic Ray Walston sent the young and beautiful Gwen Verdon to sing to, dance for, and seduce J.J. Hardy. In the second, Carl Pavano stood in Monument Park, dropped his pants, and peed on George's gigantic plaque while Harmon Killebrew and Joe Mauer made Suzyn kneel down and kiss his buttocks.
When I woke up, I knew that I am damned, and we are doomed.
or Christina Hendricks spanking Katy Perry.
Where, when?
hey joe,
send me an email at
elduque.itishigh@gmail.com
Wanna post with us now and then?
For a while it looked like this year could be 1964 redux, when the Old Guard wins one more time from sheer will and force of habit. But 'long about August 1, it suddenly turned into 1965, when the Old Guard just looked old and nobody down on the farm could fill their shoes.
First round and out, and no doubt Pavano will shut us down, which could possibly be more humiliating than letting the Red Socks win Game 7 at the Stadium in '04. Starting next year we'll go to the games more to catch one final glimpse of the Core Four than to watch the Yanks compete for anything besides third place. It's rebuilding time, people.
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