Yankeetorial: The question in the Bronx is whether we're down for one year... or for 10

Remember the last days of Mickey Mantle, toiling for wretched Yankee teams, pulling standing ovations with each tortured at bat?

That's what came to mind last night when the sad, humiliated Jorge Posada stepped out. We cheered the memory of a guy now hitting .160, because nobody else gave a reason for noise. We celebrated the past, because the present stinks to high hell.

And we sighed with relief when Jorge walked, rather than whiff -- even though we knew the deal: Unlike with other teams, Yankee leadoff walks do not score.

Well, as we relive the 1966 Yankees, at least the Yankiverse has achieved unity. We all know this team is hopeless. There will be no miracle comeback. There will be no turnaround. Look at the crowd in the 9th. Nobody there. Look at the sadness of that stadium.

Folks, the Yankee team bus broke down last August and hasn't moved an inch since.

The Rangers debacle
begot the Cliff Lee fiasco,
which fathered the Carl Crawford mistake,
which signaled the Pedro Feliciano botch,
which fostered the Rafael Soriano horror,
which predated the Phil Hughes collapse...
and now we watch A-Rod, Tex, Jeter, Jorge, Swish, and maybe even Cano turn into mice inside pumpkins.

Soon, the borrow-time Bartolo/Freddy tandem will collapse. Then we'll start losing 14-10, instead of 7-5. Our overhyped farm system is sputtering, you can feel the pressure building on Cashman -- in the last months of his contract -- to make a horrible, decade-crushing trade -- Jesus Montero or Dellin Betances for a Ken Phelps -- the kind of soul-collapsing deals we made back in the days when everything was going wrong.

So last night yielded one shining moment: The chance to remember Jorge as he was, not as he is.

Then everyone went home.

It's going to be a long, tortuous year. The only question: Is it the start of a long, tortuous decade?