This is bad. Met Level Bad. A couple more losses, and it could be us on the Burning Man, whispering dead poetry into the stygian Hoss Clarke of eternity. (As Fred Nietzsche said, "When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares into you." Or maybe it was Billy Martin.) I can't name one starter who is playing well. (Montero too new to count.) Brett Gardner has so many flies circling overhead, it's a wonder the California Department of Agriculture allowed him to enter the state.
It's time to panic. And there is one 6'10" panic button that just boated up the Susquehanna from Scranton-Wilkes Barre. Can he throw a strike? WTF knows? Just because he couldn't in Triple A doesn't mean he can't throw them in LA. If we're going to lose, let's do it with style. It's Brackman Time. It's time for the Big Tune-It.
Put him in, Joe. Today. Tonight. Whatever it takes.
Remember: Brackman's just another word for nuthin' left to lose.
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