To paraphrase Mr. Mellencamp: It aint the end of the world, but you can see it from here

OK. Not panicking here. Put away the spear. The sun will rise. One game can wreck a weekend. It can't ruin a season. Omens are like vampires. They only exist on TV.

Those scientists currently revving the Great Hadron Discombobulator may someday discover the root particle of reality, but we of the Yankiverse have known it for 16 years: If Mariano is not Mariano, the Yankees are not the Yankees, the ninth is not the ninth, October is not October, and New York is not even ours. (Yeesh; we don't even own Scranton any more.)

If Mariano is not Mariano, at best, we're the Angels - at worst, the Mets.

OK. Get a grip. What happened yesterday was nothing - one game, one outing, one loss. Win today, and we'll have split against Tampa in their own domed back yard.

Awk. But yesterday was the worst-case scenario, the Hadron black hole, served piping hot on Opening Day, against the team we must beat. We saw into the Great Beyond, and it's no picnic. If we know two things about life, it's that 1) It always starts with somebody getting screwed and, 2) It always ends with somebody crapping their pants. Unless you're a vampire. And only exist on TV. Excuse me while I take another pill. Spartacus, lend me your spear.