Last night, we dodged a bullet. A hollow point. Casey McGehee - the newly shaven firstbaseman who is holding third for us until Arod's hand can once again grip a lobster fork - butchered a DP grounder, which nearly lead to a late inning collapse of Biblical proportions. Or at least the stuff of literary domain. ("That aint my style," said Casey. "E-5," the umpire said!)
Listen, when we blow six run leads, we don't get them back. And it's the same with a 10-game lead in July. If we find ourselves battling for the Wild Card game - should we pitch CC or Kuroda? - forget about it. We would be facing the most embarrassing Yankee event since Javier Vazquez came in to pitch to Johnny Damon. I'd rather be attending a Celine Dion concert during the zombie apocalypse. And dammit, that's one horrorific image.
So what do we make of Casey McGehee? For starters, we gave up nothing for him. Chad Qualls. Forgive me, mother of Chad Qualls, if you happen to read this blog, but your fine strapping son meant nothing to the Yankees. He came for about three weeks, threw a few pitches, and he's gone. We go through five or 10 of them each year. Did you know Wally Whitehurst was once a Yankee? So was Sidney Ponson. But at least we traded Chad Qualls for somebody: Casey McGehee. Plus cash. That's sorta scary. I mean, when the Pirates give you cash in the deal, something is up. I don't even to think about that.
Of course, I went on my soapbox last month to say the Yankees should give Brandon Laird a chance. Shows what I know. Laird has hit three home runs since Arod went down. But I guess he's got Tucker Ashford disease. Maybe he fields like Casey McGehee. I dunno.
But I do know this: If we lost last night, every Yankee fan in the world today would be screaming for Casey McGehee's newly shaven head. And we all would be thinking the same horrifying thought: Who starts the Wild Card game, CC or Kuroda? I'd rather have my intestines eaten by Celine Dion. (She always could gain a few pounds.)
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