BUY MY BOOK: BARD OF THE DEAL: THE POETRY OF DONALD TRUMP
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Posted by el duque at 7:34 AM
Last night, with the most sickly Yankee lineup since the days when Andy Hassey was taping his glass knees, we eaked out a victory over Jose Bautista-less Toronto, the team of eternal winter. The Blue Jays lineup contains names that can only win at Scrabble: Colby, Moises, Rajai, Yuniel, Yorvit, Adeiny... In their last seven games - all losses - Toronto had been outscored 16-38. The last time the Blue Jays dominated, Bill Clinton was a new president, and his wife was selling health care.
We won last night because Phil Hughes was goddam lucky. In every outing, Hughes hits a 90-mph speedbump and either soars off a cliff or somehow lands back in the road. Last night, in the sixth, Phil walked the first two batters. The next guy came within 10 feet of a three-run HR, and the following batter hit a screamer line drive that became a doubleplay. Hughes landed between the guardrails and, unlike Michael Pineda, drove home without incident.
If either of those balls drop... we lose. We lose because nobody is hitting, and most aren't even suiting up. We would have lost at least two out of three at home to a team known to trot out Omar Visquel, at age 45.
Today, we desperately need the rubber match.
A week ago, we limped out of Chicago sporting the franchise's signature hubris: Everything's OK, because we're about to play a couple tomato cans.
Lose today, and we'll be 3-3 against them.
I dunno. I hate to sound doom-and-gloom. But I feel like Hal the computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Every game, something else drains from us. Steve Pearce bats cleanup, followed by Russell Martin? Daisy, daisy, gimmie your answer do, I'm half-crazy over the likes of yoooooo....