Monday, April 15, 2013
Posted by el duque at 3:13 PM
Listen: I don't know goulash about pitching. I've never played in the majors, and I have no answers when it comes to sparing elbows from the curse of Tommy John. But dammit, I do know couches. And if you don't know what you're doing when you climb onto one of those pillowy death traps, well, Mr. Sciatica, you might as well bungee jump from an airplane. Those things will end your career faster than you can say Donny Baseball.
You get onto a couch after drinking, and - boom - it's morning. After he's pitched seven innings, giving Andy a couch would be like handing heroin to a child.
So what was Andy doing on the couch?
We all know the answer: the devil box.
Yes, he was camped and boneless, eating chips, probably not using a secondary pillow, and watching some zombie show, with his back tightening as the shambling dead advanced. I just hope he didn't throw out his lumbago while reaching for the clicker, because I've done that, and if it's a clicker-related injury, don't expect Andy back until June.
When you look at the money the Yankees pay Andy Petttitte, you'd think he could afford positional pillows and a manservant who can change channels. Andy needs to invest in a new ergonomic living room with velcro-wrist straighteners and positional pillows. If necessary, the Yankees should consider placing him in a sensory deprivation tank between starts. We cannot win in the field if we don't first find victory in the living room.