Will the Montero-Pineda trade turn out to have been a huge transaction of nothingness?

Last night, I'm chewing on McChicken parts in a White Plains doofuss bar, where all the TV screens but one are tuned into the eternal Knicks and Rangers hell worlds - (too painful for my delicate system.) I'm watching the tube where YES - the Yankees version of Fox News Channel - flashes a graphic of Michael Pineda, the great beached whale of Tampa, and I try to imagine what the Yankee Hannity hucksters are saying. I figure it's an update: Today, Pineda threw off a supermodel's stomach or ate 50 eggs in 30 minutes, or maybe passed his 12-step certification - some blah-blah-blah to remind us that this budding goliath remains in our custody, planning to someday rise from the sea and stomp Tokyo into a giant pile of animal bedding.

Moments later, up to the plate strides Jesus Montero, the Second Coming of Thurman, or Chili Davis, or maybe Matt Nokes - nobody yet knows. I strain to see Jesus's batting average, which stands at - huh? - .203. OK, I figure he's hitting for power, right? Nope. Three HRs, nine RBIs. Those are Gus Molina numbers. Those are not the numbers of the Baby Jesus who for the last six years dominated every Yankee prospect Top Ten List the way Beyoncé rules the pop charts.

(Note to self: Remember this next winter, when Yankiverse goes crazy over Top Ten Prospect Lists.)

Moreover, in the ninth - when I'm in a secure location with audio, Montero nearly throws a ball into leftfield on a stolen base, and the announcers mention he is 1 for 19 in catching base stealers. (Gardner promptly steals third, making him 1 for 20.) In other words, baserunners have a friend in Jesus, and unless the savior changes his ways, he's destined for the Seattle version of Scranton - a location that, until recently, was believed to exist only in the writings of H.P. Lovecraft.

So after all the gnashing of gteeth, all the sound and the fury (signifying nothing) - and, yes, folks, I know Hector Noesi pitched well last night, and that the overly hyped Campos youngster is still - well - young - but after all the chest-beating, the 2012 winter trade looks like an exchange of Raleigh Coupons for Pepsi Points. (Sorry, Mallo Cup fans.) It had the gravity of a treaty between Hitler and Stalin. It was a big fat mirage: Two teams trading a bucket of magic beans, neither of which would ever grow.

And right now, last night notwithstanding, it looks like we won on the hell deal, because Pineda is striking out imaginary batters in Tampa. As long as he's not in Scranton, getting Bootchecked by the Mud Hens, we can sit in our dark bedrooms and still fantasize the Betances-tall Pineda throwing 150-mph strikes. Call the game, everybody! We won the deal. Final score: Yankees 0, the Mariners Negative 1.

Then again... they did dish us Ichiro, didn't they? Strange how these transactions play out in their second lives, am I right?