I drunk dialed the AL East standings.
Well, see for yourself: clowns to the left of us, jokers to the right. As John would tell Suzyn, "just one game behind Boston in the all-important loss column!"
Thus, we will accomplish what in April was heralded as The Prime Objective: To be in it at the All-Star break, when $500 million of hormone-enhanced and surgically repaired beef arrives in port: A-Rod, Grandyman, Pineda, et al. (Jete, though? Not sure.)
Unless MLB detonates an A-Bomb from A-Bud - smack in a pennant race, over the union's lawsuits - well... yes, Virginia, there is an Alex Rodriguez. He shalt appear unto us in human form, and he shalt playeth again.
Sorry, folks, but once again, our fates are inexorably tied to the Mighty Quinn. Think July 19.
By then, the league will have found a hole in Zoilo's bat, and the sell dates on Hughes and Joba likely will have expired, without bringing anything beats a draft pick in the chicken salad sandwich round next June.
By then, we will be viewing our free year of Vernon Wells like a free subscription to a local daily newspaper that no longer comes each day, (which is to say you've forgotten it exists.)
By then, Ichiro will platoon, David Adams will be in Scranton. Boston will drop, and Toronto will have soared past us - the Detroit Tigers of the East. By then, we can watch the Slade Heathcocks and Mason Williamses on their quests to .250. And we can celebrate Michael Pineda's radar gun readings - while he gives up runs at Trenton. They won't matter. Nothing will truly matter.
It is the curse of the Yankee fan that we depend on aging mercenaries who - if they ever do make the Hall - will likely wear the hats of other teams. Sorry, folks. But it's all about A-Rod.
Our destinies are intertwined, like Batman and the Joker. Yesterday, in the Daily News, Billy Madden quoted doctors who say A-Rod's hips will never stand the pressure. Madden knows insider baseball, but in terms of medical issues, it's like Slap Maxwell writing on national security. Nobody knows what A-Rod will do. No doctor. No writer. Not even A-Rod. Nobody.
So here we go, once again, brace yourselves, everybody. We're one game out in the loss column. Soon, the season will be in his hands.