It's been a hellish week for the Master and his First Lady, both barking through their contract walk years, wailing through defeat like Job, and wondering if anyone will be listening in September.
In last night's Daily News Fifth, John mused that on a magical August 1, the Yankee batting order could include A-Rod, Jeet, Grandyman, Nuni and Cervelli - rolling out the last two names as if they were Ronnie Wood and Charlie Watts - his voice sugared with an almost adolescent hope. His enabler, Mark Feinsand, just went along, doing his best Dr. Melfi imitation.
But in the ninth, the money moment, John could not summon even a middling, 4-second WinWarble to commemorate the Yankee victory. In the presence of doomsday, what words are appropriate?
"I guess I should do better," he said, later, "but ten-four, you know... save it for a close game, ahaahaahaahaa."
We, his legions of followers, must understand. The Master is speaking truth through the only words that can convey it: Silence. Got it? Silence.
Ten-four.
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