Nineteen left, three behind Dostoyevsky: "The end of time will be marked by acts of unfathomable compassion."

It doesn't look good for our heroic Moose and Squirrels.

Four against Baltimore - in Baltimort. Three against Boston - in Bos-nia. Three against Toronto - in that giant, Canadian concrete-surfaced ping pong ball. Ten games on Cormac McCarthy's road. Maybe Stephen King or JK Rowling can imagine the Yankees going eight and two. I can't.

Long summer. Brief autumn. Long, long winter ahead.

I watched yesterday's final three innings after listening to the Jeep-driven radio broadcast most of the way. John and Suzyn talked about the three Boston losses as if they were a stillborn love child. There was always a, "What if?" What if Joe West had called it a strike? What if Romine's throw to second had been higher? What if Sori hadn't been picked off? A season of "What if's?" piled into one weekend. And "What if's?" are like crack cocaine: Once you start, it's hard to quit.

It was one of those crisp fall afternoons, the kind we once reserved for playoff games. We're not out of this yet, and I am certain that Girardi's team will fight to the end. But soon, the "What if's?" will overwhelm us.  They always do.