Well, God help us, we're there again. It's 2002-07, and Preston Claiborne is Scott "Torch the Equipment" Proctor. Just as Obama is turning into George W. Bush, Larry Rothschild is morphing into Billy Connor, and every seventh inning is Deep Fried Doomsday, straight from the State Fair. Good grief, the only difference is that James Spader is now the size of a truck, and little kids go to bed at night terrified that Miley Cyrus' tongue will get them.
If we're lucky enough to have CC pitch into the seventh - it once was a certainty, now it's a treat - who gets the next nine outs? The ghost of Quan-Go-Mo? For that matter - and let's be honest here - faith in Mariano is no longer scientifically justified. At this point, it's just a religious thing. We set the sacred stones in place and hope the magic works. God help us.
We are dead. We have been buried. We have officially nothing left to lose. The one-armed ghost of Scott Proctor is prowling the Yankee dugout. He's looking for lighter fluid. We need a spark, dammit. Does anybody have a spark?
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7 comments:
this is all a pipe dream with no bullpen, but it is fun to watch them twitch in Beantown.
burn all the uniforms and come out wearing Trenton Thunder colors.
shamed to admit but I missed the papi plunk. Was it a good one?
KD - it is not a good plunk against Papi unless a bone is broken and he goes on the Extended DL.
How about a lefty-righty long relief team of me and James Spader? Now that Spader has put on some weight, he's as effective as Bartolo Colon. Give me a call, Brian.
Since nobody in the dugout is capable of distinguishing two strikes from three, perhaps the Yankees haven't noticed that the Mighty Cleveland Indians have surged ahead of them by percentage points. Yeah, time for Brian to jump out of the plane . . . .
Tell those kids that if Miley's tongue comes after them I'll be glad to launch my body in its path.
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