FIFTY THOUSAND MOONS
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Posted by el duque at 8:10 AM
We all heard the warnings. We read the accounts. From River Ave to No Maas, the Prophets screamed how the Yankee polar ice caps were about to melt, and the team would be underwater. It did no good. It's already winter, and Thrill-Seeker Cashman finds himself clinging to the building without short or long-term prospects. If we load up on hamburger helper - Eric Bedard, come on down! - we could lose the draft picks that represent our best hope for 2017, after the asteroid.
But Andy and Mariano tipped their caps and left on their own terms, an honor few players receive. (Certainly, Redsocks don't - as Carlton, Wade, Roger, Josh and Johnny learned, and this future beloved, bearded cast of "Friends" will someday see.)
So here were are, staring out at the abyss.
How often next year, when we call upon Bingo Long and the Traveling All-Stars to pitch the ninth, will we think of Mariano?
How many times - when we're picking the salvage yards for Sidney Ponson - will we remember Andy?
R.I.P., Torre's Yankees.
Hello, Dellin Betances.