2. Listened to Mets beat Mariano on horrible AM radio reception, because WSYR in Syracuse - which ditched daytime games for Rush Limbaugh - is too wimpy to extend its generally rancid signal outside the city. (Another station will run Yankee games next year, thank God!)
3. Stubbed toe on coffee table during Vidal Nuno outing. It really hurt, caught the pinkie toe just right, and it's never healed. Thank you, Brian Cashman!
4. Sat in hot tub with cell phone while listening to game on July 4. Cannot remember game specifics due to trauma of losing phone. I left it in a bag of rice for a week, but it never came back. Thanks again, Hal, for being so cheap. Because of you, I lost my cell phone.
5. Opening day, sitting in Shifty's Bar with Mustang, watching Joba getting hammered by the Redsocks on TV, and everybody there - I mean everybody - said the entire season was over, and we shouldn't watch - and they were right!
6. Punched wall and hurt knuckles, and damaged vocal chords, while screaming at Joe Girardi for bringing in Preston Claiborne on third straight day, after he had twice given up critical three-run HRs against Boston - to punctuate our humiliating, sickening, weak-kneed, three-game massacre, at the Redsocks' hands. So what did Claiborne do? He gave up another HR. I temporarily went berserk. Thank you, Cashman. You screwed up my throat, and you messed up my living room!
7. David Robertson blew save, ruined Mariano's ceremonial send off, ending our season, killing what should have been a great Yankee day. (With help from our hitters, who totally sucked.) I became physically and emotionally ill. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't pee. Even now, I blot out the thought of Houdini replacing Mo as the Yankee closer in 2014. Considering how many base runners he allows, it's obvious that I will not survive the season, even if Robertson is successful! It will be far too draining. Has anyone thought of this? People are going to die. Thanks again for cutting costs, Hal.
8. Had a flat tire while driving outside Ithaca during Yankee loss. Had to get out the owner's manual and figure out how to use a really weird jack, like no jack I'd ever used before. Why do they do this? Can't they just give you a regular jack? The instructions were horrible. They might as well have been written in Swahili. It took me 90 minutes to change one stinking tire, and I sweated through my shirt, sopping wet. It really sucked, and the Yankees didn't help one iota, because while I was sitting on the side of the road, they were blowing the game. I hope your car breaks down, Cashman, so you can feel what I felt: The Yankees and me, dead on the side of the road.
9. I owned a AM-FM radio with the emergency weather band, which I bought at an overpriced LL Bean store. It had a backup battery and hand-crank in case of immense natural catastrophes, such as tornadoes or earthquakes. I threw it across the room after Travis Hafner whiffed to end a game, and the damn thing never worked again. The Yankees owe me for that radio! God help me if there is ever an earthquake, because then I will REALLY get mad at Cashman!
10. The convergence of overwhelming, endless and eternal despair - and the incredible certainty of doom that I experienced when hearing the news that Teixeira's wrist was flaring up again, and that he would need a few days off. Instantly, I knew he would never return and the season was over. This was a complete, 100 percent, voice-of-God revelation, as certain as the sun and the moon, and I collapsed to the floor like the Prophet Jeremiah with relentless grief. I could not talk. I could not move. It's a wonder I am here to talk about it. (I experienced a similar moment when Brett Gardner hurt his rib cage in a swing, because I KNEW right then our last chance for a playoff berth was done.) I hope you feel it too, Cashman!
I wonder if my health insurance covers possible injuries and mental anguish that result from watching this team next year.
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