The Spirit of '68

Every year since 2003 (with the exception of 2009, and I was a little surprised that year even with the big money additions), I haven't greeted the new season with much optimism, as I watched the great teams of the late '90s erode, develop holes that were never properly filled, and lose the chemistry that made for greatness, notably abandoning Tino in favor of a false steroidal idol (a move that, as my lovely wife said at the time, was the worst possible karma and would curse us for many, many years, proving once again that she understands these things far better than I do); as Joe and Joe played terrible veterans over young hopefuls and as even what seemed to be stellar pickups turned into mediocrities, disappointments and otherwise sink into CCness; as we could feel the crowd energy wane with the Vegas-style luxuries and empty fat-cat seats of the new stadium and the loss of all the power, history and juju contained in each and every molecule of the old stadium, on the site of which the displaced ghosts of the Babe, the Mick, the Iron Horse, Joltin' Joe, Thurm, Dickey, the Scooter and countless others now swirl in anger and confusion; and as teams in both leagues outspent us for many of the best free agents of their generation while, in many cases, we didn't even try, and had competent farm system management that produced excellent players while ours fiddled as Scranton-AshleyWilkes-RoseanneBarre burned; as an entertaining, but often destructive and tyrannical, buffoonish owner passed the reins to his boring, often passive-destructive and bumbling, self-contradictory heirs; and as Cashman went from boy genius to beleaguered strategist to stalked, rappelling, garbage-picking boob.

But so far, Solarte is having a heck of a year, this Pineda guy mighta turned out OK, after all,
Jeter is batting .300 and Ichiro is making the naysayers look at least a teeny bit foolish.

This is where my optimism has had to find shelter in order not to die, at least completely.