A Sori state of affairs: Help is not on the way

Last week, the human Operating System of the Evil Empire, Brian Cashman, announced that he was ready to "rock and roll" on trades. For Yankee fans, this was an especially terrifying phrase to hear, as it suggested that a) Cashman was attempting cheekiness, and b) Our rare young prospects could soon be riding out tonight to case the promised land. (And they still might.) But yesterday, we saw Cashman's new "rock and roll" reality: Some will win, some will lose, some are born to sing the blues.

We played happy music and circled the chairs, but nothing really happened.

When the music stopped, we finally, finally, FINALLY... ditched the sad presence that was formerly Alphonso Soriano, aka "Sorry." Alphonso gave us two decent weeks last August and then three miserable months of 2014, when he killed countless rallies by swinging at balls in the dirt. Three times a night, we got to watch Sorry march back to the dugout, shaking his head apologetically, while the Yes Men assured us that, any day, he'd get piping hot. I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I stopped rooting for Sorry: I concluded that a base hit here and there merely prolonged the agony of dealing with him. That is the Sorry reality of downward spiraling ex-stars: You must play them until the end. It's like passing a wet paper bag filled with dead kittens. Eventually, the bag breaks open, and then everybody feels bad. It's over. Sorry.

The other "rock" reality came in yesterday's "big" trade, Vidal Nuno for Brandon McCarthy. Be honest now. We all had the same thought: "Wow, the Diamondbacks really must be sick of Brandon McCarthy." (As the Cubs were, last year, with Sorry.) McCarthy had strung together two quality starts, so Arizona quickly peddled his butt, for what? Well, for whatever it could get. Could they know something about Brandon McCarthy? Not according to the Yes Men. Of course, that's what many of us wanted the Yankees to do last July, when Phil Hughes showed a glimmer - trade his butt before the coach turned back into a pumpkin. Yesterday, Cashman traded a cheap 26-year-old for an expensive 30-year-old. If it were a rock lyric, I'd go with, Nothing from nothing means nothing.

If all we do is jettison the Sorrys and the Nunos, I'm OK with that. Who cares? It's time for the front office to take responsibility for the Yankee team it built last winter, and to admit that anything meaningful will require mortgaging the future - insuring that next year, we have another Sorry state of affairs. Keep your fingers crossed. Let's hope Cashman is done rocking.