Welcome to Yankees Shark Week

Well, campers, we're finally here, bivouacked on the edge of the watery Abyss. The calendar says five weeks remain. That's a mirage, created long ago by Bud Selig. In fact, we have run out of time. Tonight, we march into the cold surf and start crossing the sea. The waters will not part for us. And the waves will be crashing.

From now on, we have no time to heal, not time to rest - no time to play W.B. Mason commercials and flip the channel to the Little League World Series. Instead of watching scoreboards to see how KC, Detroit and Toronto are doing, we'll play them ourselves. And make no mistake: We are no longer facing the toothless blue gills from Houston or Chicago. From now on, we play teams that bite. And god help us, if the waters become scented with blood.

Ah, did someone mention the White Sox! What a treasure! May they always play against us! And before the world anointed the 2014 as a team of destiny, we must take a moment to respect Robin Ventura's club as a team of crapola. Their LF muffed dropped a routine fly, opening the flood gates against Chris Sale. On Saturday, their catcher didn't even reach for a throw to the plate, he just smiled at the ball as it whizzed past. They botched grounders, made base-running mistakes, handed us three victories like checks to Derek Jeter's charity. They answered the age-old question: Is there life after death? The answer: Yes, if you are lucky enough to play the White Sox.

Now, they'll help other teams. We'll swim with sharks.

Imagine: A meaningful game against the Royals... in August.

Imagine playing the mighty Tigers... after having clubbed them around two weeks ago.

Imagine, the powerful Blue Jays, which - aw, screw it - they'll always be Toronto; (do they still have Jesse Barfield?) But you know what I mean. They're not the White Sox. And this is Shark Week.

From now on, if we get swept, it's over.

If we lose four out of five, it's over.

If we go on one of our patented 20-scoreless-inning hitter streaks, it's over.

Meet the wrong shark, and we could be all but mathematically eliminated by Labor Day.

Imagine that: Done before Labor Day. Last year, as horrible as the Lyle Overbays were, we at least managed to stretch out the collapse until the season's final week. Now, if we get eaten by the sharks, we'll still have a month to play Scantonians, write speeches about Jeter, and ponder all the things that went so horribly wrong.

It's Shark Week, campers. Prepare to get wet. We have run out of land beneath our feet. If you see someone go under, odds are, they won't be resurfacing again.