Now That Alphonso Is (Somewhat) Hopeful, I Have Become Alphonso

The old Alphonso, that is. The embittered, pessimistic, there-is-no-God-in-Heaven-or-the-Bronx Alphonso who may have posted while under the influence of some really good mood-enhancing substances earlier this week.

Spring Training is the Lure Fly Sticky Tape 45200 of fandom. It's when, even back in 1968, hope cannot help but spring eternal in the hearts of Yankees fans. This is when otherwise highly reasonable and admirable men find themselves liking anyone named "Didi."

I refuse to be fooled. CC is done. Professor Tanaka is a tweak away from the doctor at the beginning of "Robot Chicken." Girardi is talking up not having a set closer. (Has this ever worked? Ever? Please, I need to know.) We are still stuck with that great pitch framer and into-the-shift hitter, Mr. McCann, and the sad shadow of the Tex that used to be, and Stephen Fucking Drew (who has ironically become our Bucky Fucking Dent). And Chris Young. My God, Chris Young. And people were complaining about Ichiro? Really? And complaining about him more than about Beltran? The mind boggles.

So many old and also-ran guys. The first will be injured. A lot. The second will not surprise beyond May Day.

Now I realize that Alphonso and I do not disagree greatly about many of the featured players in this year's horror movie. We both, after all, have eyes, along with more experience as Yankees fans than either of us should admit to. However, we part ways greatly when it comes to making the one-shot horsechip game in October. 

.500? If only we could achieve such lofty ambitions of mediocrity. It's not impossible, but so incredibly improbable.

The speed at which the historically greatest franchise in sports can collapse is, as proven 50 years ago, breathtaking. Oy vey ist mir. Ashes and sackcloth for everyone!