FIFTY THOUSAND MOONS
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Posted by el duque at 6:25 AM
1. When showering with Satan, don't bend over to pick up the soap.
2. When gazing up to heaven, you're most susceptible to getting your throat slashed.
3. When your No. 3 hitter is Brian McCann - batting .260, with the lightning speed of Ethel Merman needing to pee - don't expect to score runs.
OK, nothing personal against McCann.. but No. 3? Yikes. (Vernon Wells, Alfonso Soriano Flashback.) On a pennant-winning team, the Brian McCann guy bats fifth or sixth. And last night - which might go down as the night the second-place Bombers launched their 2015 Wild Card chase - who could look at the lineup without a sense of the impending Yankapocalypse?
Because here is a basic rule, thus far, of the 2015 season:
Without A-Rod, this is a crapola-hitting team. This is a two-run-per-game offense.
How, how... how did the Yankees become so reliant on a guy they spent last winter trying to stuff into a bottle and shipped out on Malaysian Flight 370? Good grief, if the Bill Maddens of NYC had their way - and A-Rod had been traded for a handful of magic beans - this team would be currently scrapping with the Papi-ville Pawsocks for fourth in the lowly AL East. Take Alex Rodriguez out of the offense, and we're reduced to cheering for a couple Gardner singles, a Tex message and a few more lurid accounts about that sex-starved prison seamstress at Dannemora, the one who bakes hacksaw cakes. After that, we're hoping for walks and Jacoby Ellsbury's swift recovery. If anyone out there still gets giddy at the sight of Carlos Beltran waddling to home plate... well... don't bend over for the soap. That's all I can tell you.
I am often accused of living and dying too harshly on every single Yankee outcome. To that, I plead guilty. Can't help it. Never could. When the Yanks play well, the American way of life has been validated. This country was founded on the premise of pioneer guts, shooting anyone who wears feathers... and the Yankees dominating the American League.
But damn, whenever we waste a great outing by Masahiro Tanaka, as we did last night, who DOESN'T wonder if the trap door isn't about to open? This is an old, creaky team, and nothing more reminds us of our impending infirmities than when we must bench our best hitter, because he cannot play in an NL park.
Listen: Winter is coming to King's Landing. It will appear as a wave of injuries that is as unavoidable as the month of July. We all know this. We are showering with Satan. We are in second place. And tonight, against David Phelps and lowly Miami, the question still remains: Without A-Rod, who the hell is going to hit third?