Yankee fans are stuck in an abusive, bipolar relationship with the 2015 team

One night, they bring flowers and chocolates, put Barry White on the stereo, and everything is... mm-mm, oooh, so lovie-dovie. 


Next morning, they're flinging dishes at your head, screaming about demon leeches in the attic.

On a good day - and, mm-mm, there ARE good days - you can't keep your hands off them. You vow to love them forever, to do whatever they want: To watch YES Network, to buy WB Mason napkins, to drink Bigelow tea while calling Cellino and Barnes, the injury attorneys... because they're worth it! And then comes the bad day: They don't know you, and you barely recognize them.

In Seattle, they look stunningly beautiful, and every Mariners fan wishes he could be you. Then... in Baltimore, they wear a fright wig, and their teeth fall out. What is going on?

Friend, you are a battered Yankee fan, trapped in an abusive, bipolar relationship, and if you think that one day, your lover will suddenly wake up sane and composed, you are living a lie.

They win seven straight - a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan romantic getaway in Seattle - but now they have lost three (and counting.) We had a chance to build something - a lead in the AL East - and to crush Boston's summer hopes before the Fourth of July. We botched it. 

Worse, we are now entering a psychological breakdown phase. Every day, someone goes to Scranton, replaced by a new face from the wastelands. Soon, the rhinoplasty will begin, and if you think you couldn't recognize the Yankees in Baltimore from the team in Seattle... well... it's going to get much scarier. If you took a week off, you might have missed the Ramon Flores Era.

You wish you could leave. There are other lovers out there, teams that would cherish a fan like you. They'd never go through your backpack, looking for Oxy, or charge you $500 to watch Sergio Santos' return from Mordor. If only you could summon the courage to tell them off - one and for all - to walk out the door and never look back.

Then Mason Williams hits a home run, and there you are, in love again.

Maybe it's time to ask ourselves why, why, why were we fated to fall for such a fetching, but obviously deranged, bipolar nut crisp of a team. Did Hal Steinbrenner drink the crazy Kool-Aid... or did we?

By being so loyal, so heart-stricken, have we failed to give the "tough love" that this franchise needs to truly heal?

One day, they adore you. Next day, your clothes are out on the street.

Baseball teams. Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.