FIFTY THOUSAND MOONS
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Posted by el duque at 7:11 AM
In an alternative earth, (you know, the one where Kim Kardashian wears a mustache and puts Kanye into the agonizer - wait! isn't that this one?), we loved Stephen Drew's pivotal HR last night. Instead, we're left to wonder if it means we now must watch him bat .170 for another agonizing month. It's the modern Yankee tradition - to be so tired of a certain player that you almost root against him - (See Andruw Jones, Travis Hafner, Vernon Wells, Alfonso Soriano, et al) - and we're well past Drew's sell-by date. Still... that HR won the game.
In a mirror plane, or maybe after several bottles of cleaning fluids, we would not fear this weekend trip to Boston. The 2015 Redsocks would have folded by now, and nothing entertains like a Boston free-fall, with the bearded Shaughnessy hosting a daily necktie party. Trouble is, we couldn't reach a measly 10 games over .500, while Boston stewed, and now they lie in wait with frat-boy smirks, knowing that since 2004, the two franchises flipped Dominatrix roles: We became the team that wins in May and hits the August agonizer... as we come to grips with the reality of players like Sabathia and Drew.
So... here we go. A week ago, I dreamed of a sweep, a knockout blow that would send Ben Cherrington into garage sale mode. Now, I fear the worst: The kind of Yankee meltdown that pushes Cashman to gut the system for next year's Drew, next year's Ichiro, next year's Capuano, next year's Youkilis or Granderson... hoarding more old veterans before we even discarded the ones we have.
Will we ever get back to the universe where Kirk is clean-shaven? What happened to those mustaches we were growing? Hold on. We're heading into a photon storm. Or maybe an iceberg.