Yep, it's something to live for - along with Trump's happy wall, pizza carrying drones, and Channing Tatum's Magic Mike show in Vegas. (Says Chan the Man: "I have a really nice back porch, where the pool is." WTF?)
OK, maybe it's too early to fast-forward into the next millennium. But this one looks like a downer. In simple terms: You can change the pitcher, but you can't change the owner. We are seven games out of first - more an omen than unsolvable situation - with the fourth worst record in baseball. Once behind, this team inspires as much confidence as the Iraqi Navy. And when they talk about help from Scranton, the names Nick Swisher and Phil Coke leave a pool on your back porch. (WTF did he mean?)
The AL East started looking dicey last winter. Now, the Wild Card looks like Alpha Centauri. By July 4, we could be an oldies farewell tour without anybody actually leaving. We could be the Philadelphia 76ers or Cleveland Browns, playing out the season in the hope of snagging some Christian Robinson, who is still learning to kiss. Dear God, we could be the Knicks... or the 1986 Yankees.
Based on your comments, I realize that many of you have followed the Yankees for decades, if not centuries. You remember Bob Shirley and Sheriff Cowley, and Andy Hawkins' no hitter. Like me, you wanted to believe the Yankees' late 1990s run would go on indefinitely, or at least run out our clocks. But we knew what could happen. Now, it's here. The wolf is at our door. This isn't about losing seven of our last eight. This is about a franchise in free-fall with a middling farm system and a nepotistic owner who wants to carve his mark by making money.
Folks, this could be one of the worst Yankee summers in our lifetimes.
We face a bad team, a boring product, impossible ticket prices, no cable TV (in Jersey), a demoralized John and Suzyn, and an exciting alternative across town. Even if Aaron Judge rises from Scranton, is he better than Michael Comforto? The Yankees' main attraction is a three-stopper bullpen that never gets to pitch.
Last night, we burned a great outing by Masahiro Tanaka. (What could we get for him in a trade?) We squandered Starlin Castro (What could we get for him in a trade?), Dellin Betances (What could we get for him in a trade?) and didn't pitch Andrew Miller (WCWGFHIAT?) The 2017 draft is about 15 months away. Should we start on DNA analysis?
How do we entertain ourselves in the wake of Hell?
Help us, Magic Mike.
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5 comments:
"How do we entertain ourselves in the wake of Hell?"
Let's go play on the pool in the porch.
This is tough. On the one hand, I want to shake something, anything, loose through sheer suckitude. Girardi, Cashman, some of the upholstered chairs behind home plate (God, how I hate looking at those seats and the swells who sit in them.) Get rid of them all.
On the other hand, I can't change a lifetime of programming all that easily. I didn't watch or listen last night, but when my phone buzzed with the update that the Yankees lost on a sacrifice fly in the 10th, I started swearing like the angry old man that I am rapidly becoming.
I need a new hobby. I tried politics for a couple of months, but that's worse than baseball for making your blood boil. Maybe I'll try cooking. Always a good excuse to start drinking there.
I'm like you, Tom. I tell myself I don't care. That it's hopeless. But when they beat the birds and actually scored runs, hope blossomed once more. Only to be dashed again last night. I guess this is what it's like being a true fan. Not easy but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Mustang...please take the cooking option. I love good food and we can drink together in the kitchen, then at the table, then....
Also, we will not get the top pick. We'll get the forth pick, with only the top three players in the, " can't miss, superstar category."
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