Can we win one game? Just one?

I give up.

We're ditching the wild card, the division race, the post-season, blah-blah-blah - even that fake marketing ploy, "the Baby Bombers," (which is nothing without Aaron Judge.) It's all over but the mooning. (That's for Sept. 29.) We won't win our last 15. Hell, we probably won't win eight. We are now a tomato can. This week, in Tampa, we will play our brothers in the three-game series to crown AL East Tomato Can of the Year. Folks, the Billy Butler Era is here! From now on, all we can do is give Boston one last flea bite, maybe a touch of Zika?

Which raises my plea to the universe... to the team... to Girardi... to Cashman... to anybody with a syringe or good liquor... to the unnamed juju god who happens to be answering the phones this weekend...

Can we win one game in Boston? Just one? Is that too much to ask? 

Just one. I'm not asking for the moon. (That's for Sept. 29.) I'm not asking for a 2-2 series split. Nope. All that hopey, upbeat, excitement whooey - it's out the window. I'm thinking microdose. One stinking game. It doesn't have to happen today. I'd actually rather it be tomorrow, as a parting gift. One stupid, rancid, stinker of a game.

Hey, universe, divine entity, random chance, whoever you are... is that too frickin much? 

To Joe, I say circle the wagons! Today, play the munchkins. How about that pitching line last night! Pazos, Holder, Shreve, Yates, Heller - yeah, that's the ticket! Altogether now, everybody... PazosHolderShreveYatesHeller! PazosHolderShreveYatesHeller! We dazzle them with no names. Can't we pull somebody else from Scranton?

Better yet... to Cash, I say, let's sign Nick Swisher and pitch him today! That would save all our arms for Sunday. One game, seriously, that's all I want. One game.

To the juju god on duty... Dude, WTF? Are you really going to reward the team of Curt Schilling? Do they have something on you? Pal, it's time to stand up. One game, buddy. One stinking game.