Mad as Heck

The Yankees' ineptitude (or, as they're called by BoSoxians, the "Yank-Me's", which is more descriptive of our current organizational status) have softened my attitude toward other teams that would otherwise foster antipathy. 

I can't hate the Mets when they're the only baseball team upholding the honor of New York, albeit only in the limited fashion they can muster.

I can't even truly hate the Orioles since I read that, instead of playing the jingoistic and mindless "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch, they play "This Land Is Your Land", the heart-stirring anthem of the old left. Should the O's move beyond the Jays, and provided they don't cut away to a commercial promoting a gargantuan SUV or five-bladed razor, that would be nice to see and hear on national TV. 

Showalter, however, is still kind of a jerk.

So where does all the hate go when it's leeched away from some of our traditional enemies? Boston, of course, gets an extra dollop. They look like the AL favorites, but we can still hope the Rangers or Indians put them out of our misery. I could do without seeing rat-faced Pedroia or Big Sloppy when watching the Series.

The rest of that wandering negativity has one legitimate home, and one only:  our executive suite. OK, and also Girardi's office, so make that two legitimate homes, although you could argue that he's merely an extension of the Halls of Cluelessness. Every manager makes mistakes or in-game decisions that don't pan out. But according to Dr. Bobby Brown's Hippocratic Oath of Baseball, first you do no harm, and Girardi obviously and repeatedly lost games through his lineup pencil and pitching choices.

According to some, depression is anger and hate turned inward. As I try to forget most of 2016 (August and part of September retain a soft glow of promise), this is what I have to try and overcome before Spring comes to Steinbrennerville. And judging from the past couple of weeks, the goddamn Giants sure aren't going to help.