Here we are... two days into pitch and catch, and nobody yet has dropped a kettelbell on his big toe, or reported to Tampa one nut short of Chelsea Manning due to a letter opener accident. Everybody is healthy. Everybody is smiling. For now.
But you know those Baby Einsteins who theorize that they can trace TV static back to the original Big Bang? What they're actually capturing on their billion dollar Fisher Price toys is something far more sinister.
They're listening to the universe giggling behind our backs. Because it knows...
Hold that thought a moment.
Last year, around now, we were drinking heavily over the news that Greg Bird - the great Yankee hope of 2016 - was done. In a week, we'd learn that Mason Williams would join him on the MIA list - out for six months. By the end of March, our biggest pitching surprise in camp, Bryan Mitchell, would stub his toe and disappear like George Pataki. And then there was Domingo German. At the moment, I am unable to recall the injury to Domingo German, or for that matter, Domingo German, himself, but I'm sure it was a sad moment, and that the Tamiami Trail was lined with mourners.
Two years ago, around now, we lost Chris Capuano and Ivan Nova. The weirdest part about those injuries is that, at the time, we actually thought it was a bad thing. Now, we know the truth:
It was just the universe, laughing at us.
And - gulp - it is surely giggling right now.
Brace yourselves, folks, because it's coming. The first big shoe to drop on 2017. Don't know who it will be. Don't know how bad it will be. It might be a key infield lug nut. It might be Domingo German. But it's coming.
Same in American politics, don't you think? All this gibber-jabber will soon be forgotten by the dimensions of a crisis that will redefine everything we consider to be "news," and we will look back and shake our heads at what was consuming us back in "the good old days." The universe is giggling, because it knows...
We are two days into pitch and catch, and considering the current low bar on this definition, you can say Yankee camp is operating "like a finely tuned machine." No coach has been fired for plotting with the Redsocks, and - to my knowledge - nobody has poked a Q-tip through his eardrum. (Henry Cotto, wither goest?) We should be happy and hopeful, I suppose.
But that's not our style. Nope. And it's coming: The first injury revelation of 2017. Somebody important is about to announce that he did something really stupid New Years Eve with a bottle opener. And until it happens, there are no projections, no predictions, nothing we can take to the bank about the 2017 Yankees.
Right now, the universe is preparing to dial our number to page "Ivan Oliver Closeoff." It's painting the bleachers with Super-Glue. It's filling the bag with dog poop, and dousing it with lighter fluid. It already knows.