I don't have to tell anyone how much the world can change in a week. Last Monday, the Yankees were on life-support, and United Airlines didn't offer free coach service beat-downs. By next Monday, we could be at war with North Carolina, Taylor Swift might have said something, and who knows, this hangover might be over.
Why lie? I missed last night, benched by manager Joe for an old-fashioned punk-ass rock show. If any of you ever get a chance to see Sheer Mag, you will be witnessing the preeminent eighties power-pop garage punk skuzz band on this planet, and with a show that makes Bruce Springsteen look like Rick Springfield, and feel free to tell them you know me, because they cannot deny it with a straight face.
All I know is the Yankees actually played on national TV and didn't disgrace themselves, which over the years, they have managed to do quite consistently. I can't back this up with stats - hell, we use sentences here, not cheap-ass algorithms - but it seems like every April, the Yankees go on ESPN and fall apart like a Nicolas Cage movie. Last night looked to be a prime time Easter Sunday disaster, especially with Michael Pineda - The Man Who Was Traded for Jesus - taking the mound.
I direct you to the rollicking comments section for wrap ups and analysis. I consider you to be the most dynamic, knowledgeable and passionate peanut gallery in the Yankiverse.
Truth be told, I only got to see two at bats last night. Betances was pitching in the eighth, and I watched him walk the then-tying run into scoring position. It looked like a classic meltdown, and somewhere in an ESPN nerve center, some Redsockian editor was licking his chops, cuing up clips of Dellin getting whacked last September. And then Betances threw three pitches so wicked that they could have grown warts, and that was - as Stephen Hawking would theorize - THAT. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. Cue the Easter bunny.
We play the White Sox and Pirates, and then we go to Boston. Three night games against the Redsocks, one on ESPN. What are the odds that we'll see Chris Sale? A thousand percent. I don't care. That's a week away. By then, who knows where we'll be?