Riding high in April, shot down in May?

Be careful what you wish for, old Vonnegut once wrote. Actually, I learned that lesson at age nine. For Christmas that year, I campaigned for an Eldon Bowl-a-Matic. I'd seen the ads with kids screaming with joy, and it looked like crack cocaine. I wanted a piece. I made it my first round draft pick, my Joe Don Looney. 

On Christmas morning, when my six weeks of hard work had born fruit, I shrieked with delight. I tore off its outer wrappings and - right there on the living room floor - mounted it. I set the pins, placed my ball into the plastic bowler's hand, and shot. In that moment, a revelation came: I was... bowling? Since when did I give a crap about bowling? After knocking down the pins, I had to set them back up again. On TV, the kids never had to set them up. This fucking blew. W.T.F. had I done? I could have had a Magic 8-Ball!

So last night, in their sick way, the juju gods granted me what I'd asked for: A Yankee loss that was not akin to six hours on a torture rack, or watching the Ice-Capades. Compared to Sunday, last night was a cool Sylvia Path night in the hot tub. It was like going to bed in first and waking up in second. It was never in doubt, never worth a primal scream over something Girardi did. Down 2-0, then 5-1, then 7-1, farewell, England! Just lie down, close your eyes, let them set the ball in your plastic hand... and bowl.

For the first time since opening week, we have lost two straight. And this one came at the hands of MLB's April punch line - the hapless Jays. For a month, Toronto has been spectacularly rancid. So what happens? Of course... they roll into NYC, yank off our wrappings and bowl us under the tree. 

Another of my wishes was for Greg Bird to get 500 at bats this season. For the record, I still believe in Bird, but watching him last night, he looks like a kid who just opened the biggest box under the tree, and it's clothes. In March, he was Babe Ruth. In April, he's been Ruth Gordon. I don't know what to do. But I do know that Chris Carter isn't the answer, and that if the two guys platoon, there's a good chance neither will ever get hot. We have somehow won April without a hitting first baseman. We won't win May. 

Finally, I remain haunted by my original wish for 2017, belched forth in February, before any of this self-pleasuring began: I wanted the Yankees to use this season as a bridge to a future dynasty, and not get caught up in a Wild Card hysteria that would prompt us to trade prospects for a Jose Quintana-grade pitcher. That still remains my first round draft pick. But April made us drunk with expectations. Now, we are staring at the Bowl-a-Matic. Wanna roll?