Ninth inning, tying run on second, and we have Headley and Carter...

Why blog? Why bother? It doesn't matter. There's no juju. No juju gods. If there are supernatural entities, obviously, they are powerless, untesticled, low-rent deities with coffee-spotted ties and barber-school haircuts, who have nothing better to do for eternity than fix crummy ballgames. What a bunch of losers! Real gods summon hurricanes, earthquakes, wars. Real gods inspire statues, monuments, legends that last forever. Juju gods - should we call them "gods?" they're more like disposable office temps - can't even redirect a 3-2 curve ball. Sad. These bozo dorks don't deserve tributes. They deserve sympathy. 

Frankly, we shouldn't believe in them. That's how pathetic they have become. I'd hope they are reading this post, but clearly, they don't have internet access, or if they do, it's dial-up. They probably can't afford cell phones. I bet they earn minimum wage, work at cramped cubicles, and their cheap shoes squeak along the halls when they walk to the cafeteria to eat vending machine food, those orange peanut butter sandwich crackers, and breathe fumes from microwave popcorn. I bet there's one urinal duct-taped and broken, and the toilet paper dispenser is wound so tightly that it only releases one lousy tissue at a time. I bet the walls have graffiti scratched deeply into the paint, and while they pee, they see messages such as, "Why are you looking up here? The failed juju is in your hand."

What were we thinking, hoping to lobby these minor league, fake-entity clods and cloddesses? They can't even beat the A's. I bet they can't win us a game at Yankee Stadium tomorrow. If I were an eternal juju god, I would hang myself.

And now, the Yanks and Redsocks are tied in the AL East. Tied. All it took was a six-game wipe-out - one trip to the West Coast - to leave us undressed, sunburned and stranded on the side of the road. We knew this team had issues. We knew the rotation wouldn't hold, that certain middling players were not suddenly going to become all-stars and that 2017 was a rebuilding year - that a true championship run might not happen until 2019. Technically, we're not watching a collapse. We're watching a correction. We're watching reality. And now comes the question we have always dreaded: 

Will the front office do something desperate and stupid?

Will we abandon the future and, like mutts unchained for the first time, chase the milk truck, barking, down the street? 

Today, we have four, maybe five, MLB-ready players in Scranton. Each seemingly has a bright future, and each could probably bring a trade for some Lyle Overbay-type creature, if we decide to pull the death trigger.

Tyler Wade, the SS-IF, is hitting .324. He will probably be the 2017 IL Player of the Year, if it matters. He has 19 stolen bases, too. Could he be worse than Headley? Hard to imagine. Will we get a shot at 3B? Equally doubtful.

Outfielder Clint Frazier has 12 HRs, hitting .256. He's on a course to hit 20 in a park that heavily favors pitchers. He's been hot lately, especially since starting the year in a slump. Will he replace Brett Gardner? Barring injury, no chance. 

Dustin Fowler, the CF, has 10 HRs and it batting .293; he has 11 SB and has improved dramatically, establishing himself as a true prospect. Will he play CF for the Yankees this season? Maybe in September, as a cup of coffee.

Glyber Torres, the all-everything super SS prospect, is 25 for 81 (.309) in Triple A. He hurt his elbow sliding two days ago and is headed for tests. If he's out for a week or two, it almost surely eliminates his chance to play for the Yankees this season. (Unless we're talking September coffee.)

Greg Bird is, well, Greg Bird - two words that are beginning to haunt us. He's 3 for 21 on his rehab, perhaps with a sore knee, and we are losing more hope with each passing day. It could be a lost season.  

Tyler Austin, the OF-1B, is 24 for 79, (.304) but the Yankees have inexplicably decided he's worse than Chris Carter, the strikeout king. I thought Austin was a pleasant surprise last summer, when he hit 5 HRs in 83 at bats - (he hit .241)- including some ninth-inning heroics. Apparently, the Yankees saw something else. They signed Carter to ensure Austin would return to Scranton, and they have never looked back, regardless of the strikeouts. 

Soon, the front office will decide the destiny of these 2017 Yankees. Will they package prospects for a quick-hit pitcher or first-baseman? Or would they do what they did last July - bring up the youngsters, regardless of hurt feelings? The fans want Wade or Torres getting a shot at 3B. But the contract says we play Headley. The fans want Austin or Bird at 1B, but we continue to stick with Carter, who has not just been bad; he's been tormentingly bad. I doubt there's a real god in the heavens who can fix Carter's swing. 

Yesterday, with out in the ninth, Oakland's shortstop threw a ball into the stands, putting the tying run on second. A team of destiny would have made the A's pay. This was the moment we had been waiting for, the chance to end the West Coast swing on a positive note, to return to NYC in sole possession of first place.

Up came Headley. He struck out on a 2-2 count. Then it was Carter, who popped up on the first pitch. Game over. First place, over. Dream, over? Soon, will the Yankee youth movement be over? If so, we can't blame the juju gods. The problem, folks, will be us.