In the long run, maybe last week's trades will be the best thing that ever happened

Here's a horrible, painful, totally hurtful thought: Someday, maybe three years from now, we'll look back on the six-game winning streak of July 2017 - last week's mini-hallucination of hope - as the best thing that ever happened to the Yankees. 

Yep. No misprint. The best that ever happened.

By then, Dustin Fowler, James Kaprielian and Jorge Mateo could be fixtures in Oakland, and Blake Rutherford could be emerging for the White Sox. Unless we're sporting a new world series ring, last week's brief surge could go down as the Great False Read of 2017. That little streak would be remembered as Brian Cashman's justification for ditching the Yankee rebuilding plan and chasing the brass ring... which in turn spawned his contract year downfall.

If the Yankees collapse, could Cashman finally go?

Looking back, we might laugh at our own gullibility. We won six in a row against middling Seattle, the last place Reds and Tampa, which kicked the ball around like Manchester United. Suddenly, we found ourselves like Chauncy Gardiner in first place and - as a result - scrapped the long range rebuilding plan for an all-or-nothing run. It will be remembered as "the Todd Frazier period," when we briefly assumed the mantle of "Golden State Warriors of baseball." How mockingly will that phrase be used.

Oh, we'll say, what a jolly time it was! Six wins. It was as if the entire team took part in an IT IS HIGH drunk blog. Six wins! - sandwiched by lengthy, soul-sapping slumps. It began by losing two out of three to dismal Detroit, then we went to Cleveland, Toronto and Boston. And by mid August... ugh...

Listen: I'm saying this in the hope that, by putting it in writing, it cannot happen. But this is serious: We may soon call for a juju intervention. Last night, our June-July malaise officially began stretching into August. Today, like those campers in The Blair Witch Project, we're right back to where we were, before we started clomping around in the woods. We're scraping the chalk board as our fingernails slide,  and we're once again chasing a wild card berth - a wild card berth - in a field where all but two AL teams remain contenders.

In one week, we went from a future dynasty to the Pronk/Vernon Wells lineup that cannot score three runs in a game. Last night, down 2-0 after the first, seriously, who thought we had a chance?

I don't mean to throw in the towel. In Girardi's managerial career, the Yankees almost never quit. (Well, there were late season meltdowns in Boston, after which, you really couldn't blame them.) Often, they look dead as dildos, only to stand up and fight. Last night, with Corey Kluber pitching, we were destined to lose. Could Luis Severino be our Kluber, our Chris Sale? Because unless this ship turns around, we're playing for the one-game post-season, as we have for the last five years.  

Last week, Cashman laid everything on the line. It's now or never. Maybe that's a good thing, because this is his contract year. If last week's trades - for which he already taken victory laps - blow up in our faces, maybe the real long term hope for the Yankees is new management. A stunning collapse would hasten such a move. 

Don't get me wrong: I'm not rooting for us to lose. I'm just saying that when you trade the future for a one-shot run, you better not fail. Right now, since the trades were finalized, we're 0-3. And already, last week's wins look like a dream we may someday rue.