Warning to all Yankee fans: If you intend to keep watching, make sure you write your social security number onto your arm with a Sharpie, so you can identified later

Didn't some alien voice - from some wormhole-infested galaxy far far away - tell us how Thursday's glorious rumble would galvanize the Yankees, uniting the team for its big stretch run? Because - let's never forget - shortly after defending our manhood with fisticuffs, this team stupidly lost to the Tigers, and last night, inside those embarrassingly loud, ex-Houston Colt 45 jerseys, this team should have been called the "Patsies." 

Seattle looked comfortable in its powder blue underwear, and I guess I'm no longer part of the prized demographic, but I found it insufferable, watching 100 years of Yankee tradition pissed away with soccer jerseys and nicknames like "Head" and "All Starling" where pinstripes should be. MLB claims it's all for charity; let's just say I'm skeptical. My guess is that somehow, Steiner Collectibles will be selling those odious, obnoxious ripoffs for years to come, long after the nonprofits have signed off. If we've learned anything about modern professional sports, it's that everything can and must be monetized, and if a tradition is not pulling its weight - profit-wise - who needs it?   

As for the team, well, where do you start? Wherever we look, another leak springs in the floorboards. First, the bullpen. Then, the batting order. Tomorrow, the rotation. Sunday, the defense. It's always something. In one-run games, the Yankees are 15-21 this season. Essay question: Please, somebody... tell me how this team is going to win anything relevant? 

Last night, it hurt to watch. Sitting there, I was ashamed of myself. It was embarrassing, demeaning. I felt like a recovering alcoholic, pouring shot after shot, squandering months of sobriety by sitting there, inning after inning, drowning in my degradation. Down 1-0 and squandering base runners, inning after inning, I couldn't overcome the sense that this team will be one more lipstick-smudged cigarette butt in the ashtray of Yankee history. There is no longer certainty that Aaron Judge will be a great Yankee, or that any lead is safe, or that the "Baby Bombers" will be anything more than a future punch line for cynical fans. Where do you start?

1. Last night, when news broke that Trump had pardoned "Sheriff Joe," did anybody else immediately think of Sheriff Joe Cowley? My second thought: "Big deal; Hal has pardoned Joe for the last four years." 

2. "The Missile" is now "The Cuban Missile Crisis." Aroldis Chapman's ERA this month is 9.00. Eight innings, eight earned runs, eight hits, three home runs, six walks and a hit-batter. Horrible. Those are overworked-Scott-Proctor-in-free-fall numbers. For the foreseeable future, I cannot imagine how Joe can rationalize using "The Missile" in anything less than a 12-0 blowout. He belongs in Scranton. Worse, considering Foodstamp Hal's unwillingness to open his purse, El Chapo looks like exactly the kind of salary dead weight that can cripple Yankees spending for years. We're finally on the verge of getting out from under A-Rod's contract... now, this. Unbelievable.

3. The YES team no longer blathers hope that "All Rise" is looking better and better with each at bat, and he's ready to break out of his slump any minute now. That broadcasting phase ended a few games ago. Now, they just talk about his timing being off, as if that isn't the problem with every bad hitter in baseball. The back of the jersey should say "All Rise*" and the asterisk should be defined as "All Rise to Go Get Something to Eat, Because Watching Is Just Too Painful." Right now, Judge is the last guy you want at bat with runners on base. And Joe still won't sit him for a few games. Waste deep in the big muddy, and the big fool says to press on... 

4. Today, we have a 3-game lead (loss column) for the one-night wild card. Trouble is, five teams remain within five games of us (losses, that is.) By Monday, Seattle could be raging and restored. If not for that gleeful six-game respite between the Mets and pre-brawl Tigers, we'd already be on the downside, looking up. And when you look at this team, in these ridiculous jerseys, you don't see the lineage of Ruth, Mantle and Jeter anymore. You see A-A Ron and D-Dawg. You Star Wars action figures and Burger King bobbleheads, and you see a team that won't be playing beyond Oct. 1. And if we blow this, good riddance. Where the hell IS Sheriff Cowley, anyway?