He's Mad! Mad, Mad, MAD I Tells Ya!!

Get the pitchforks and torches. Time to storm the castle.

Look, when I said we needed to stop contending and keep rebuilding, I didn't mean strip down half the team and the rest of the farm system, and sign up every available youth in the Dominican Republic now busy trying to grow a junior-high moustache.

This is just what I feared: that Cooperstown Cashman, though he was able to finally put together a true, rising young contender, would not be able to push it over the top.

Instead, as usual, he is trying to do about six different things at once, without deciding on his true intent.

Yes, thanks mostly to a combination of bad luck and phenomenal play on the part of our division rival, it had come to look like we were going to have to settle at best for a spot in One-Game Bud Selig Memorial Play-In Game.  Hey, it happens.

Coops could have stayed cool, looked at how well we did with that last year, and how we came out of it to beat a supposedly better team, and almost made the World Series. He could have filled in the breech with a few kids, and told himself, 'Well, at least we can see if they have anything, and then we'll see where we are in the offseason.'

The future was so bright, as the poet said, we had to wear shades.

But no. Instead, Coop the Gambler not only asked for four new cards, but also dropped two hidden aces from his sleeve, pulled a misfiring derringer out of his sock, and hurled a jackknife at the dealer. We'll be lucky to get out of this saloon alive.

I know, I know: Severino is probably hurt. I've been saying that for a month. So is Chapman. So what?

That is no reason to bring in some Jaime Garcia-like lump of coal such as Lance Lynn—what IS it with us and these washed up Twin pitchers?—or to deal away half the farm for lottery tix for a drawing that will take place sometime in the Kirsten Gillibrand administration.

Anyway, this is what Cash is today: just a ball of confusion.  Hey, hey.  See you in 2024.