The Golem Team

Mrs. Calabash had an event tonight so I went to that, and then afterwards some rich idiot dragged us to a hotel that went up five minutes ago in the sparkling new, "NoMad' district of Manhattan.  (That's really what it's called, I'm not making this up.)

While we had to listen to the waitress try to sell us $24-dollar half-glasses of wine, I searched around vainly for some way to watch the game.  Of course nothing so gauche as a TV set was to be seen at this swankiness establishment that seemed to have sprung up from the ground just yesterday.

Still, no doubt basking in my new, sun-drenched Portuguese attitude, I felt weirdly confident all evening.  Around eleven or so, when this whole misbegotten meal was finally breaking up, there was a great cheer from the kitchen and then pretty soon what looked liked some classic, rich Yankees fan assholes came swaggering out of a private room in their $5,000 suits and graying ponytails and whatnot, mobsters or banksters, take your pick, and I was sure that all was right with the world.  Beyond the bill, that is.

I splurged on a cab for the Mrs. and me, and strolled into the living room to watch the happy recap.  When what to my wondering eyes should appear...

I don't know what to say about this one, folks.  I truly don't.

Yes, the Severino, late-arrival episode is truly bizarre—and just the sort of thing this corporate monstrosity of a club loves to lie about.  No doubt, we'll hear four or five tales about it as they do the public polling and try to work out the most palatable prevarication.

Beyond that,  we will be bombarded with radar-gun readings and the like to prove that Severino is absolutely fine.

Yet as sure as I am sitting here and not in sunny Portugal, home of the pig and the tawney, one of two things—or possibly both—will be revealed sometime between now and spring training, 2019:

Severino has a severe arm injury or a drug problem.  Again, maybe both, a la Doc Gooden in 1986.

The stats don't lie—not THAT much.  In the first half of this season, Severino was one of the best pitchers in baseball and an emerging star, with a 14-2 record and a 2.31 ERA.  The second half:  5-6, 5.57.  And now this postseason.

But let's not drop this all on him.  I know that in baseball, momentum is only the next day's pitcher.  But c'mon.  This Yankees team had everything going for it tonight, and performing dreadfully in every aspect of the game.

They were shut down by Nathan Eovaldi, a man who once led the AL in hits allowed, and had a big 6-7 record and a 3.81 ERA in this, his combination comeback and breakthrough year.

Once again, in a game this team badly needed to win...they simply were not there.

They were/are soulless.

And I mean that just as it sounds.  They didn't have enough soul to even be true chokers:  trying too hard, putting too much into it, getting too nervous.  Nor had they gained a lick of confidence from their recent success.

It was just yet another evening when this most baffling of all Yankees teams didn't bother to show up.  But you guys know this already.  You put it best.  No anger, no passion.  No nuthin'.

I suspect they will fade quietly out of the playoffs now,after another humiliating home loss to their bitter rival, which will enrage us fans.

But maybe not.  Maybe tomorrow's pitcher won't have it for the Sox, and they will coast to a rousing win.  Only to lose the next one.  Or to Houston.  Or the Dodgers.

For this wasn't a humiliation for them, and they weren't playing a bitter anything.  Only us fans think in those terms.  Not these guys, the Golem Team, immense and empty.

This is The Team That Wasn't There, and they just can't stay engaged long enough to put together a meaningful series of games.

In their stunning wealth and their mindless distraction, they are a perfect reflection of the city they now represent.  A city of crazily overpriced hotels full of...what, exactly?  Kitchen workers who are all Red Sox fans?  Swinging dicks who were watching...Australian rules football?

Your guess is as good as mine—just as when it comes to what the Yankees were really thinking about tonight and most nights.  Their friends and family?  The new X-box?  Which annies will be at the hotel bar tonight?

Who knows?  Who cares?  Certainly not your New York Yankees.