The Yankees are my old bathroom and Didi is the cracked tile

True story: Twenty years ago, one day while pissing in the shower, I noticed a slightly spongy bath tile on the wall. I pushed it and felt a tiny bit of play. I could have kept pissing, but I pushed harder. 

Twenty thousand dollars later, we had a new bathroom.

Today, that's how I see the next four months of Yankee meta-hysteria. 

Imagine Brian Cashman lying naked in his golden, claw-foot tub, lathered up with Mr. Bubble, the water greasy from Calgon Bath Oil Beads, as he sips Pinot Grigio and reads "Eat, Prey, Love" by candlelight, while the soundtrack of "Mama Mia" plays on his Harman Kardon speakers. The man fated for Cooperstown - first ballot, 2035 - notices a bathroom tile slightly askew. He presses on it and feels a rubbery response. 

Folks, we're in for a do-over. 

Metaphorically, the tile is Didi Gregorius, and if somebody pushed me on which was worse news - Boston winning the series, or the Yankees losing Didi for most of 2019 - I would have chosen number two. Didi's elbow injury has created a worst-case, Rube Goldberg nightmare for the Yankees this winter, and yet they have no choice but to push the tile. 

If they try to go with Ronald Torreyes and/or Tyler Wade at SS, and wait for Didi to return in August, they will be practically surrendering to Boston the AL East, forcing us to play another wild card - which, simply stated, is too risky. They must sign or trade for a shortstop, launching the baseball equivalent of a viral YouTube domino-drop. 

Everything starts with replacing Didi, who was more than a SS. He was the de facto heart and soul of the clubhouse, our only top-tier infield glove, and the lefty bat between Judge and Stanton. No free agent checks all three boxes - even if we try Gleyber at SS and look for a 2B - and whomever we target - (assuming that Hal Steinbrenner unleashes his credit card, which, amazingly, seems to be no sure thing) - that player would be replaced when Didi returns. It's a clusterfuck. 

Yes, there is Manny Machado, whose presence suddenly seems dark and malevolent - (the polar opposite to Didi's) - who we would have to sign for life, who would tilt our lineup harder to the right, and who would compel another trade, quite possibly of Miguel Andujar. We all want Machado's 35 homers, but no matter how you wrangle it, he's like Cinderella's step-sisters trying on the slipper: His feet are too big, and it just doesn't fit. 

Same with Bryce Harper, No matter how we close our eyes and think of the middle of the order, he is yet another homer/strikeout slugger, another lifetime contract, another so-so fielding corner outfielder, another giant ego, and a reason the front office would trade Aaron Hicks or Clint Frazier. 

Whatever we chose, it will set into motion other moves - of Andujar,  Frazier, Greg Bird, Sonny Gray, or throughout our increasingly depleted farm system - and every deal will inspire more bloodletting, until Cashman has more plasma on his fingers than Lady MacBeth. You can look at the 2019 Yankees and see Judge, Stanton, Tanaka, Severino, Chapman, Gleyber and Gary Sanchez (because the front office, amazingly, is doubling down on him) and after that... absolutely nothing is certain. For a team that won 100 games, that's incredible. It's also a bit disturbing. 

Last winter, nobody imagined Giancarlo Stanton as a Yankee. And when it happened, it was not dictated by a sober, front office, lineup-building strategy. It came about because Miami wanted to dump the most onerous contract in professional sports, and we drunkenly signed on. He was our Bryce, our Manny, and we didn't care that the slippers were cramping our toes. 

As we wait to hear "Food Stamps" Hal Steinbrenner's spending plans, brace yourselves, everybody. 

The 2019 Yankees won't resemble last year's model. And they might not be any better.