The Yankiverse was poised for an incredible symmetry - Brett Gardner's resurrection - and then nothing happened

Nothing stings like pissing away a potential back-breaking victory. You held your opponents balls in the palms of your hands, and they slithered away. And make no mistake: Last night's loss may haunt us to the end of time. I'm still in a daze of anger and frustration. How many times did a Yankee batter take several close pitches, grind out the count to 3-2, and then swing at ball four, well out of the zone? On full counts, it was as if we were predestined to swing, regardless of location. We fought and fought... and then folded like sticks of Juicyfruit.

In 263 career starts, only three times has JA Happ been knocked out more quickly. How does a veteran like Happ summon up such a clunker for perhaps the most career-defining game of his life? And four strikeouts by Giancarlo Stanton, whose solemn face is wearing thin. He is threatening to become the new A-Rod of October, the star famous for failing when it matters.

But but BUT... we didn't need to sweep them in Fenway. We simply need to win tonight. Chris Sale threw a ton of pitches - we'll hit him, if we get another chance - and nobody from the bullpen shut us down. They even used Porcello, a sign of fear. I am still deathly afraid of Stephen Wright - the pitcher, not the comic - whose knuckleball could be the death of us. I believe they are waiting for the right moment, their finger on the trigger, to detonate the knuckler. 

Tonight, we will learn the extent of Aaron Hicks' tweaked gonad, because Boone would normally sit Brett Gardner against a lefty. And if Hicks is out for the post-season, it's a huge setback on every level... except for magic.

Let's face it: There is a grand scheme of symmetry, a painted masterpiece of redemptive juju, to having Gardy thrust into the spotlight. He's had a terrible year, and he's almost certainly gone from the Yankees this winter. It's not hard to see him bouncing around in late March, a free agent without a contract. Thirty-six-year-old outfielders coming off horrible seasons... there isn't much of a market. But there is tonight...  

In my fantasies, Gardy will lead us. He's the Yankee most likely to solve the knuckleball, the Yankee most likely to deliver a bunt single - (remember: it was Benintendi's bunt that killed us last night) - the Yankee most likely to make a diving catch that defies physics.  

But it didn't happen last night. Gardy went down swinging.

A final note: If anybody went to Foley's Sports Bar in Manhattan last night looking for Mustang and me, my apologies. The trade winds of alcohol blew us in another direction, and group decisions were made that revealed our true inabilities to lead. We watched the game in a fake Irish bar on 39th Street, howling into the vortex of comic book drinkers more interested in a Captain America movie on a competing screen. Sad.