In a scene reminiscent of Mustafa hoisting his newborn cub in The Lion King, Meredith Marakovits made her way up to the Cancer Clinic Broadcast Booth to bring to light The Master's historic new HR call: "Gio Urshella, he's a happy fella," from the obscure Broadway show "Only John Sterling Knows This." (Note: Shouldn't it have been "for he's a jolly good fellow... which nobody can deny?") It was a remarkable event, perhaps the most joyful moment for the Yankees thus far in 2019.
And everyone watching on YES, everybody within the still awake Yankiverse, understood with crystal clarity one certain fact:
There was absolutely no way the Yankees would lose this game. NO FUKKIN WAY...
Then, it's China Town, Jake.
Then we watched a collapse so profound that it nearly obscures the good vibes of a great week. And the culprit was, of course, the hyenas.
It's the bullpen. Again.
Two months ago, the prophets couldn't heap enough praise on the assortment of Olympian gods who would be warming up for the Yankees in every sixth inning, ready to ice victories the way White Walkers snatched babies on Game of Thrones. There was the Great Aroldis. And Dellin the Unhittable. And the Ottoman. And Zach/Zack. And Mean Chad, (who turned into Hanging Chad.) What a collection. All we'd need was five solid innings from a starter, and games would be ours. Locked down.
Insert sigh here.
Listen: All streaks end. A good team dusts itself off and starts over. But sometimes, a loss feels like more than one nine-inning delirium. Sometimes, it signifies a gigantic balloon bursting. And my ears still hurt from the sound last night.
Today, I don't know how anybody in the Yankiverse can feel that any future lead is safe. That arsenal of talent we seemed to assemble in January? It's a memory of a dream.
Okay, nobody should agonize too much over a loss... especially in April. Yes, it's still April. But what an ugly, horrible, humiliating way to end a winning streak.
It's the bullpen. Again. Hakuna mutata, muthafukkahs.
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11 comments:
Just another day in bullpen land. Our relievers are pretty bad. But they do relieve the other team with regularity.
Rothschild was striving for consistency, I guess.
Despite my well-known and well-documented negativity, pessimism and general bad attitude about this iteration of Los Yankees - meaning Hal and Brian's Great Adventure for the past 10 years, the one part of the team I was LESS worried about was the bullpen. True, I have never been a fan of El Chap's, but we need to be very patient while waiting for the next messiah, those of us who were lucky enough to witness The Great One for so many years.
Anyway, I was concerned about the hitting - all homers, no hits, no plate discipline. I was concerned about the shoddy fielding. I was concerned about the starting pitching, god only knows, since we really only have a number 3 - maybe on a good day, a couple of number 4's and a bunch of number 7's. Our pitching - which The Mighty Cashola likes to call "The keys to the kingdom" - has sucked for a long time, no more than this year.
The bullpen, though, looked competent enough.
Who knew?
Certainly not the great Larry Rothschild, he whose scrotum drags on the ground behind him as he walks. Certainlyy not Brian "We Can Always Get Better" Cashman. Hal? He's too busy waxing the hull of his yacht and planning his sports empire. Even the dreaded Gammonites were not worried about the pen. Then again, they don't worry about much. They don't get paid to worry. They get paid to massage the royal Yankee sphincters with the tips of their noses.
Anyway, here we are, a sub-mediocre team in a decidedly mediocre league. Who is dominant this year? I guess that time will tell. Perhaps the long season will forge a powerhouse such as we once were not too long ago. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...
Won't be us, though. Not this year and probably not next year. The "veterans" will come back, along with the re-treaded re-treads that Wizard Casholo is scooping up as I type. Then, we will revert to the norm which, for us lately, is not good.
Blessed be the Words of the 13bit.
Amen.
Fuckers!
And Larry Rothschild, he whose scrotum drags on the ground behind him as he walks.
Unlike Warblist, whose dildo drags out of his ass as he walks.
Ahem, 13bit: I KNEW!
If you'll remember from my preseason preview, I wrote that the bullpen certainly looked strong but that most relievers have always been touch-and-go, lights out one year, a blazing inferno the next. It was NEVER the best pen ever.
Just wanted to say.
And Duque, "The Most Happy Fella" opened in 1956—and auspicious year for the Yankees!
Warblist: "We're better than that." This from the most consistently debased and scummy poster on this group.
In the cold comfort department, Billy McKinney and Brandon Drury are both sucking big time at Toronto. So we got that going for us.
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