Elementary, Watson!

We now take you to 221b Jerome Avenue, the abode of [retired Yankees relievers Darren] Holmes and [Allen] Watson.

Holmes is puffing away on his second bowl of medically prescribed opium for the night, while sawing away at a rendition of "Here Come the Yankees" on his aged violin.  Watson is reading the newspaper.

"By God, Holmes, have you seen this??"

"Seen what, my dear Watson?  How after starting off at a glorious 38-19, our beloved former team has lost 6 of 9, and failed to win three straight series?"

"But how the devil did you know?  You haven't even glanced at the paper, Holmes, just gone on making that infernal racket!"

"Oh, come now, Watson.  It was easy enough to deduce.  Even that charlatan Horace Lestrade Clarke at that funny blog saw this coming."

"But how, Holmes, how?"

"Just look at the pattern, my dear fellow.  Just two seasons ago, in 2017, a heady young Yankees team burst out of the gate at 21-9, and exceeded everyone's expectations.  It was hobbled by some injuries, but was still fighting for the division title down to the last weekend of the season."

"Yes, of course, I remember.  But what—"

"The one thing that team had a deficiency in, Watson, was starting pitching.  So what did their masters, Hal and Coops, do to correct this?  Did they go out an acquire some veteran postseason war horse such as Jason Verlander?"

"No, they didn't, Holmes!"  Watson reeled, almost breathless, bouncing up from his comfy club chair.  "They...they went with Jaime Garcia.  And Sonny Gray!"

"Right you are, Watson, and a fateful duo they proved to be indeed!  The next year, the team started off at an even scorchier, 50-22.  Only to find—"

"They had no pitching???"

"You are a fast study, my friend—unlike certain executives I could name.  The Yankees staggered to the finish line, then lost a very winnable division series."

"And now this season—the same thing!"

"Exactly, Watson.  How could one NOT predict it?  Another splendid start, one in which the team overcomes even devastating injuries to star players."

"But they still have no pitching!"

"Elementary, isn't it?  Expect this team to stagger and stumble for weeks now.  It may right itself a little, once some of its injured stars are back.  It may even win a spot in the One-Game Bud Selig Memorial Play-in—though I doubt it.  But without pitching, their fall is completely predictable."

"But what does this tell us, Holmes?  That the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?"

"Good Lord, no, man!  What it means is that Hal Steinbrenner is actually he who transgresses with Dr. Obudan, and the rest of the darkest JuJu gods. He is the foulest, most evil fiend who ever walked the planet, Watson—"

"Not the man who created the Kars for Kids ad??"

"No, no, not THAT foul!  He must be Dr. Moriarty, the prince of thieves!"

Watson bumbles over to collect his umbrella, bowler hat, and trusty pistol.   Holmes stares at him absently, while taking another toke.

"Come on, Holmes, the game's afoot!  What are you doing?  Mustn't we stop this fiend from wrecking our favorite ex-team?"

"I don't know about you, Watson, but I made over $9 million during my playing days, and then there's that great pension and benefit plan.  No, I intend to stay right here."

"But aren't we going to do anything?" cried Watson.

"Yes.  Bet heavily on the Rays, Sox, and Stros, my good man."