This Needs to Happen

Aaron Boone stumbled downstairs Sunday morning, his head still a little dizzy from the half-glass of port he'd imbibed to celebrate the Yankees' 8th straight victory the night before. Suddenly, he stopped.

There, filling his living room, were his wife Laura, their 56 adopted children, his father Bob, brother Brett, and—gathered in the back of the room around the couch and the loveseat—every Yankees fan in creation.

"What—what is this?" Boone mumbled, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Oh, I think you know what it is, dearest," Laura said, running a smoothing hand down the side of his face.

"Not-not- "

"Yes, dear.  It's an intervention."

"Noooooo!"

"Please don't be like that, sweetheart.  You know and I know that this was bound to happen if you kept on doing what you've been doing," Laura told him, trying to keep her voice as soft and possible and choke back the tears.

Bob Boone got up off the credenza and came over to his son.

"Aaron, you've always been a good boy, and a fine ballplayer—if not quite as good as Brett was—"

"Not quite as juiced, you mean!"

"Let's not get into that again.  You know what we're here about."

"No!  No, I don't!" Aaron yelled, and stomped his foot, wanting to run, to hide, to be anywhere but in that room.

"YES, YOU DO," said all the Yankees fans in creation.

"You see that?" his dad told him.  "They only want the best for you.  As do all of us here.  But this has got to stop."

"What has got to stop?" Aaron screamed—though deep in his heart, he knew the answer already.

"Son, I hoped it wouldn't come to this.  But I'll spell it out for you, if I have to," Bob Boone told him, a stern look on his face.  "You have to stop using Jonathan Holder."

"Nooooooo!"

"YES. YES, YOU DO."

"Oh, now I know, I know," his father said, putting an arm around the shoulders of his now sobbing son.  "He's out there in the bullpen.  He's wearing a uniform, with an actual number on it.  You think of him just like a real major-league pitcher.  You want to put him in every big game.  You keep telling yourself, 'Hey, this will give him confidence!' "

"Well?  What's wrong with that?" Aaron spat out resentfully through his tears.

"Son, you got to give it up.  What is it they call the definition of insanity in these recovery programs? Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results?"

"It's not MY fault!  Mr. Cashman says I HAVE to use him, that the analytics check out.  And, and, and Mr. Hal said I did, too, that he is really inexpensive, and—"

"What's this now, son?  Denial?  Passing the buck?" his father asked, while Brett gave an ill-concealed snicker. After a sharp look from Bob, he stared blankly out into space again.

"Well, it's true!"

"Oh, c'mon now, son. You know and I know that thanks to Mr. Cashman and Mr. Hal you have 196 pitchers out in the bullpen on an average night. You know you don't really have to use Holder in any important situation.  Wouldn't his services be put to better use peddling hot dogs in the bleachers?"

"Well, yeah, I guess so," Aaron said, sniffling a little but beginning to feel better about himself.

"You could easily just change his number with somebody else's—Cashman is not going to notice.  And Hal is too busy watching the World Cup, to plan his exciting new women's soccer league venture."

"I guess."

"And think of what a good thing you'll be doing for all the Yankees fans."

"YES, YOU WOULD.  WE WANT TO TEAR OUR OWN FINGERNAILS OUT WHEN WE SEE JONATHAN HOLDER WARMING UP."

"Okay, okay. I'll try to stop using him. But I can't go cold turkey. I still have to pitch him some in blowouts, and stuff like that."

"WE UNDERSTAND. JUST AS LONG AS IT'S BLOWOUTS IN SCRANTON."

"Hey, c'mon!  Is that nice?"

'WE'RE NOT NICE.  WE'RE YANKEES FANS.  AND WE DON'T WANT TO SEE JONATHAN HOLDER AGAIN.  EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER."

"Okay, okay, you made your point!"

'THANK YOU.  WE'LL BE GOING NOW.  AND SORRY ABOUT THE COFFEE TABLE."