Brace yourself. The worst part of the season is here: It's Cashman Time

First-off, in this midsummer ether of angst, I don't want to always be savaging Brian Cashman. He's not the worst Yankee GM, not by a long shot. He's built a first-place team, arguably the best in baseball. I deride him as "Cooperstown" mostly because I don't believe gerbils in suits belong there. Cash deserves more credit than we often give. He's a slow, easy target, and someday, when he's gone, we might look back with starkly different opinions. We could do much worse. Can you say, GM Lonn Trost?

So, today... okay, today!... let's show Cashman some love. No raging. No screams. The guy works hard. He's trying. Love...

That said, here comes the most wretched stretch of the season: The pre-trade deadline. The first three months were baseball's equivalent of the recent Democratic Presidential Debates: they eliminated the Eric Stalwells and Marianne Williamsons (Miami and Baltimore - though, technically, like the Blue Jays, Marianne is still a contender.) Now, we toss every roster into a blender and press MUSH. The trade winds loom, and yeah, they really blow.

For the next three weeks, the Gammonite sewers will back-up with crapola about trades that will never happen. It's the season of the rumor, and most of them - like small town gossip - is designed to make us wretch. But the worst part is that some of the rumors will come true. 

The Yankees - aka Cashman - are about to make fever trades for pitchers on the other side of their career arcs. They will do this at the expense of the future. They will forego the quest for multiple championships, which is what the old-time Yankees chased. It's all about now. They're like thirsty burglars who enter your house, find the diamonds, and then ditch them for a bottle of Jack Daniels. 

You know what's going to happen? The Redsocks will trade for somebody, probably a relief pitcher. And that will send the Yankees into a tizzy. They will blow up the farm system to keep pace with a team 10 games behind in the loss column. Clint Frazier will fly out the door, and a week later, we'll have Ryan McBroom starting in RF. Just watch...

Ahh, why bother? July is the month for occasional fans, once a week fans, who know there was a Yankee named Yogi. They don't give a shit about farm systems. They are the uncaring, disinterested undecideds, the folks who occupy the political and cultural center of America. They're good people, and - truth be told - we'd be better off to emulate them. Who the hell are we to be sitting here, debating the fate of Rob Refsnyder? They never lost sleep over the trade of Mark Melancon for Lance Berkman. They remain happy in their dull summer slumbers. July is for beach novels.

Not us. The Yankees gave us a spectacular first half, a wonderful story of no-name players who rallied to save an injury-depleted team. It ended with us trouncing Boston in London, and we savored every moment. (At least I hope you did.) Now, it's over. "Cooperstown" is about to press MUSH, and unless we win a ring, 2019 will go down as a painful memory.

The sad truth is this: When you're already at the top, there is only one way to go. Brace yourselves, folks. As they used to say on Batman: The worst is yet to come.

(Remember: Love for Cash today. The anger can come later.)