This will never work out.

Somewhere in the Stygian depths where they slumber for the winter months, dreaming up fresh torments for Knicks and Jets fans, the JuJu gods stir, sniffing out our joy like blood on the wind.

Something must be done to appease them!  So in the interest of a calming sacrifice, I offer up the following:

We got Gerrit Cole?  BFD!

First, the guy doesn't even know how to spell his name right.  It should be Garrett, or at least Gerritt.  Not Gerrit.  C'mon!

Second, has he ever played for a winner?  I mean a champion.  No, he has not.  He doesn't know how to win, let's face it!  Look at how he couldn't bring home that big game seven in this year's World Series!

(All right, so he didn't pitch in it.  But still, he didn't bring it home!  Did he?)

And think of all the things that can go wrong!  Why, just for starters he could:

—Trip on a throw rug and break his foot.

—Lose a leg fighting the Nazis.

—Lose some toes in a mining accident.

—Get epilepsy after extended combat exposure and start drinking heavily.

—Break his hand smashing a water cooler.

—Break his hand smashing the dugout wall.

—Pull a hammy.  In Alabam-y.

—Crash into a building piloting his personal plane.

—Contract a debilitating heart condition.

—Get suspended for exposing himself in the bullpen.

—Develop a serious cocaine habit.

—Break an ankle jumping on a trampoline with some kids.

—Slice off part of a finger trimming his hedges.

—Contract tuberculosis after being accidentally gassed in an army training camp.


Why not?  All those things have happened to pitchers, and much, much more.

Nope, nope, nope, no way I'm buying this, it's just setting us up for more disappointment.  Cole will flop, and even if he doesn't we still need more left-handed hitters, more outfielders, a better catcher, better trainers and coaches and a real GM.

Nope, no way, nothing is happening.  We Yankees fans are filled with gloom, and if you take a good look at our faces you'll see our smiles look out of place and if you closer it's easy to trace the tracks of our tears.

Yep, all we've bought ourselves is whole mess o':