Aroldis Chapman returns to make us remember the wages of sweat

Last night, once again, we could relive The Terror.

You know - the anxiety, the unease, the dreaded pandemonium - as glistening armies of perspiration tumbled off the chin of Aroldis Chapman, while the tattooed titan closed out the ninth with - as always - a runner on second and the chilling sense that we were but a hanging slider away from disaster. 

I'd almost forgotten how to panic. 

That's what El Chapo does to me. He marches in, stares up into the lights, walks a couple batters, throws a few to the backstop, and sweats like Trump on the 13th fairway. Did I mention that Chappy sweats? He sweats a keg of beer. He sweats a small child. When done, you'd think he just took the Ice Bucket Challenge. He needs a new nickname, and I'm hereby taking nominations. Here are some to prime the pump:

1. The Fountainhead
2. Niagara Falls
3. Charybdis
4. Rain Man
5. The Johnstown Flood
6. Chap the Dripper

I could go on. I got a million of 'em. But that's not the point.

For the first three wonderful weeks of 2020, the exceedingly boring Zack Britton handled our ninth innings, often retiring the side one-two-three. Grounder, grounder, grounder. No drama. No excitement. Nails un-bitten. Now, the quiet Britton will pitch the eighth, as a prelude to El Chapo's theatrics - which don't always work out the way we wanted. 

Does the name Rafael Devers ring a bell? 

Don't get me wrong: I'm glad Chapman is back. He's a stoic old soul, a good teammate, and the Death Star is certainly more deadlier with him. Remember: He's not replacing Britton. He's replacing the lowest rung on our bullpen, somebody already on the Joe Biden shuttle to Scranton. El Chapo adds a powerful layer of intimidation, and hopefully this short season will add to his Hall of Fame creds. No kidding: He's got a shot at Cooperstown. He just needs another ring.

But here's the problem: Were I an opposing manager, I would give my batters firm instructions on what to do. I would tell them, "Don't swing at a single fucking pitch he throws. If he's got command of his shit, we're done. But if he doesn't - and he often doesn't - he turns into Chuck Knoblauch. Just stand there and dodge the balls aimed at your head. Don't help him. Don't swing. He'll walk you. He'll walk the bases full. And then - THEN - he'll groove one." 

I hate to say this, but for the last two years, I've been dreading the ninth with El Chapo. The reality is that no lead is ever safe. Last fall, after DJ LeMahieu's clutch homer tied the game against Houston, my first thoughts turned to Chapman, and the euphoria began to subside. We'll never know if Jose Altuve was cheating, but who will ever forget that lunatic smile on Chapman's face, as water cascaded off his chin. 

He's back, and - look - let's be positive here. The Yankees signed Chapman to win this year. He's had COVID. He should be immune. He's got six weeks to go, and then the post-season. If he's dominant, we have an incredible weapon. If he pitches us to a World Series, there will be no asterisks on this site. All will be forgiven. Chap the Dripper? Who's got the name?