Okay - (sigh) - anybody out there? Can you hear me? If you can hear this, take a deep breath. Breathe in... breathe out. Ahh...
Now, a temperature check: Ninety-nine point two. Close enough. Finger in the Pulse Oximeter: Eighty eight. Hmm. Let's try later. Look, if you're reading this, let's assume you're alive. Okay? Breathe in... breathe out...
In this fart of a season, the Yanks have now played 26 games.
In a normal year, 26 games puts us into late May. The kids are in school, the trees are budding, and we haven't even bought the beer for Memorial Day. And in a normal year, brace yourself: Because this is when the Yankees always collapse.
Yes, we get humiliated. We are blown out in Fenway, or on the West Coast, or anywhere but Baltimore. This prompts everyone on this blog to proclaim the season over, the Yankees dead, and to scream that Gary Sanchez must be traded for a can of Alpo. (The Sanchez thing is a rather new tradition, but you get the point.)
But the truth is, in a normal year, the long grind ahead is our best buddy, because by mid-August, every team of over-achievers will be knuckle-dragging, and we'll be catching fire.
Normally, by late August, the Yankees have played 100 games, and the crises of mid-May are laughable, compared to the tough week ahead. By then, the Yankees would have dealt with a wave of injuries - yes, what we're seeing is normalcy - by promoting kids from Scranton or visiting the vast Triple A scrap heap. By now, the Yankees would be enjoying the fruits of a few "once-around-the-league" newcomers.
But it's not mid-May. It's late August, and - get this: Gio Urshela and Gleyber Torres lead the Yankees with 78 at-bats apiece. Seventy-eight. Yep, not one Yankee has yet come to the plate 100 times. How do you judge anybody on such a small sample size? (Miguel Andujar has three times been kicked back and forth, and he has - gulp - 21 at-bats.)
This year? Well, we're probably fucked. This week brought our annual collapse: Dropping three at home, while losing several stars to injuries. Wanna see kids enjoying their first taste of the bigs? Look to Baltimore or Tampa, or anywhere but the Bronx.
This year, the Yankees have no rookies, aside from rotating bullpen lug nuts who collectively make up the roster's last man. This year, the Yankees have fielded a veteran team, the kind that could shrug off a May crisis, knowing the long haul was in their favor. But the joke is on us. This year, there will be no 100th game in August. This year, the wheels won't necessarily fall off over-achieving teams.
From now on, every Yankee injury is a season-killer. And every slump guarantees an off-year.
But if we are mentally in late May, the best part of 2020 might still be coming.
If James Paxton is out, we could soon see Clarke Schmidt, the former first-round pick. And if Schmidt isn't throwing well in Scranton, we might glimpse Deivi Garcia, the new next-Pedro. Will they succeed? Fuck if I know. But Tampa just gave us an old-fashioned whupping, and we never even heard of half their pitchers. Maybe it's time for a little less Ottavino and a little more Schmidt.
If Gleyber goes down - God forbid - we might see Kyle Holder, reputed for years to be the best fielding SS in our system, and one of the finest in the minors. Could he go a month before pitchers find his flaws? Fuck if I know. But remember: this year, once-around-the-league goes a lonnnng way.
If - no, when - Aaron Hicks tweaks something, could we see Estevan Florial, the former phenom, before he is dealt for a 30-something salary dump? Could he be a breath of fresh air? Fuck if I know. But it would be fun to see.
After winning, watching rookies has always been the best part of fandom. Maybe, just maybe, this week's collapse will bring some youngsters our way. Because only they can save us from The Abyss.
4 comments:
God, they really suck lately. Nothing else to say.
Why? Just fucking why!?
TAKE me out to the virtual ballgame...
TAKE me out with the virtual crowd...
Order me takeout food on my couch
I don't care if I never go out.
Let me root root root for the virtual Yankees
If they don't win, it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes fuck this
At the old virtual ball game...
Thank you, Hoss. This fake news up above is just a trifle, a mote in the martini, a speck in the firmament, a turd in the punch bowl.
Reality is bullshit. See you all online, motherfuckers...
Love,
13BIT
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