The Yankee season is broken, and the great lie of 2020 has been exposed.

It's a modern tradition: Every late spring - around May-June - the mighty Yankees slip-slide into the doldrums, a two-week losing streak that causes terrified IT IS HIGH posters and commentators - (I plead guilty) - to shriek that all is lost, that the season is dead, that this godforsaken, nepotistic, monopoly-built, corporate money-machine needs to clean house. Were we political, we'd say the Yankees needed to drain their swamp. 

But but BUT... then - as the red, boiling sunsets of July and August fry our systems - the team's plucky veterans would heal themselves, right the ship, and make a pennant run. We end up winning an elusive AL wild card slot, which then leads to an early playoffs knockout, and - by golly! - we'd have come soooo close that, by next winter, we'd tell ourselves that only a minor tweak was needed, and come Feb. 20, we'd happily wait for the big wheel to turn again.

Last winter - ah, do we remember last winter? - we were so certain, so absolutely sure, that adding Gerrit Cole, a legitimate ace, would bring us a ring. All we needed to do was avoid the massive injuries that crushed us last year - and that was mere happenstance, right? Cole was the missing ingredient, the Game One starter, who would lead us to Valhalla, or maybe Skaneateles.  

Well, you don't need me to say how disappointing, how disgusting, this year has been. The Death Star has blown its fuses. It's dead in space. You sense it in every stranded base-runner, every botched grounder, every called third strike on a fastball down the middle. If an opposing team scores three runs, three!, holy crap, we are in an inescapable pit! Three runs? Impossible!

This pandemic has laid naked the great Yankee lie of 2020 - the bottomless depth of our farm system. Last year's "Next Man Up" miracle is gone. This year, nobody has replaced any of our injured starters, the lineup is pocked with sub-.200 batting averages, the YES team deniers yesterday were relegated to suggesting we can eek out a playoff spot, get our stars healthy, and make a miracle run. We're betting for a magical resurgence. It's come to that.

I suppose it could happen. And Russia might overturn Putin, too. The Yankees are still playing as if it's late May, and they have 100 games left. They are stretching out pitchers and waiting for - well - for Godot, I guess. Other teams are playing with the abandon of mid-September, the O's happily giving hungry youngsters their chances to shine. 

We keep waiting for Aaron Hicks to hit, for Miguel Andujar to field, for Gary Sanchez to do something - anything - and for our vaunted ace to save the day. Three weeks left. It's not May-June. 

It's quite possibly the most depressing Yankee season since 2008, the year of Sidney Ponson. 

So, here is my official shriek of despair. The only hope I can conjure: It will all be over soon.