With another season shot to hell, one word echoes across the Yankiverse: CHANGE

Jeeze. I can't do it. I can't write the obit. Not today. It's only been a few hours. The wounds are too raw, the pain too brutal, the night too sleepless. Jeeze. I'm a wreck. It's over. It's really over.

Since that news conference last winter, when Gerrit Cole unveiled his "YANKEE FAN FOR LIFE" sign - long before Covid - I actually believed that 2020 would be our year, that Cole's homeward journey would help me revive my own childhood memories of Mickey, Yogi and Whitey - (RIP, sir) - because... well... I dunno. I just did. I really believed. 

And held that belief in my heart until around 10:30 E.S.T. last night.

I wonder if I will ever believe in the Yankees again. I'm 68, compromised, sitting in the crosshairs of a pandemic. How many years do I legitimately have?

Once again, we are left holding a wet bag full of dead kittens, another image of Aroldis Chapman staring into the left-centerfield abyss, where another season-ending homer just landed. They call him "the Cuban Missile." From now on, he should be "the Cuban Missile Launcher." He is forever linked to Rafael Devers, Jose Altuve and Mike Brosseau. We have him for two more seasons. Can you imagine what he'll be like in 2022?

This morning, let's not think about it. But El Chapo does epitomize the Yankees, who originally obtained him because the Reds balked over his domestic violence case. (Okay, maybe it's a cheap shot to mention that case today, kicking the guy when he's down. I'm sure he feels awful, and nobody's accused him of being a bad teammate. But he'll be 33 next year, it's all downhill from here, and I'm bitter, okay?) The Yankees are full of players whose peak seasons are behind them. In fact, peruse the roster, and how many impact starters could you honestly say have their best seasons still to come? Gleyber? Clint Frazier? Deivi Garcia? Um, anybody else?

You might add Miguel Andujar, but - gahhhhh - just mentioning his name makes me cry. We squandered the 25th year of a guy who beat Dimaggio's record as a rookie. We pissed it away, and when we trade him this winter - probably for a new Ottavino - we'll receive pennies on the dollar in return.

Clarke Schmidt? Whatever happened to him? He was the talk of spring training, and then, poof, he went to Scranton and only returned for a cameo. 

The fact is, we cannot discern the true depth of the Yankee malaise because there was no farm system this year, no minor leagues to monitor our prospects. But we do know this: The Yankees are in trouble.

This year, they were the 10th best team in MLB, sixth best record in the AL. They are a casserole of questionable trades and signings, based on mathematical front office analytics that bring "safe" results - that is, winning seasons, but not much more. We have an aging roster that is continually beaten by ascending teams. Next year, it will be Toronto, and don't count out Baltimore, either. In fact, does anybody out there not suspect that Boston will win yet another World Series before we do?

Jeeze. How did we get this way? Once upon a time, the Yankees were the gold standard in baseball. Even last night, on the post-game show, Pedro Martinez spoke reverently of how Tampa had finally achieved the ultimate hurdle - "beating the Yankees." But he was referring to the Yankees of old, the ones with 27 rings, not the current organization, which hasn't won in 11 years.

This winter, the Yankees will probably sign another thirtysomething. They have no choice, considering the anger and disappointment that will be coursing throughout their fan base. Well, I'm not going to bite. What they Yankees need is far more than a free-agent catcher. They need to change. And it needs to start at the top.