The Yankees this spring are touting "The Gas Station." Well, it's time for somebody to emerge

Yo, Adrian, we did it. We survived Year One of the great pandemic - a time of doom and Zoom, of Amazon and Netflix, of cardboard fans and elbow bumps. Rudy Giuliani went from being America's Mayor to the reincarnation of Benny Hill, Andrew Cuomo from America's Governor to Pepe Le Pew, and our Yankees - from America's Team to the KC Royals. We no longer fear living under house arrest. And I realize that, if I didn't re-read Gravity's Rainbow last year, I never will. 

A year? It seems like ten. Last March, right around now, the world closed - from shopping malls to the NBA, from March Madness to Opening Day. It seemed like a rolling fog. I thank you for visiting this site, and for all those who comment, even if to tell me I'm full of shit. Without IT IS HIGH - without you - I wouldn't have made it. So, Adrian, if you're still alive... yo, have one on me. 

So... WTF happened during the great lockdown? Once again, the Yankees crapped the bed in October, when pitching is everything, and we never have enough. We still live and die by the home run, and while it works in summer, it's a loser's gambit in the fall. 

Which brings me to today's rant. Last year, before the rug was pulled, the YES team was relentlessly touting a wave of young arms on the verge of reviving the roster. We didn't know who would emerge, we just knew that, considering the sheer size of this thundering herd, somebody would. We foresaw a list of Olympians: Domingo Acevedo, Nick Nelson, James Reeves, Luis Gil, Luis Medina, Clarke Schmidt, Brooks Kriske, Michael King, Albert Abreu, Adonis Rosa, Deivi Garcia, Glenn Otto, Alexander Vizciano, Miguel Yajure, Ben Heller and the ridiculously named Caleb Ort. I picked Adonis Rosa. I mean... fukinay Adonis!

Then, basically, we got zilch. 

Okay, Nick Nelson threw a few innings, and Deivi Garcia - before the wheels came unglued - showed promise. But 30 games into the mini-season, our staff devolved into stems and seeds, tacked together with the retreaded likes of David Hale, Tyler Lyons,  Dan Otero and Nick Tropeano - veterans out of options and pitching for food. Nothing wrong with that. But it's not the jetpacks we were promised. That wave of young talent - it happened all right... with the Rays.

Well, Adrian, yo: A year has passed, and our "fully functional Death Star" is once again touting the new rifles of our farm system. The YES men now call the Yankees' minor league pitching facility in Tampa - - and I am not making this up - "The Gas Station." That's right. The Gas Station. Why?  I have theories...  

1. It's run by old farts.
2. It's fueled with fossils.
3. It fracks.
4. It serves a ripe cabbage stew.

But the official Yankee answer is 5): Through advanced technology, teams of lab-coated pitching experts are building superior spin-rates, arm trajectories and velo within their human eugenic experiments, and the results will bring new forms of "cheese."

The Gas Station. Insert sigh here. 

Will this matter? Yo, Adrian, I dunno.

But we'll soon find out. Yesterday, Zack Britton became the first big name Yankee this spring to go down. (Usually, Yankee injuries come in bunches, so hold on.) He'll undergo elbow surgery for bone chips, and he'll probably miss four months. The real question: When Britton returns, will his sinker accompany him? He'll come back around the same time as Luis Severino. Remember Sevy? Ah, so much has happened - and  stayed the same - over the last year. 

So, Adrian, we made it. And we have "The Gas Station." Yo...