So, at least the Yankees can still beat Minnesota...

Rather than rules of etiquette or kindness, this blog has always assumed one basic understanding - and if you cannot abide by it, you're better off on TikTok.  

It goes this way: When the Yankees win, I think to myself, it's a wonderful world... And when they lose, why do the birds go on singing, why do the stars glow above... 

We win, all is groovy. We lose, let's jump off the 59th Street Bridge. Get it?

Except last night. I'm still sorta wobbly.

Last night, thanks to our pals in Minnesota - including a Bizarro manifestation of our own past - the Death Barge briefly restored glee to the Yankiverse. In fact, I'm delighted to report that while we were graciously accepting a victory, Boston was getting molested by Houston, losing one-third of the gains they made last weekend. 

Back in the glory days - before any thoughts of Jeter included the image of Giancarlo Stanton's contract - the Yankees often suffered May/June meltdowns against Boston. But we would then beat a tomato can, while the Redsocks fumbled away their ground. (Note: Tampa, on the other hand, has won three straight. Soon, the Yankees will have to concede the AL East and target the Wild Card.)  

So, how should we celebrate last night's win, which came gift-wrapped from the Twins infield and our own fossil record. It started with Michael Pineda - now a cross between CC Sabathia and Al Hrabosky - looking as if he'd throw a shutout. Except we knew better. We've seen the Big Mike Show many times. He dominates... until he doesn't. And when he doesn't, HE. DOES. NOT. So we waited, and we got to him. 

Then there was Rob "Brigadoon" Refsnyder, named after Lerner and Loewe's  magical village on the Scottish highlands, which appears every 10 years, drives in a few runs, and vanishes into the suburbs of Rochester. Ref, just back from concussion protocol, doubled off the top of the wall, then tweaked a hammy sliding into second and will return in 10 years to sing the finale with Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse. I wish him the best. 

Tonight, Minnesota tonight will uncork the vintage wine known as J.A. Happ. Only God knows what he'll look like. Prepare for a dominant few innings and then... Happ will Happen. Old Rumsfeld once told us, it's not what we know that the know, it's what we don't know we don't know. We all know that the Yankees can climb out of a gutter, piss a quart of blood, take two aspirins and beat Minnesota. But there are juju forces in this universe that mean us harm, and today, while we rollick our jollies, we must ponder them. 

Zack Britton got bombed last night in a Scranton rehab assignment. He didn't last an inning, gave up four runs, recorded one measly out. Of course, it doesn't matter. He could be testing a new pitch, or new underwear. But Britton is 33 and coming off Pandemic '20, when he threw all of 19 innings. Years ago, when he returned from an injury in Baltimore, it took him a whole season to regain command. The Yankees will go slowly with Britton. It's too soon to fear the worst. But it looks like a long road back. July rather than June? August instead of July?

This controversy about the stickiness of Gerrit Cole's fingers is moving from punch line to perp walk. Like Britton's performance last night, it doesn't mean a thing... yet. Last night, Cole found himself in a Gammonite clusterfuck and phoned in his answer - a robotic, mealy-mouthed blah-blah-blah that could have come from the My-Pillowed lips of a Kardashian. Considering all the righteous screaming that happened over the Astros, New York would be a really, really, really bad place to experience a cheating scandal. 

So... big Yankee win last night. Altogether now... hooray?