Boone on excruciating defeat: "Just one of those things. We talked about getting better and better at-bats here of late, and I thought we continued that today.”

When feeling the pangs of hunger, Renfield - the fidgety, maggot-devouring manservant to Count Dracula - used to delightfully bellow, "FLIES, MASTER! GIVE ME FLIES!"

Yesterday, in Yankee Stadium, his prayers would have been answered.  

That's what we hit: Long, towering flies, again and again, landing about 10 feet shy of making a difference. 

The Death Barge stranded more base runners than in any game this season. All we needed were a few singles, or maybe another base on balls. Instead, we supplied a diet of fresh and tasty flies.  

Houston's pitchers couldn't throw strikes. Didn't matter. We swung at pitches anyway. YES announcer Jeff Nelson couldn't believe it. Several times, he said the Yankees needed to take pitches, to make them throw strikes. They swung anyway: Flies, master, flies!  (And Nelson better watch what he says, or  he won't be around long.)

We featured a RF - (RenField?) who cannot run. The previous day, Giancarlo Mendoza jogged the bases and was embarrassingly thrown out at home without even a slide. He did a little dance. (His walk-up tune should be "Do a Little Dance" by KC and the Sunshine Gang.) Yesterday, it didn't matter. He went 0-for-6, his BA sinking towards .200. Flies, master, flies... 

Our starting pitcher - Carlos Pavano, signed last winter in a cascade of money - didn't last the third. He gave up five runs, then left with a sniffling  hammy. It's the kind of malady the Yankees poo-poo, before sending somebody to the jacuzzi for a month.  

Our captain - O, my captain - is hitting below .200 since returning from the torn big toe ligament. It will probably require offseason surgery. They show him on replays: The guy can barely run. And yesterday, his HRs landed at the warning track. 

Yesterday, we HAD to beat Houston. And we hit flies. 

Let's face it: This team isn't going to win anything. Does ANYBODY see a cause for hope here? I mean, SPEAK, PLEASE, CHANGE MY MIND! They just played arguably the worst game of the season - leaving more runners on base than in any game of 2023 - and the manager says they're "getting better and better." 

What planet is he reporting from? He should be smashing water coolers and quoting Jean Paul Sartre and, instead, he's talking about the vagaries of baseball, as if we're discussing  the increasingly brown hue of his rectal discharges. I CANNOT TAKE THIS ANY MORE. When Hope Week collides with Shark Week, the Boones of the world get devoured. And all we get are flies.