"Still I look to find a reason to believe..."

So for a few precious moments in the Yankees' seventh inning last night it seemed like it might really all come true—like we were already living in a better future that came straight out of the past.

We'd already seen Cole gutting through a start when he didn't have his best stuff, and Giancarlo hitting his 400th homer, and if his curtain call had to be manufactured by Stanton jumping out of the dugout before anyone was really applauding that was all right, too. The Stadium crowd was in a good enough mood on a sultry night that they gave him a hand anyway. Or maybe they just didn't want to argue.

Jasson Dominguez stood in centerfield, like a miraculous visitation, smiling like a blessed child and making ET signs to the Bleacher Creatures. 

Came the seventh, and Judge led off with a walk. The Martian, adjusting beautifully, stroked a double into the gap in right, actually running as fast as a fast human being can.

The Gleyber, our hottest hitter, batting fourth, then lined another double down the left field line, and just for that instant, it looked as though a good-old-fashioned, gratuitous, spirits-raising beatdown of a visiting tomato can might actually be underway—and who knows what the years ahead might hold?

Maybe there even would be a trip to blue Hawaii. I certainly didn't want to stop it...

But then Giancarlo struck out on a pitch a yard out of the strike zone that would've been ball four, and The Gleyber got picked off second, leaving early on a meaningless attempt to steal third, and in the blink of an eye the big rally was over. 

The Yanks and Tigers wrapped up the next two innings as if they couldn't wait to get out from under the intolerable burden of having to play baseball for tens of thousands of dollars on a sweaty night. Back to the clubhouse, where Ma Boone could aim another of his minuscule darts at Brian Cashman, remarking about how it would have been nice to know that his first baseman had been playing for six weeks with a concussion, as if everyone in the greater metropolitan area hadn't figured that out on their own.

Oh, Ma. You're gonna have to come a lot bigger than that to penetrate the hide of our Machiavelli of the front office.

But in the fun house...how do you know who's really crazy? 

69-69, for the first time since 1969. Gotta be a meaning in there somewhere. Right?