The dead zone in the Pacific Ocean has nothing on the one in the Yankee lineup

Somewhere out there - beyond Guam, Samoa and Shangri-La -  there floats a vast skin of plastics, the microscopic residue from 100 years of Bic pens, Polish Spring water bottles and single-use grocery bags, the sharts of civilization.

I probably shouldn't compare the middle of the Yankee batting order to this existential embarrassment. I mean, our lineup poses no direct threat to our friends, the whales.

But, hey, if the Croc fits...

Last night, our Big Four Run-Makers occupied their own personal oceanic dead zone - going 0-for-14 with 6 Ks and three surgically directed DP grounders, which effectively clogged our engines and left us in the middle of nowhere.

Whenever the lineup turned over, and they came into view, for Yankee fans, it was like the horror movie trope where the young woman climbs up to attic, to see what's making the thumping sound, and you're yelling, "NO, DON'T GO THERE!" But they always do, because they don't know it's a horror movie.

The result: Long, weary, unbridled, home run swings - and nothing to show.  

Not only that, but Gleyber Torres - who may be running out of time, in his contract year, no less - contributed a bonehead play that would have made Fred Merkle proud. (And if you don't remember Fred Merkle, that's another reason you need Hoss Clarke's great book.) Instead of making an easy throw to 1B, Gleyber attempted a cross-diamond fling to third, bouncing it off the baserunner and allowing a run to score on a night when the Yankees would only tally two. 

The big takeaway from our first match-up with Baltimore:

They find ways to win. The Yankees find them to lose. 

At this rate, they'll be lucky to leave Baltimore in second place. And they are trending downward, still living off the glorious opening two weeks when everything clicked.   

It's taken us seven years to shed the monkey on our backs known as the Houston Astros. Now, the Orioles - a young and ascending team - could be taking their place.

Around here, we often call the Yankees "the Death Barge," a long-diseased reaction to Brian Cashman's famous 2018 description of them as a "fully operational Death Star," referencing the Evil Empire. 

Well, there is no empire, no battleship in the sky, no intergalactic force. There is just a big, slow-moving thing in the water. It's still way too early to sound the alarm, or start trading bodies, or declare ourselves lost at sea. But the next two nights could show us what kind of gap exists between the O's and our heroes. And where the hell are we? Guam? Easter Island? Jurassic Park? We have two games to recapture some sense of hope. Otherwise...