Was this the week we lost Juan Soto?

 Last night, the "J & J Boys," Juan and the Judge, put on a show comparable to the M & M Boys of 1961.

The J & J Boys—"J" also standing for "joy," in that these seemed to be the only two Yankees present not openly wishing they were summering on the Hamptons—produced six of the Bombers' seven runs, with two homers, a double, and three walks between them.

It was "Mantlian." Or "Marisian"—whatever you prefer.

Except that the Yankees lost. The M & M Boys having had, as it were, a neat little supporting cast that included Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, Whitey Ford, Moose Skowron, Johnny Blanchard, Clete Boyers, Tony Kubek, Bobby Richardson, and Luis Arroyo, among others.

The J & J guys' support looks more like comic relief. Send in the clowns? Don't bother, they're here.

It's incredible how Judge and Soto keep pulling off games like this, even as one obviously unreliable teammate after another crumbles into dust. I half-expect the Yanks to openly announce that they are increasing the degree of difficulty:

"Ladies and gentlemen! This time, they will do it while juggling flaming chainsaws!"

Of course, there's an end to how long this can go long, and it's coming up quick. New York must've seemed like a summer wonderland to Soto at first, the way the team kept winning and the fans kept roaring along with him. 

No more. 

Now comes what has become our annual descent into hell, starting with what is likely another City Series loss to the New York Mets.  

(Did you know, incidentally, the last time our boys actually defeated the Queens team in a regular-season, subway series? It was 2017. Every series since has either been a tie or a Mets win.)

The next couple months promise to be a roiling cauldron of vitriol, as the fans—lured in big numbers by yet another deceptive leap out of the gate—pour invective on Cashman and Hal...along with every other Yankee but the Big Two.

It won't be pretty—and why should Juan want to sign up for endless years of it to come?

Pretty nuch no matter where he goes, Juan Soto—still just 25—is looking at a half-billion-dollar payday. Why would he not take his talents to a competent, well-run organization where he might once again play in (and win!) a World Series?

Maybe, as with Judge, we'll get lucky and he'll decide he just loves our top-ranked tap water and "Manhattan-henge" sunsets. 

Yet the truth is that this earlier-than-ever meltdown puts re-signing Soto in jeopardy—if HAL and The Office Boy were ever serious about it in the first place; a towering "IF." And losing a player of this magnitude and this exuberance will likely cast an unmovable fog over this franchise for many years to come.

But no worries. I'm sure The Martian will finally be ready to blast off next year. Right?