The Endless Spring.

 

Ah, where to begin with yesterday's dumpster dive? 

(The photo above was taken in an actual, Soho dumpster a couple weeks ago. It seemed to me like a bad omen, somehow.)

Last night's non-effort against the Washington Nats included so many elements of what is wrong with this Yankees team—and what has been wrong for years now—that it was almost magnificent in its ineptitude.

Let's start at the top. 

Nothing better exemplifies the inanity of Brian Cashman's vision for this Yankees team than its infield play last night.  

Not only did Gleyber "Headless" Torres commit his league-leading, 15th error at second—matching his entire total from last year, with over a month of play still to go!—but at the same time, a perfectly able second baseman, Jazz Chisholm, committed his 6th error in 18 games at third base, a position he is trying to learn on the fly in the midst of a pennant race.

All while Oswaldo Cabrera, who has outhit and outfielded Torres this season, remains on the bench.

Or Chisholm could have been in the outfield, in place of Flopsie Vertigo (And am I the only one who thinks that Vertigo resembles Clint "The Red Menace" Frazier?  Talk about omens!). 

We have learned that Flopsie has an excuse, though: it seems that he was allergic to his batting gloves, which gave him blisters on his hands. Ah, yes, yet another unsolvable problem for the Yankees' crack medical team. 

One can picture the day when Verdugo meets Joe DiMaggio or Ted Williams in hell, and they explain:

"Blisters, son? You're supposed to have blisters on your hand, from all the extra batting practice you take. Especially when you're hitting .223." 

(No word yet if Flopsie's outfielder's glove was causing him to have hallucinations during that ninth inning in Baltimore.)

Then there was José Trevino, two years ago a Gold-Glove winner who led the AL in percentage of baserunners caught stealing, and who now can barely play his position or throw out anyone.

Think he's hurt, guys? Do tell us. And why again is it that 24-year-old Austin Wells can't start almost every game for a month, just as he's come into his own as a hitter?

Then there was our star, Flouncy Cole, in full flouncy mode, managing to give up not only .168-hitting Joey Gallo's 13th ribbie of the season, but also blasts to a pair of unknown rookies with 13 and 34 major-league games between them, respectively (if not respectably).

Then there was Patrick Corbin, the Nats' broken ace, who has gone 31-69 with a 5.60 ERA in the five seasons since he helped Washington to a World Series title...but 2-0, 2.30, in 5 starts against your New York Yankees (including shutting us down in the festive, IIHIIFII...C Stadium outing last year).

Think that might call for some extra videotape watching and counseling from our brilliant manager and coaches? Think they even talked about how Corbin serves up batting practice to the rest of the majors but can always get us out? Please don't be ridiculous.

Then there was Glassman Cantrun, managing a hit only when there was nobody on base, while going 0-2 when Judge was on...

ENOUGH! I'm depressing myself compiling this litany of listlessness. 

You'll remember that many years ago, there was a documentary called, The Endless Summer, which followed a couple of beach bums as they went surfing around the planet. As we approach September, with all of a one-game lead, the Yankees continue to play as if they were in endless spring. 

As if they were in a training camp that will never end, with somebody trying out this position, and somebody else resting up for the regular season, and nobody—nobody—on the team or in the dugout or above all the front office—nobody, save for our two superstars, one of them soon to be a Met...thinking or working, or trying all that hard.

You can call it baseball, if you want. But to me it looks as if we have the bums, and they're just looking for a beach.