Ubu Hal.

 

Of course! How did I not understand? 

For years, I've foolishly believed that Hal, Cashie, and Boonie were, respectively, greedy, arrogant, and dumb. Or some combination thereof.

Rubbish.

Obviously, they are great artists—doubtless the greatest satirical artists of the 21st century. 

These three brilliant minds have spent years performing the greatest Dada epic of all time. How could I not see it earlier?

Obviously obsessed with the absurdist, "anti-art" movement from 130 years ago that gave us the play, Ubu Roi (depicted here), they have labored long and hard to make us see the meaninglessness of our existence—or at least, our sports.

I, for one, am truly mortified that it took me so long to understand this. How else to account for the team's senseless meanderings over the past 16 years? What was the notorious Fifth Inning in last year's World Series, save for an ingenious satire of how baseball is actually played?

I fear that we are in danger of spoiling their entire, scintillating project by taking so long to understand it, and thereby forcing them to become more and more obvious in their satire.

How else, for instance, to understand this past week?

—A major-league team, favored above all others to make the World Series that cannot, after four days off, come up with any starting pitcher other than a tired, mediocre middle reliever? 

You don't call that parody?

—A team on whom a player with the obviously absurdist name of Jorbit Vivas, batting a ridiculous .167, cannot figure out how to slide into third?

—A team that produces a new phenom, a spectacular starting pitcher with the moniker of, I think, Iamacamera Schickimicki. 

That should have been the tip-off right there. Who is possibly named anything like that? 

And of course, the Yankees reported that Cammy Schleswigholstein was throwing 100 or 103 or maybe 250 miles an hour. Side Finch had nothing on this guy. 

After which, of course, Caftan Pfeffernusse had to be shut down for an injury to his forearm, or perhaps it was his neck, due to whiplash.

—And then, of course there was the "Yankees" ace pitcher, who has not been able to recover, in the space of a week, from a blister.

What, we demand to know, was blistered?

His brain lobes, by the racing absurdity of the greater, 21st-century world outside the Stadium's walls? Is this what Hal and his Pal, Cashie the Sad-Eyed Clown, are ultimately trying to tell us?

We must try to listen better.

The one thing, I think we can conclude, is that this is not a ball club.

And if we STILL fail to comprehend what this wizardly trio of artists are trying to tell us?

Well, I think they have already started to head to their ultimate destination, a tribute to the father of all absurdities, the unrivaled Marcel Duchamp.

Gentlemen, we should feel privileged to be in the presence of such genius.