Anybody who still thinks Andruw Jones should be hitting against lefties is living in a fantasy novel

Stephen King moment for today: Imagine yesterday's doubleheader if Andruw Jones plays instead of Ichiro. Carrie in the high school dance, right? For starters, delete seven hits and replace them with two Ks, two pop ups, a DP and - well - maybe a BB or, better, a hit-by-pitch. (This is a Stephen King thing, remember.) Also, toss out the catch in LF that ended the Tommyknockers eighth for David Robertson. Figure Toronto scored four runs and pole-axed us in game one like Jack Nicholson doing Scatman Cruthers. Second game? We're still playing. It's the 80th inning of the Dark Towers series, and we have scored one run.

But Andruw Jones...WTF? Blame age and gravity, I guess. But he started this season with a great ray of hope. The story, according to the writers - Lupica ran with this - went this way:

Last winter, Andruw decided he could make the Hall of Fame, if he put together one last great shining season - a full-time OF, not just a RH specialist. He called his astral twin Arod, who invited Andruw to his Fortress of Solitude, and they ate tofu and worked out side-by-side (not that there's anything wrong with that) as Yankee brothers. Andruw was now in the greatest shape of his life, a lithe and powerful Bengal tiger, waiting to be unleashed upon major league pitchers.

Yep. That's what they wrote. 

Might as well have been Dolores Claiborne. 

Maybe Andruw did enjoy some epiphany about the looming end of his career. And maybe he moved into the West Wing of Arod's supervillain complex. But last spring he never looked one sit-up shy of 235, and by May 1, he was in need of a Jenny Craig intervention. He had a barely decent first half - if .220 with power is barely decent - and he has had a worse last two months than Mitt Romney. I half-expect to hear him in a donors video, whining about young players who earn the MLB minimum.

Yesterday, Ichiro staked his claim to Andruw's ever-diminishing role. Somebody needed to do it. We were almost down to Melky Mesa in a once-around-the-league fantasy. We simply cannot afford to play Andruw Jones anymore. The season is over. It is not salvageable. And next winter, we should listen warily to those who say they've figured it out, and all is going to change. (Remember Swish and the hypnotherapist he hired to keep him out of slumps? Ha.) Might as well re-read "Cujo."