Thursday, September 1, 2016


I got nothing.

I am speechless, bedazzled, bewitched, benumbed, bepleasured, bedumbstrucked, bediscombobulated. I gotta get recombobulated again. As far as the Yankees are concerned, I got nothing to whine about. Imagine that? Me, nada. This morning, I could kiss Hal Steinbrenner's feet and get drunk on Calgon Bath Lotion. Yeah, it's scary.

Last night, we picked up games on Baltimore, Seattle and KC. Thirty games left. Suddenly, the Wild Card race doesn't seem like a YES-contrived p.r. stunt. Suddenly, the Comcast executives in New Jersey - the ones who congratulated themselves all year for standing up to the Yankees on broadcast fees - are starting to sweat.

Last night, the gods showered upon our beleaguered and befucked bullpen beams of felony-grade juju. I now believe that if Andrew Swarzak could have risen from his hospital bed, and if Edwar Ramirez could have exchanged his Home Depot frock for pinstripes, each could have contributed two scoreless innings KC. For god's sake, somebody find Sean Henn and see if he can fit in his uniform. Tomorrow night, he could go three tomorrow.

Last night, when the Royals were up by four and toying with us, I was composing in my addled brain a scathing, righteous attack on Brian Cashman. All afternoon, my electronic devices were erupting with angry texts, saying Ben Gamel had been traded to Seattle. It hit while I was standing on the midway of the New York State Fair, standing next to a fifty-something on a karaoke machine who was yelling "Old Man Take a Look at My Life I'm a Lot Like You," next to a garbage bin full of grease. The news enraged me. I wanted to crush a carny. It was another case of the Yankees refusing to appreciate an over-achiever, and constantly appraising players based on the round in which they were drafted. All Ben Gamel ever did was hit, field and steal bases, but some ghost scout - no doubt the same one who decided Aaron Hicks is a star - concluded that he will never make it. I think it's a mistake. And apparently, Seattle agrees.

And last night, when Hicks - Mr. August himself - pulled up limping while running out a grounder - he's going on the DL - I knew the juju gods were bediddling me. We trade Gamel - the International League MVP - and four hours later, a LH outfielder platoon slot comes open. Still, today, I cannot whine about the trade. At least we didn't deal Gamel for a Vernon Wells. Also, here are the last 10 International League MVP winners: Ben Hague, Steven Sousa, Chris Colabelo, Mario Gomez, Russ Canzler, Dan Johnson, Shelley Duncan, Jeff Bailey, Mike Hessman, and Kevin Witt. I'm not pulling those names up at random. Still, I wish we didn't make the deal. But Cashman is on a juju roll. When you're on a juju roll, the last thing you do is set down the dice and walk away from the table.

Thirty games left. I got nothing to complain about. It's wonderful. Where are the bath beads? I need to wash out my mouth.


John M said...

If I was at all sober last night, I would have watched, but the 8:30 starts in KC drag on far too late for me.

The Inversion Season continues...

Anonymous said...