Six games out with only 146 to go... and other terrifying reasons to panic

We live in harrowing times. America has not yet come to grips with the changes in Carrie Underwood's face, or Gwyneth Paltrow's secret wedding, or the historical significance of Beyonce's performance at Coachilla... each a matter of our cultural jury duty. As a nation, we are playing .500 ball, while China and Russia are dominating their divisions (Asia West and Asia Central). One night, we look invincible. The next night, we lose 9-1 to baseball's worst team, at home, with our "ace," being no-hit through five, while Boston beats up on the Japanese Babe. We couldn't have had a shittier night if Sean Hannity took us up to his hotel room to see his etchings.

Mission... not... accomplished.

Listen: We keep chanting that it's only April, it's only April, it's only April... and let's be real, everybody: It is only fucking April. Eight and eight truly sucks, but it's not as if we staggered out at, say, 3-13... in which case we'd already be 10 behind streaking Boston. While we must legitimately fear the Redsocks, the history of the rivalry has been that we lose April and win September. It's a long season. And it's only April. That said... a .500 team deserves equal dollops of hope and despair:

Hope. Miguel Andujar has started to hit. If Joe Girardi were still managing, the Migster would now disappear. Maybe it's just me, but it seemed as though whenever a young player got a few hits under Joe, it was his ticket to oblivion. Joe didn't believe in the hot hand. He used binders, and because rookies have no track record... they weren't in the printouts, and they went poof. Hopefully, Andujar gets April to show what he can do. (Last night, it must be noted that he butchered a slow roller, which led to a three run homer. So the jury - like the Drury - remains out.)

Despair. Luis Cessa strikes out the side - leaving us to hope he's finally arrived - than leaves with a strained oblique, which is death to a pitcher. Out a month? Two? Let's figure July. I'm starting to wonder if this cold, miserable spring in the Northeast is behind the wave of tweaks to our frosted gonads. If so, be very afraid. Because there's a lot of crapola weather still to come. As someone once said... it's only April.

Hope. Manager Boonie hinted last night that Giancarlo Tartabull will move down in the lineup. That would put Sir Didi in the third hole, where he belongs. Thus far, Didi has been drawing walks, his only weakness last year. Batting third establishes him as the Yankees' premier player, maybe the de facto captain. It creates a nice lefty-righty batting order, and Scranton - I mean Stanton - still has Gary Sanchez to protect him. Also, he simply cannot be this bad. It's almost statistically impossible. At his current rate, Giancarlo will fan 348 times this season, making Chris Carter look like Albie Pearson. He simply cannot be this bad. The laws of physics will intervene.

Despair. Down in Stanton - I MEAN SCRANTON - Gleyber Torres sat out last night due to a bad back. WTF? A bad back? On a 21-year-old? The Yanks say not to worry. Oh, sure! Why would we ever worry? La-de-dah. The team always keeps us up to date on injuries. A bad back... on a 21 year old? La-de-dah.

Okay... I'm gonna say it one more time, just so it's out there: The notion that teams can protect only a few top super-prospects and trade all the others betrays one fundamental rule: The only true way to build a franchise is with a wave of prospects, not one or two. The keys are the Tyler Austins and the Jordan Montgomerys - not Estevan Florial. We can already see that Uber en route to whisk Tyler Wade to Triple A - he's been certifiably horrible - but if it means a month of equally horrible bad Neil Walker at bats - well - that's what I call mediocrity - another name for .500. So what about Gwyneth's mystery wedding? Think guests got a jar of her cootchie goop? You think it would work on Scranton? I MEAN STANTON!