Last night may have been the worst thing that could happen

For most of the last 18 months, the Yankees have bucked history: They have steadfastly - and uncharacteristically - ignored aging stars with bloated contracts and hamstrings the size of fan belts. We just said no to Jose Bautista. We hid from Bartolo Colon, didn't pick up the phone on Rich Hill. Somehow - the real Toms River Miracle, in my opinion - we avoided the Toddfather himself, Todd Frazier, while he danced in front of us all winter, shirtless. 

For the first time in this decade, Bud Selig's de facto payroll cap - created for no other reason than to destroy the Yankees' financial advantage - backfired. The "luxury tax threshold," a thinly veiled construction of corporate socialism, forced the Yankees to halt spending and grow younger. Since the summer of 2016 - with the exception of Billy Butler, Jaime Garcia and their annual midsummer reunion - the Yankees have gone cold turkey on old-timers.

And it's worked - dear God! - more gloriously than we could have imagined. Today, the Yankees not only field baseball's best lineup, but they could remain that way for three to five years... that is, unless they revert.

Imagine a recovering alcoholic walking into a bar, sitting down and staring at a glass of Crown Royal for three hours. That's what happened last night. Cole Hamels pitched seven innings, over which the Yankees only sent six balls out of the infield. Today, Gammonites everywhere will be spewing trade ideas like Trump does tweets, and every bad proposal will be a plan to knock us off the sobriety wagon - take a hearty swig from the bottle and revert to the days of Ike Davis and Chris Young. After last night, Hamels has now strung together four solid starts - he was cuffed around in April - and you better believe the Rangers - who not long ago, before trading their youth, looked like the Yankees do now - will go into a full-blown yard sale, desperate to ditch him before the 34-year-old arm pops a gonad.

Of course, this had to happen on the very night that Domingo German shits the rookie bed, and while Chance Adams in Scranton lasts only three innings, eliminating for now what dwindling hopes he once offered. We can see the planets aligning for Cooperstown Cashman to trade prospects for Hamels, a three-month rental, and we can read the stories in our minds - how the Yankees just "traded for a pennant" and gave up "low-level prospects," just as the courtier press always did during the bloat years. And once the Yanks start going all-in for this October, they're like the recovering drunk in the bar, who decides one little sip can't hurt... and always deserves another.

Will we hold the line?

Yesterday, another omen appeared, and I can't figure out how to give it context. The A's released Slade Heathcott, who for a few measly years offered us the hope of youth. The trouble with Heathcott was that the Yankees were always bottled up in the outfield - Brett Gardner, Jacoby Ellsbury and Carlos Beltran - so whatever numbers he piled up in Scranton - they didn't matter. Like Brigadoon Refsnyder, we watched a guy come up now and then, get a few hits, and then return to Central Pennsylvania to rot on the vine. But I can't scream that Heathcott was ruined. Maybe the Yankee scouts were right. The guy bounced to the White Sox and now the A's, and - hey, wanna feel old? - he's now 27. This could be it for him, time to hit the community college or start selling cars. 

All I can say is what we say too often on this blog, this message in a bottle surfing on the ocean: Building a team is not about holding onto one or two youngsters. You need a wave of youth, and once you start draining your resources, you start listing against the tide. If the Yankees bite on Hamels - after holding the line for the last 18 months - well, last night might turn out to be the worst thing that happened: The moment we picked up the bottle and started chugging. Will we hold the line?