From HoraceClarke66: Koyaanisqatsi

 

(Seen in a backyard in Cold Spring, New York, this afternoon.) 

 I think at this point—and we’re only at the start of June!—we really have said everything that needs to be said about why your New York Yankees stink, and why they won’t get better anytime soon.

 Hey, I don’t disagree with any of it.

 —Our hitting stinks. No question. Today marks 9 games in 12 that our boys have failed to score as many as 3 runs in a game, the first time that’s happened since the exciting days of 1971.

 —Our fielding stinks. Yep.

 —Our pitching is starting to stink, as Brain’s makeshift staff starts to fall apart. Sadly, it seems to be so.

 —This team has little fire or spirit, and seems distracted and uninvolved.

 —Our manager stinks. Our general manager stinks. Our owner seems most concerned about founding an international soccer empire. All too true.

 —Stanton stinks. Judge stinks. LeMahieu stinks. Sanchez stinks to high heaven. Torres is a riddle. Frazier is an enigma. Andujar is a mystery. Right on all counts.

—The trouble is our player development. The trouble is that no one takes a chance on our young kids. The trouble is that we don’t have enough young kids. The trouble is that everyone gets hurt and no one gets better.

 —The trouble is that Brain Cashman relies too much on the analytics. That’s true.

 —The trouble is that Brain Cashman doesn’t understand analytics. Hey, both things can be true!

 But there is, I think, much more going on.

 Back in 1982, there was a documentary called Koyaanisqatsi—subsequently hailed as “the first in the qatsi trilogy!” 

 I never saw it, I think mostly because it was advertised as a wordless, 86-minute, “tone poem,” complete with a musical score by Philip Glass—all words that make me want to run in the other direction. Some friends described it as “a good pot movie,” but I didn’t have any good pot, so I gave it a miss.

 But I digress.

 Point is, koyaanisqatsi reportedly means “life out of balance” in Hopi.  (I can’t say for sure, not speaking any Hopi, and don’t ask me about my Navajo, either.)

 But I always liked that phrase:  Life out of balance.

 I think that’s what’s happened to all of baseball, in a nutshell.  There has to be some good explanation for why so many Yankees are playing so badly. But it’s not just us. All around the major leagues, on every team, so many players are hurt, and so many are playing so far below their past performances.

 I could quote you statistics until the cows come home, but all you have to do is look at any Yankees game—or any major-league game. It just stinks.

 Sure, if Brian Cashman were a brighter human being, we could be much more like the Tampa Bay Rays. This is a good thing?

 I don’t want to watch a Yankees team that plays like the Rays. I don’t want to watch this sort of computerized, lifeless, de-heroicized baseball.

 I’m not sure how it happened. Was it the juice? Was it all the time in the weight rooms?

 I dunno. But somehow, all of a sudden, all the hitters could hit the ball out 400-feet, one-handed. Then all of a sudden, all the pitchers could throw 100-mph, all the time. Then all of a sudden, everyone was on the disabled list.

 Which came first? Who knows? Who cares?

 But this can’t go on. Batters can’t go on swinging like this without constantly injuring themselves. Pitchers can’t go on throwing like this for more than 5-6 innings—and without constantly injuring themselves.

 Our favorite sport is out of balance. And unless its entire culture changes, it’s not going to get any better—not even the Yankees.

 Koyaanisqatsi. Those Hopi knew what they were talking about.