Just got off the F train...

 

So, had to go out and watch a friend's Off-Broadway play with Mrs. Calabash last night. Rushed home, turned on the set in the sixth inning...and heard the all-too-familiar, October Sounds of Silence emanating from the Stadium. The noise made by 47,000 people who realize they have just forked over next year's vacation money to see their beloved New York Yankees fail to show up when it counts. Again.

I immediately started patting down my pockets, then looking frantically through my jacket. 

"Nope, none left," I said.

"WTF are you talking about?" my wife asked.

"I'm all out of F's," I told her. 

"I thought you were going to stop at the F store."

"No, I forgot. And anyway, last time I checked, they were out, too. No F's remaining anywhere."

And so it was. 

This century has been so dismal for your New York Yankees come playoff time, that I am clean out of F's. I want to give an F...but I got no more.

These Silent Octobers have been going on so long that the Yankee Avatars of Failure have become indistinguishable in my head. They all swim together.

The great star who simply cannot hit in big games: am I watching Alex Rodriguez or Aaron Judge?

The Hall-of-Fame pitcher who simply cannot bring it in big games: Mike Mussina or Gerrit Cole?

The National League ring-winner who looks great over here—until suddenly he doesn't: Garry Sheffield or Anthony Rizzo?

The alleged superstar who is in fact so eaten up by his regimen of 'roids and reps that he's an old man by 30: Jason Giambi or Giancarlo Stanton?

The can't-miss outfield phenom who, it turns out, never really learned to hit or play the field, and is constantly injured: Clint Frazier or Jasson Dominguez?

The newer, better Derek Jeter, who can't actually play shortstop. Or hit:  Gleyber Torres or Anthony Volpe?

The newer, better Jorge Posada:  Gary Sanchez or Austin Wells? Or Jesus Montero?

The terrific, newly acquired, veteran starter who will fill that second or third slot in the rotation: José Contreras or Carl Pavano or Jarret Wright or Kevin Brown or Kei Igawa or Bartolo Colon or Michael Pineda or Sonny Gray or James Paxton or Corey Kluber or Frankie Montas or Carlos Rodón or Marcus Stroman?

Really, I can't tell the difference anymore. It all evaporates into a great smoke cloud of choking mediocrity. Words fail me. I have to bring on Air Supply to sing it:

I'm all out of fucks

I'm so tired of caring

I knew that you sucked

But still I watched...

There. That's a little better.

"But don't you care about the future?" my wife asked. "What about Soto maybe going to the Mets next year?"

"He ought to go. They have a good, up-and-coming team, run by a clever man with a lot of money. Soto will never regret it." 

"You say that?"

"I can't believe how much time I spent worrying about Judge going to San Francisco. He should've gone there. He could've hit all the home runs he liked in front of the ever-mellow home folks, then gone home in October. Obviously, it's the life he was better suited for." 

"What about seeing if The Martian can be a star?"

"He can't. The Yankees have already fucked him in the head enough. Same coming for Spencer Jones. I'd say they should trade them both, but our general manager can't make a trade to save his life. Or develop a great player, or fill the bench or the bullpen or the starting rotation with useful players. Other than that, he's a worldbeater."

"Wow, you really are all out of F's."

"Hey, it usually happens around this time. Although I think now I'm more flat-pocket than ever. Something to do with the accumulated weight of all this fucking around. Or maybe it's the presidential race, or the state of the world, or the state of my city."

"And that makes you care less about..,the Yankees?"

"The Yankees used to be a nice antidote to all that. A purely trivial, meaningless exercise, like any fun game. But that was before they had Jon Berti playing first base in a playoff game. Now that they've become just as neurotic, unimaginative, and uncaring as so much else in American culture...they're no longer a nice escape."

"So you just don't give a F. Now and forever?"

"Who knows? Maybe they'll get a supply of shiny new F's in at the Yankees store tomorrow. But I very much doubt it. Hell, even the New York Jets know enough to eventually give up on constant failure. Not the New York Yankees."

"So you're mad as hell—"

"Nope. Way past mad. Mad was c. 2001-2004. It's more just exhaustion with the stupidity of this team, with its venality. Its insistence on doing the same thing over and over and over again, and expecting different results. Or as Aaron Boone and Brian Cashman say, 'it's the process.' Well, the process sucks. And if they don't recognize that, why should any of us give a flying F?"