“We will be rotating through a number of different songs after a Yankees loss this year, none of them will be ‘New York New York." Calling Gilbert O'Sullivan.

They said it couldn't happen here. 

They said the Yankees would always keep their stars. They were baseball's richest franchise. They could never be outbid, certainly not by a rival. They could never be NY's "other" team. Their players would look different. They would always be clean-shaven. There was an aura to the Yankees. The winningest team in American sports. And win or lose, each game would conclude with a joyous singalong of Sinatra's great anthem, New York, New York. 

Well, folks, here we are. Each day, another pillar tumbles. John Sterling is long gone. So is Juan Soto. Will jerseys be unretired? Will Monument Park become a Tiki bar? Will the nightly roll call be piped-in? 

If the Yankees are not MLB's most dominant team - (note: they haven't been for years) - then what are they?  The Anaheim Angels of New York?

Lately, I find myself asking that question a lot. Like most of you, I'm a lifelong Yankee junky. One of my first memories is Mickey Mantle, having morphed from Mickey Mouse, and cheering for megalopolis 215 miles away - light years, culturally - from my Appalachian foothills of upstate NY. 

Weird, how I feel, today. Didn't see this coming - the last-call for New York, New York. Didn't anticipate a sense of loss. I get the concept: When the Yankees lose, there must be consequences. But there was something defiant about New York, New York. There was a pride, win or lose, in singing NY's great anthem - the Sinatra version, not Liza's. Win or lose, those little town blues were melting away, and we would make a brand new start of it... in Old New York. 

So, it's now fair game, I guess? Maybe the Mets should claim it. The Jets? Knicks? Hell, why not the Islanders? As for the Yankees, I suggest that, after a loss, they play Gilbert O'Sullivan's 1971 hit, Alone Again (Naturally).

In a little while from now
If I'm not feeling any less sour
I promise myself to treat myself
And visit a nearby tower
And climbing to the top
Will throw myself off
In an effort to
Make it clear to whoever
Wants to know what it's like when you're shattered...

Yeah, perfect. We can draw collective strength from a suicidal sense of loss - not just of a baseball game, but of a team that was once globally revered. The Yankees were the pride of NY and - for those of us who moved from Yogi Bear to Yogi Berra - the hope of humankind. 

They were the New York Yankees, the team that would always make us proud. Other fans were poor. They would chase second place. The Yankees were always America's most prideful team.

They said it could never happen here. Look around, everybody. That knock on the door? That's not a bearded Gerrit Cole. That's the wolf.