What else explains this sagging, staggering, sputteringly sorry team, as the solstice nears? It's not the Bronx lights that blind us; it's the 8 p.m. hitting curfews, signaling the advancing haze of summer.
While I have you, I've become convinced that we are mere bytes in a sadistic simulation run by the juju gods and Artificial Intelligence. We were created last month, after Luke Weaver went down, and we received false memories of a great Yankee tradition. In fact, we are unused disk memory - like a drunken Martin Sheen in a hotel room - waiting for an assignment. And it will soon be here.
Yep. That's the Hope Week message.
Two years ago - now recalled as the season of Harrison Bader and "Jackie" Donaldson - the Yankees fell from 10 games over .500 in May to a June hellhole record of 11-12, a slide from which they never recovered, finishing 4th in the crusty AL East.
Last year - which ended in the World Series 5th game, 5th inning meltdown (relived selectively last night by Gerrit Cole in the YES Booth of Compliance) - the Yankees wilted from a 21-7 month of May into a June-July below .500.
Now, it's happening again. You can feel it in your fake memory:
The Aaron Boone June swoon.
Yep. Here we go, once again watching the truth about the Yankees rise from the magician's top hat like a mortified zombie bunny. Last night, we watched history unfold - their third straight shutout: something the lineups of Lyle Overbay, Duke Carmel and Danny Tartabull could not do. We have reached the point where the iceberg can be seen - (we could be out of first by the weekend) - but the ship cannot change course. All our manager can do is chew his gum harder.
During Hope Week, you want to believe in something, right? That somebody will step forward, lift this team from the doldrums. Unfortunately, the only person capable of doing so, Aaron Judge, is lost in his personal funk. If he shows any faint sign of emerging, the Angels will walk him and chuckle over the rest of this flaccid batting order. There is no protection.
Ten takeaways? Wait... screw dat. Why waste words on a simulation? Who narrates a train wreck, especially, while it's in progress. Besides, this is a train wreck of a clown car in a dumpster fire. How about ONE takeaway, the other nine being taken away.
1. Since the Yankees traded for him, Jazz Chisholm has been viewed as a star waiting to emerge. Remember: He represented the sickly Marlins in the 2022 All-Star game, and they moved him into CF in the hope that he'd become the face of the franchise. Though he never hit above .256, that was Miami's fault. They're a dreadful simulation, a loading area for wretched algorithms - for, well, Marlin fans. NYC would revive him, let Jazz be Jazz.
Welp, so much for that. He's hitting .222, botching plays in the field, and swinging out of his cleats. Maybe the Marlins weren't the problem.
Maybe, just maybe, Jazz isn't that good?
Look, I like the guy. Always smiling. Always hopeful. But look at him - 5'11", 180 - he's not built to be Mark McGwire or the Big Hurt. He should be bunting his way to first, beating out grounders, then stealing second. Pitchers should dread the sight of him, a nasty pest at the top of the order. Instead, he's version 2.00 of Roughned Odor.
Last night, he fumbled another grounder at 3B, a position he hates, and it looks as though Cooperstown Cashman will end up trading for somebody at the July 31 deadline.
That's like asking Albert DeSalvo for a neck massage. When Cashman shops for third basemen, we end up with Chase Headley. As far as I can tell, we have one huge prospect in our entire farm system. His name is George Lombard Jr., and he could be our future 3B, if Cashman doesn't deal him.
And that's the biggest problem with a Boone June swoon:
It leads to a Cashman July deadline sale.
Get comfy. And let's hope that our friend - the AI reality lord - will treat us kindly. It IS Hope Week, after all.
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