Yanks face Judgement Day, without Judge.

 Wellp, here goes nuthing... 

Across the world, millions of innocent people are fleeing floods, wildfires, maelstroms and war - oblivious to what we of the Yankiverse would manically consider "Doomsday Doubleday Judgement Day" - with two games against Boston that will define 2026, at least until next week.

It's nuts to assign cataclysmic significance to the outcome of a sporting gig, a cultural parlor game, but the ship called "Reason" sailed long ago. In our bug jar, where our feelers barely touch the air holes, we today face six to eight hours of grueling, self-imposed anxiety, as we prepare for two games that will change nothing in our lives, aside from the panicky fact that we can think of nothing else.

The twi-night doubleheader - ahh, a vestige from the distant past - begins at 1:05 p.m., with the nightcap set for 7:15 p.m., give or take. By then, either team could be out of bullpen arms, summoning the dregs from their Triple A wastewater ponds. By then, certain Yankees could be headed back to Scranton, (where Anthony Volpe last night reverted to SS.) By then, one fan base will be drunkenly celebrating, and the other will be measuring nearby bridges.  

And here's the joke. 

Probably, nothing will come of it. 

After all the buildup, all the handwringing, the teams will do what happens in most doubleheaders: They will split. (Yank fans would happily accept such an outcome.) Come Monday, the Yankees fly to LA, with a new time zone and lease on life. Swimmin' pools. Movie stars. 

Today, the Babadook. Next week, San Diego. Keep that in mind, as the terrors descend. They can beat us. They can sweep us. But they can't eliminate us.