I always knew my kids would grow up, learn about sex and eventually leave the house. I recognized that my beloved dog would only live for about 12 years, then start crapping all over the place and need to be slumbered. I have embraced the reality of changing seasons, shifting political allegiances and even transitory love. But damn, I thought we’d beat the Blue Jays at home… forever and ever.
Seventeen games. Seventeen wins. God, the Jays were always here for us. We’d stumble home from a West Coast fiasco or a drubbing in Texas, and there they’d be, like mints on our pillow, preparing to run out Brett Cecil or Todd Redmond. “O dear,” we’d say, trying not to giggle. “This could be the day!” Hah. They were our seaside chums, our home port lays, our cousins from the North. Damn, I’d trust them with the keys to our clubhouse.
It’s not easy to end a sports curse. It took Boston 10 generations, and for the most of it, we sat in their heads like a stomach virus. Then, suddenly, poof – Johnny Damon hit a grand slam off Javier Vasquez, and soon they were kicking our over-paid, cake-sitting, A-Rod-infected, syringe-poked butts from Hartford to Nova Scotia. With only two exception – 2009, and the Bobby V era – they’ve owned us ever since. I don’t think Toronto will do the same. But we’ve seen enough of the 2014 Yankees to know that when they stink, they stink bad.
Yesterday, we saw Exhibit AAX-299 that Brian Roberts no longer functions as an MLB second baseman. We saw what happens when you continually play a catcher at first base. We received a reality check about Brian Cashman’s scrapheap pickings – Jeff Francis brought his special recipe for meatballs – and we looked like the patchwork lineup that – well – we are.
Thus far, the 2014 Yankees have been a perfectly engineered, Rube Goldberg .500 machine. For every 32 stutter steps forward, they magically take 32 stutter steps back. Today, we reach a mini crossroads. Do we win this series, keep the post-all-star break ball rolling… or lose 2/3, at home, to our former whipping mules, and start the market correction?
No news here. We all saw this coming. What goes up must come down. Your kids will grow old, and your dog will die. We will all someday moulder in our graves, and as far as we’ll be concerned, none of this will ever have happened. Brian Roberts, though, damn… who knew?