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In recent years, the premature Yankee obituary has become as much a rite of mid-May as the Preakness Stakes.
It works something like this: the Yankees stumble out of the gate. The lesser-informed contingent of the New York media notices and starts to qualify its every mention of the word "Yankees" with either "last-place" or "struggling." Talk radio hums with the monosyllabic lilt of incensed Staten Islanders, while the tabloids land many a bruising jab -- like the one in Monday's New York Daily News, in the form of a photo caption that reads "Ryan Church avoids tag for run that helps turn hallowed Stadium into Met turf." Zing!
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| Are the Yankees' struggles an illusion or are they losing their grip? (US Presswire) |
Nonetheless, that world is currently wobbling as precariously as Jason Giambi in the throes of any activity that doesn't involve circling the bases very slowly. So I'm here to ratchet up the hysteria before the card-carrying hysteria-ratchet-uppers do the same.
The facts: As of Tuesday, the Yankees have lost four more games than they have won. Their pitchers have allowed 18 more runs than their hitters have pushed across the plate. They find themselves six and a half games behind the hated demon Red Sox and five and a half behind the sprightly teenage Rays in the American League East.
The latter represents an unusual state of affairs both for the Yankees and baseball at large. The Rays? Competitive? After a mere 10 seasons of top five draft picks? That's a solid decade and a half ahead of former GM Chuck LaMar's original projection.
The Yankees employ a rookie manager, Joe Girardi, whose buzz-cut leanings and no-Goobers-or-sorbet-in-the-clubhouse dictate may or may not chafe his "veteran" roster of "professionals" (read: oldie old olds not used to being denied a single thing). Girardi has scribbled out something like 42.65 different batting orders in 44 games, which puts him on pace to burn through several boxes of pencils by October.
He got pissy with the media horde a few weeks back over injury disclosure (or lack thereof), then cleared the air with an off-the-record session. This had such a profound calming effect that the writers jacked up the temperature on his seat seven weeks into his managerial tenure.
The Yankees cannot catch or throw the baseball. Whether you go by what you see or by range factor/other statistical metrics, this team's defenders range from decent (Melky Cabrera) to average (Jose Molina, ouchie-heads A-Rod and Jorge Posada) to indifferent (Robinson Cano, Bobby Abreu) to godless (Giambi's grandpa-slow reactions, Johnny Damon's noodly arm of despair, Hideki Matsui's neo-Knoblauchian routes to the ball, Shelley Duncan's symphony of elbows).
Derek Jeter? He looks like something out of a poorly edited Gatorade commercial when he does that plant-foot-jump-throw thing of his on balls to his right, and has amazing intangibles on grounders to his left. When the ball is struck in his general direction, I am sad.
The Yankees don't hit southpaws, at least not when A-Rod and Posada aren't around to counterbalance the lefty-leaning batting order. They have received a single acceptable outing (out of 13 total) from the touted, off-the-table pair of Phil Hughes and Ian Kennedy.
They haven't yet determined whether third-base coach Bobby Meacham is an enemy operative tasked with breaking "Wave 'Em In Willie" Randolph's record of 93 runners gunned down at home plate in a single season. They'll have to do something about Joba Chamberlain's tendency to over-pump his fist after crucial strikeouts, lest that they set opponents chirping about violations of baseball's unwritten rules.
Does that about sum it up? Good. Bury the Yankees now. Except that, well ...
