He should wear the scarlet letters FWF like a badge of shame. How dare he exult in a team's success when he hasn't spent the last 108 years desultory and thoroughly depressed.
I have lived more than six decades bleeding Yankee pinstripes. Well, maybe not so much bleeding as lauding. Excellence was in fact my promised right. The fallow years, the Horace Clarke, CBS days, were hard to watch and even harder to swallow, but I persevered. Well maybe I turned away for a second or two, OK a decade, but I returned to Reggie and Catfish and then Derek and his Rat Pack. I died a thousand deaths in 2004 when the Curse of the Bambino was lifted. And I suffer the apparent ode to mediocrity that has become the now Bronx Bummers.
So I may decide not to drag my body to the House that Ruth Did Not Build and I may even choose to turn my attention elsewhere rather than subject myself to another game filled with men left ninety feet from home and a starting staff in search of a starter.
But I still wake each morning and determine my mood based on last night's box score. In a world that is more bewildering to me with each passing day, I know there is one constant: my beloved and, for the moment, beleaguered Yankees. Like the game itself, I am ready for fair or foul.
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