What in the name of Al Rosen is going on?

In less time than it takes for a Jacob DeGrom heater to explode into the catcher's mitt, the mighty in LA, Atlanta and one borough of New York City have departed the scene. Another borough in the city that never sleeps seemingly but a huff and puff from deep slumber. The regular season, 100 wins (or cusping), a mirage. Fool's gold. Mere pyrite.

Philadelphia? San Diego?? And maybe soon to be playing in your neighborhood, Cleveland??? In the name of Al Rosen, what on earth is happening here????

Those evil doing, forever cheating, little Altuvists from the not so great state where they remember the Alamo and think Greg Abbott is just swell, must be resting easy this morning. For all that appears on the horizon before them is a group who should collectively be suffering from a large helping of impostor syndrome.

If I didn't hate the baked beans so much, I would hold a special place in my heart to rage against the Houston machine. To wish they hear trash cans banging in their brains when they try to sleep at night. To hope MLB creates a rule that no one as short as Altuve is allowed to hit a home run. To hold them in contempt, as I do, for making my Yankees appear so pedestrian for so long. Acting as though they don't have to bow in fealty when Aaron Judge enters the room.

But I get ahead of myself. For there is still tonight and our $36 million dollar a year, did I just give up another homer, hero in the wings. All is not lost yet. Let there be no Joba midges swirling about Gerrit's head this evening. 

Don't let 62 be just a number.

Oh wait, I was talking about homers, not the back of Chamberlain's uniform. Oh God, maybe it is the curse of the midges after all.