September 15th, 2014: The New York Yankees are winding down in the damp, dank caverns of Tropicana Field. They have just been shut out for approximately the 500th time in the season and manager Joe Girardi is about to address the team.
Joe Girardi: Now I know I seem to say this every other night, but I feel I must not have been stressing it enough since it keeps happening. We need to actually score runs to win baseball games. If we keep the other team scoreless for thirty innings, the best we'll get is the league stepping in and awarding us a tie. That's really not good enough, guys.
Michael Pineda: Can I just hit for myself from now on?
Girardi: Maybe against a lefty. Now, in order to...
The lights in the room flicker as a cold air fills the players' lungs. A tall, shrouded figure seemingly fades into the room and towers over the team menacingly.
Death: It is time: the specter of Death has come to claim you.
Derek Jeter: Oh come on, I'm just retiring! Look, I'm in perfect health and..
Death: No, decrepit shortstop. There is plenty of time before I come for you. I have arrived to claim your season.
Girardi: That's weird, I don't remember these theatrics last season.
Death: Your 2013 was doomed from the beginning. This year you were clinging to the foolishness of hope and renewal. Which seems preposterous considering the second basemen you trotted out this year.
Stephen Drew: Geez, now everybody's ragging on me.
Girardi: Hey, I'll have know we aren't even eliminated yet! This seems awfully premature.
Death cackles at the notion
Death: That is technically true. But neither are the New York Mets, yet I took this!
The reaper produces the detached head of Mr. Met
Jacoby Ellsbury: Good God, why is a mascot head dripping blood like that!?
Death: Ha, you thought he was just a man in a suit? Just accept your fate. Your season has long since since been over.
Mark Teixeira: Not if I can help it! Take this!
Teixeira takes his bat and swings three times at the apparition, missing badly each time.
Teixeira: Aw, raspberries.
Chris Young: What if I were to play you in chess? Would you be willing to spare the team if I were to defeat you in a test of wits?
Girardi: No, Chris. You've done enough to try and resuscitate this team. He's right: the season is finished. What do you need from us?
Death: I must take one of you back with me. A symbol of your failings.
The majority of the clubhouse looks over at third base coach Rob Thomson
Rob Thomson: You're not really going to kill me, are you?
Death: I don't know. I suppose it depends on how well you coach my rec softball league!
Death cackles once more before disappearing into the ether with Thomson.
Brett Gardner: Wow. That all seems a little extreme for just missing the playoffs.
Girardi: Well, you had to figure Bud Selig made a deal with somebody to have been able to stick around for this long.