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THE HUNT FOR THE WEAKEST STRIPE

For consideration for the writing position. Posting for a friend who's lost the password for his SB Nation account:

THE HUNT FOR THE WEAKEST STRIPE
Thoughts on the one member of the Yankees organization with the power to take them all down.

By Spence McGill.

"Overall they (the Yankees) are awesome. I just wish they would catch the one employee who is universally acknowledged to phone it in every time they work. We all have our days when we have no energy but we all at least try to make it look like we do. That employee doesn’t." Guest Service Ambassador, Glass Door Post.

The Yankees are riding high. 19 of 22. Tied for first. The Red Sox hot start a distant memory. Countless prognosticators have ceremoniously placed them atop their vaunted but head-scratchingly pointless ‘power rankings.’ The most frightening part is that the Bombers haven’t even really flexed their muscles yet. Imaging the wreckage they’ll reap if more than one slugger gets hot at the same time? If Didi snaps out of his 1-for-the-basketball-playoffs slump? If Kahnle gives Dellin "my feelings are still hurt about arbitration" Betances the boot in high pressure situations? If Stanton ever opens his eyes against a right handed pitcher? (I’m no vision doctor, but perhaps it’s that jaw-cushion, altering his eye line…) What about Judge? His multi-homer games have been as inexplicably missing as Jacoby Ellsbury. No, when you’re finding fault with this crew, you’re truly splitting hairs… and, I mean thin, thin Michael Kay hairs.

But all is not entirely well in the Bronx. According to an anonymous post, there IS one employee universally acknowledged to be phoning it in. It can’t be Cashman… he magically made good on the old ‘we don’t rebuild we reload’ adage. Not Boone… he has exhibited an odd knack for ‘calling his shot’ and defending slumping players on the EXACT day they bust out the bats. No, one must dig deeper… and I have.

Word from the ‘clubbies’ is, the only man TRULY hated, the only employee who truly gives less F’s than a UNC professor… is the ‘gum’ boy. He’s the ‘assistant’ to the clubhouse attendant, and he’s paid a respectable sum for stocking the dugout with tobacco-less mouth treats meant to keep the boys of summer going with a low-level, perpetual sugar high. The position is even MORE important now that Aaron ‘junky but, you know, with gum, not heroin, that would be ridiculous’ Judge requires not just Double, but Trubble, Quadrubble, even Quintubble, Bubbles per day. Also, the guys want flavors. Varieties! Not just ‘hey guys here’s one ridiculously huge bucket of the pink kind.’ Also, and most distressingly, they need access to proper ‘gum depositories.’ Due to present gum boy indifference, the Yanks who choose to chew are relegated to spitting their used wads on the dugout floor… creating a sticky, sunflower-seedy blob that will grow and grow until the day Greg Bird inevitably returns from the DL only to instantly trip over said discarded gum and re-aggravate his mysterious foot ailment. Heed my words, Gum Boy: the fate of this otherwise unstoppable juggernaut is in your hands.

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