“We lost to the Dodgers in ’55.  I blame myself.  I was up all night before game seven with some Swedish girls, Liberace and a suction machine and it affected my performance on the field.  But hey, at least I didn’t end up with syphilis like Mickey.” ~ Yogi Berra

And so once again the Yankees have shocked the civilized world by losing in the first round of the playoffs.  As I check my inbox I find many words of encouragement and concern.

Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad writes, “Manhattan Infidel so sorry about the Yankees.  They lost because they just can’t move runners over.  And because AROD is a Jew.”

Vice President Joe Biden writes, “The Yankees will definitely lose to the Republicans.  Just like my daddy, Mr. Obama will.”

And Olivia Wilde writes, “I don’t get it.  How many times do I have to kick you in the groin before you leave me alone?”

A love like ours will never die Olivia.

But anyway.  Onto the Five Stages of Yankee Grief.

• Stage One:  Denial.

In Stage One your grief over the Yankee season ending is still a fresh, raw wound.  You feel helpless and violated, like the last time you were tasered by the NYPD for exercising your constitutional right to public nudity.  In a high school.  In the girl’s locker room.  While wearing a ski mask. While doing your best Richard Simmons impression. You will find yourself saying “It’s okay.  Nothing happened.  When I wake up tomorrow the Yankees will be champions.  And I will find my other testicle.“

•  Stage Two:  Anger.  And hookers.

In Stage Two your initial denial has given way to a deadly rage. Children avoid you in the street.  Suicide bombers defer to you. Michael Bloomberg lets you smoke in public and eat sugary foods. Unable to contain your  rage you head to your local bar (Fitzgerald’s Pub) and do what all manly men do in a situation like this.  You put Journey on the jukebox and cry.  You attempt to pick up a hooker but she only takes cash which you need for the jukebox.

• Stage Three: Bargaining.  And hookers.  Especially bargaining for hookers.

Stage Three involves hope.  The hope that by Spring the Yankees will have found some players under 40 to play third base and shortstop.  You will find yourself saying “Oh please Lord.  If only Brian Cashman can go to the winter meetings and come away with some younger players I promise I will never never never never never ever again advertise my all-nude webcam on a Christian singles dating site.”  And then you will head down to the local bar, put Journey on the jukebox and weep.  Stage three also involves bargaining with hookers over their price.  Unsuccessful in attempting to lower their rates you will end your night vomiting all over a policeman’s motorcycle.  Said policeman will beat you senseless while, ironically, singing Journey tunes.

• Stage Four:  Depression.  And hookers.  Depressed hookers.

During the fourth stage a Yankee fan may become silent, refuse visitors and spend most of his spare time in a clock tower with a high-powered rifle.  Before storming the clock tower a SWAT team negotiator will ask you what your demands are.  You will reply, “I’m depressed.  Hookers!”  However they will misunderstand you and give you depressed hookers.  Depressed German hookers.  Depressed German hookers who will sing Journey tunes.

• Stage Five:  Acceptance.

In the final stage of grief one comes to terms with the tragedy of the Yankees not winning the World Series.  A sense of otherworldly calm comes over you as you accept the Yankees for what they are. You accept the fact that Steve Perry is no longer in Journey. You accept the fact that you will never find your other testicle, presumably lost in a common household accident involving a blender and plastic explosives.  But most of all you accept the fact that the hooker at the end of the bar doesn’t take Master Card.  You will end your night putting Journey on the jukebox while asking the bartender to give you a “strong and manly shot.  As long as it’s pink and sweet and not too strong.”  He will throw you out of the bar.  A Pakistani cab driver with a blender and plastic explosives will drive you home.

And that, readers, are the five stages of Yankee grief.  May they do better next year!

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