Mark Reynolds: Fresh meat from the scrap heap, as we limp to Boston Market

The Retrieval Empire keeps churning. We have signed Mark Reynolds, who used to kill us, when he didn't strike out. Unfortunately, he fans enough to make Curtis Granderson resemble Bobby Richardson.  It's beyond my imaginative capabilities to foresee Reynolds doing anything but homering or striking out - and not in equal measures. But we have reached the Bobby McGee definition of freedom - just another word for nuthin left to lose: At least we won't have to watch Lyle Overbay over-sway against a torturous lefty. Reynolds is streaky. Fenway is Fenway. Why not?

After this weekend, none of this may matter. And why post a photograph of Taylor Swift, other than give readers a reason to visit this blog? I'll get to that.

You see, my Sidney Ponson bunion is flaring. It swells up into the perfect likeness of firstbaseman Travis Ishikawa, whenever the Yankees sign a player who will probably last one weekend, or less. We're like those punks who kidnap Amish guys, shave their beards and let them go. By the time Reynolds is done feeling his chin, he might be back on the scrap heap.
 
This has been the Year of Passing Through Yankees, with Brian Cashman as the ticket-taker, diligently trying to shrink the budget. Our biggest goal - perhaps our only goal - is to avoid long term commitments.

Thus, we are the Taylor Swifts of baseball. Badaboom.

Tonight, my friends.