Well... here we are

A month ago, I didn't expected us to care about this Boston series.  A month ago, I figured the Yankees would now be bringing up Pat Venditte, the switch-pitcher, or Adonis Garcia, the aged Cuban bowling ball, and waving them in our eyes the way a huckster dangles a fake Rolex on a street corner. A month ago, after we were undressed and run out of Chicago, with taunts written onto our bare skin with Sharpies, I figured we were dead and done. Be honest now: Didn't you?

Well... here we are.

Hughes has finally pitched himself out of the rotation, Joba is starting to learn Japanese, our mighty bullpen is burned out, Jeter is still hobbling to first, and A-Rod has returned as the 2012 model, which means nobody's going to hand him an MVP trophy. And yet... here we are.

Who figured Ivan Nova would be AL Pitcher of the Month (and Alfonso Soriano should be the corresponding Player?) Gardner is smoking hot, Grandyman is measuring pitches instead of trying to crush HRs, Nunez is everywhere, and Austin Romine - geez, is he 40? - actually looks like the future of Yankee catching.

So here we are.

Four games with mighty Boston - the team that never gets caught juicing - and then four with the Showalter Shanks. We cannot even go 4-4.

Hard to imagine us being still in it a week from tomorrow.

But holy crap! Here. We. Are.